My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(89)

“What man?”

“A man who did rhymes in Switzerland. He was always writing Mama poems, like ‘She walks in beauty like the night’ and other nonsense! And Papa found them and it made him upset. Mama always said Papa’s poems were best used to line the rubbish bin!”

“This, ah, man…,” you say. You know you must tread carefully. “Was he a special friend of Mama’s?”

“Yes, and Helena saw them struggling. She was going to tell Papa, but then Helena was gone! Do you want to know what I think?” The little soul quakes in your arms. You can scarcely believe it, but you think you think what he thinks.

“What, my darling?”

“I think—I think Mama was the bad wolf! And she got Helena, and she’s going to get Papa, and me, and you, too!”

Your heart breaks for the poor child. You vow to get to the bottom of this mystery for his sake, and the sake of his tortured father.





But how?

If you go to speak with the servants, turn to this page.

Or if you seek out that unspeakably handsome vicar, turn to this page.





The next day, you leave the children with Mrs. Ferguson as she heroically struggles once more to teach them sword dancing. As you retreat, you can hear her yelling, “Sallie! Punching your partner is not part of this dance!”

You feel mildly guilty, but also relieved. Now is your chance to search the castle for clues. You poke your head into one chamber and see the infernal wooden chest that Abercrombie has dragged over hill and dale. You shake your head—he lugs it around like a child totes a favorite toy. Seeing no one nearby, you enter the room and open the chest. Maps and papers spill out in disarray. But what do they all mean?

“Searching for something, lass?” Abercrombie’s voice sends your heart to your throat.

“Just some linens,” you lie. “Dodger has soiled yet another set.”

Abercombie laughs, but the twinkle in his eye is dimmer than usual. “Aye, ye will not find linens in there, or at all. We are short of staff, and short of resources, so there is very little to be done about Dodger’s keen desire to mess them other than wash the filthy things clean.”

“I will get to that, then.” You bid Abercrombie good day, and stride with forced confidence out onto the castle’s decayed gardens—and straight into Mac’s burly, beckoning chest.

“Aye, lass. I missed ye, too.” He laughs, and you feel relieved at the sight of him. You drown each other in a kiss that tunes your bagpipes.

“You have ta get married now!” screeches a joyful Sallie. You and Mac break apart to see that the orphans have arrived. Sallie hands you an envelope.

“This was left on the bloody castle doorstep, miss,” she says. “Is it your marriage certificate?” You ignore her question and tear a parchment from the envelope, revealing a hastily scrawled note:

You must meet me tonight by the loch. Alone. I have new information we must discuss.—O





Ooh…turn to this page!





Mrs. Butts has the true run of this home. Why would you waste your time talking to anyone else?

You are sure you will find her in the kitchens at this time of night, and so you make a beeline there. But as you break into a run, you stumble, suddenly thrown back against the wall of the gallery by a forceful, unseen hand.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing, girl?” The savagely prim voice of Manvers slashes at you in the darkness. Your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, allowing you to make out the manservant’s face in all its seething glory. “You look like a lunatic on the run from Bedlam. It is unbecoming. It is beneath us all.”

“I have urgent news for Mrs. Butts,” you spit back at the little troll of a man. You despise the way he sneers at you. As if he knows you. As if he owns you.

“You have hysteria, is what you have. You are too weak-minded to care for a high-spirited boy like Master Alexander. You know you were only brought here as a plaything for a sick man. The boy ought not be punished for the sins of the father. The boy ought not be exposed to such a shrill harpy. Not when his mother was an angel! Not when his father struck her down!”

Shrill harpy! Oh, how you quiver with hatred for this detestable little man.





Do you tell him where he can stick his loathsome misogyny? Turn to this page.

Or, if you feel that you have overreacted to the events of the evening and wish to request that Craven explain himself, turn to this page.





Nothing else matters as long as there is fire in your loins!

“Quite the worst idea we have ever had…” you repeat. “But don’t stop.”

Benedict gazes at you in wonder before plundering your mouth with an intensity that takes your breath away. His clever fingers work dark magic, until you see fireworks and are soaring, metaphorically, as high as one.

It is your turn to rip his clothing, pulling at his breeches to expose his tumescent member.

“Let us have this moment of happiness,” you say as you wrap your hand around his rigid maleness. “Just once. So that whatever happens next, we will at least have this memory. Of us. Together.”

The heat smoldering in Benedict’s silver-gray eyes becomes an inferno, and you wrap your legs around him as his swollen shaft is embraced by the glistening portal of your womanhood. You move your bodies together in an ancient rhythm, reaching an apex of ecstasy until both of you collapse in a golden haze of stars.