My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(86)

You tumble, mostly naked, into Mac, who, you are thrilled to discover, is mostly naked as well.

You hold yourself over him, arms trembling, and he holds your waist with thick, limber fingers.

“You’re naked,” you whisper, both surprised and pleased.

“Ye said to trust you,” Mac offers by way of weak explanation.

“Well,” you say, and ever so gently arch your valley to meet his throbbing tor. Mac groans with rare pleasure and release at the slight movement, and your heart races at the thought of what other symphonic exultations the undulations of your bodies could bring. “Better than the stable floor?”

Mac throws his impressive caber against you in sweet release. “We can’t, lass,” he gasps. “It’s improper.” He kisses you, his tongue as true in its aim as his mind is in deed.

You kiss like moss growing, wet and lush and full of secret direction. Your kisses give the other guidance, to lick here, bite there, pull, push, ride.

“Honor my body,” you whisper into the cup of his ear. He shudders, and you spasm just to witness this great lighthouse of a man shine on you. He worships your breasts, kissing them as fully and forcefully as he has your mouth, as tenderly as he strokes the wet apex of your sex. You thrum and thrill at his touch, at the final show of desire from which he does not hide. The fact that it is desire for you heats his touch all the more, until you are blazing hotter than his red hair.

Just as you both are tearing at his belt to free yourselves completely, and you imagine the sweet, pleasurable pain you will feel when he throws his impressive caber deep into the sky of your sex, he pulls away.

“We must…be honorable,” he gasps, raggedly. “You deserve…honor.” His massive shoulders sag, and he cannot help but kiss you once more. “I am sorry, bonnie lass. I-I will be in the stables.”

He leaves you, heading off to sleep among the horses and deny both of you your desires.

But why? As you dress yourself, you again catch sight of the strange slip of paper. The word Constantina burns you like a brand. You stuff the damn thing back into your bodice.

Your unfulfilled desire throbs uncomfortably within you, and you toss and turn for the rest of the night.





Damn it. Turn to this page.





Well. You’ve had some times, haven’t you?

While you’re glad to have your feet back on solid London ground, your head is still stuck in the clouds of your recent memories—as well as the London fog.

But despite your adventures away from home, you feel pulled to this city, the Big Smoke, and you know it holds something better for you than anything you have experienced so far. It is also dead expensive, and with empty pockets and a heavy heart, you swallow your pride and beg the Dowager Dragon to give you back your old job.

After Lady Craven has begrudgingly accepted you, you find yourself in another London ballroom. She takes no small delight in detailing how happy Lady Evangeline is in Egypt, still, and that she plans to be abroad for quite some time. “You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” she trills, before narrowing her eyes. You begin to make your rounds. “Stay close. Stay quiet. And for heaven’s sake, fetch me my sherry,” she seethes under her breath.

“Of course, my lady.” You smile through gritted teeth. Oh, how you hate the taste of humble pie. You beeline for the refreshments.

“Truly, my lady, is there no greater thrill in this life than serving my wicked relation her happy water?” A cool, bemused voice caresses your ear. Benedict. You smile, all the way down to your bones, and turn to him, keeping your face calm but letting your eyes betray your delight. He continues, eyebrows raised. “I’ve tried to work it out, and I see it as the only compelling reason you would return. That surely must be it.” He offers to take your hand and bends low to kiss it, with ridiculous ceremony. You stifle a laugh.

“And that alone,” you reply as he rises to meet your gaze. You are standing close, face to face, just a little too close to be completely proper. Just close enough to feel the heat simmering beneath his sass…and waistcoat.

“If you’re holding your breath for me to confess I’ve missed you, I am rather afraid you will die of asphyxiation, my dear. Aunt will be most displeased.”

“As will you?” You arch an eyebrow. Oh, it is delicious to slip back into this banter.

“Me? Oh, I will—” But before he can finish, Benedict is interrupted by a clap on the shoulder. He spins to face a man built just as finely as he, but twice as wide across the shoulders and a full head taller, boasting a mane of fire-red hair.

“Aye! How goes the legislation to benefit the orphans and wives of the war then, laddie?” Captain Angus “Mac” MacTaggart’s voice booms a hole through Benedict and lands straight in your heart.

“It…goes…slowly, as things unfortunately—” Benedict stammers, losing his cool momentarily in the presence of the large, do-gooder captain.

“Always do. Aye, aye.” Mac laughs ruefully. “Just remember, as we fine folk here enjoy our sherry and reels, the folk left bereft by the war snatch what sleep they can, tossin’ and turnin’ on a bed of empty promises and broken dreams. Aye!” Mac slaps Benedict on the back so hard, you fancy you hear a bone break. Benedict takes his leave, and you are left alone for a moment with the fireball of rugged handsomeness and beneficence that is Mac.