My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(91)
“You, sir, have crossed a line,” you say, each word icy enough to cause severe frostbite. “Farewell.”
And with that, you turn on your heel. You really do look wonderful turning on your heel.
“You are right. Forgive me,” Benedict cries as you charge away, but it is too late. You stride purposefully down the hall and refuse to look back.
He is just a man, just a foolish man…so why is it you cannot get him out of your mind?
Lady Evangeline immediately discerns that something is amiss as you stomp to her carriage.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?”
“I am wonderful,” you snarl. “Your cousin is a fool, but I myself am splendid.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighs. “I take it he overstepped the mark?”
“You could say that.”
Lady Evangeline sighs again.
“I do understand your frustration, my dear, but truly he is the kindest of my cousins, once you get past that layer of sardonic brooding.”
You glare at her.
“It is a very thick layer at times,” she admits. “But before you set my carriage on fire with your anger—and please understand that I have no objection if you do; I could do with a new one. Still, I must ask…are you quite sure you wish to continue?”
You turn and stare at her, wide eyed. Well, are you?
Do you wish to press on ahead and save Benedict’s skin? There is still a mystery to be solved…and perhaps you still cannot stop thinking about his manly form and tousled locks. If so, turn to this page.
Or do you want to be done with all this nonsense and choose a new path for yourself? If so, turn to this page.
You are torn from your camel and your blindfold is yanked off. Fabien’s harsh hands linger tenderly for a telltale moment at the nape of your neck. You brush off a twinge of guilt as you squint in the blindingly bright sunshine. A soft, throaty, seductive voice that you do not recognize accosts your ears.
“So there you are. La petite anglaise. My rival.” Every syllable of this short speech is laced with bitterest poison.
Your vision settles, and finally you are able to clearly see the woman standing before you. You let out an involuntary gasp. You had expected great beauty, but Delphine’s exquisite looks surpass even that. Her dark, silky hair is piled carelessly atop her head in a way that is both effortless and alluring. It contrasts beautifully with her milky skin, still moonglow-pale despite the sun. But it is her face that captivates you most—the delicate features combined with the sharp angles of her cheekbones, and she possesses the most arresting eyes you have ever seen. Queens are called to mind, and goddesses, as well as the snake that provides the sweet relief of death after a doomed journey in an endless desert. In short, Madame St. Croix is breathtaking.
As Fabien holds you aloft like a sacrifice to a false god, Delphine grabs your face and pulls it toward hers, a mask of eerie perfection. She inspects your mere mortal visage, tilting it to and fro, her perfectly oval nails digging half-moons into your cheeks. Her spectacular eyes, catlike in shape and angle, are so dark they look to be almost entirely pupil. If Fabien’s eyes are the green of the Nile, hers are the black-red of the Nile turned to blood. She bores these eyes into yours.
“You are pretty in a common way,” she sneers. “I am surprised someone so simple has gained her favor this time. I was expecting a woman of exceptional beauty.” Delphine speaks coolly, but makes no effort to conceal the old wound of her sadness. “I was her favorite once, you know.”
Joy somehow sings in your heart. Could it be true? Could the lovely and exciting Lady Evangeline think of you as her favorite? More favorite than this strange, terrifying, extraordinary creature holding you hostage by way of her own jealous rage? Before you can ponder this exciting idea further, Delphine continues. “Mon Dieu, I can remember the first time we met. She was the bored, much younger wife of an old diplomat. So lovely. Her husband had no interest in the fairer sex. She married him knowing that, by the way, knowing that he would not disturb her. And yet, when it came down to it—”
You hold your tongue, rapt in fascination as Delphine continues her tale.
“I made a mistake. A mistake I was sorry for, one that I would have forgiven her for were the tables turned. I would have forgiven her for anything. And yet my pleas, my love, it was not enough. She sided with her husband, the man she married for convenience, over moi.”
Delphine casts a scrutinizing gaze over you once more, her unearthly eyes shadowed with a raw pain that almost makes you feel sorry for her.
“I have tried so many times across the years to speak with her, but she is cold—cold like all you English. But still, I needed her so that I could be happy again, so we could—mais non, so we can—complete our life’s mission.”
You suddenly realize what she is thinking.
“You want to raise the lost Temple of Hathor from the desert!” you exclaim. Delphine’s eyes flash black fire.
“Perhaps you are not quite as simple as you look. Yes, ma petite, I plan to raise the temple. But for that to happen, the legend states that two lovers must enjoy love’s purest joy within its grounds. And there is no one I love apart from Evangeline! And despite her passing interest in you, I know in le c?ur de mon c?ur, there is no one on this mortal plane she loves more than MOI!”