My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  You kiss him. “We won’t say anything, then.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  You nod at each other and then, rubbing his eyes, Mac strides away. You sigh as you watch his perfect, retreating form…but you know in your soul that this is for the best. Your time here has passed. You must make a new life.

  But where do you go?

  If you want to make things a little easier on yourself and go to Lord Craven’s to teach just one kid in a structure that is not falling apart, turn to this page.

  If you want to challenge yourself a little further and see the world with Lady Evangeline, turn to this page.

  Any reservations you might have had vanish when you enter Cairo market. You have never seen so many vivid colors, heard so many strange and fascinating sounds, or smelled so many delicious and enticing spices until now—not even in your years existing on the fringes of the ton.

  “Oh, Kamal, this is wonderful!” you gasp. Kamal beams.

  “Thank you, miss. It is my pleasure to do anything for a friend of Lady Evangeline’s. She has been a great benefactor of the museum—it would not exist without her patronage.”

  “I did not know that!” you say in wonder. “Though I suppose I should have realized. She has shown great kindness and generosity to me as well.”

  “At that, I am not surprised,” says Kamal. “Lady Evangeline has always surrounded herself with great beauty—” He suddenly stops himself in embarrassment.

  “Oh…I don’t think that she—that is to say—” you stammer before giving up.

  You continue together down the bustling street in awkward silence before curiosity gets the better of you.

  “So, this Delphine St. Croix,” you begin, “is she a great beauty, then?”

  “Oh yes!” says Kamal. “One of the loveliest women I have ever seen.”

  “Oh.” You feel oddly crushed. “And she and Lady Evangeline were close?”

  “Indeed,” says Kamal. “They were a strange pair, Lady Evangeline being a respectable married Englishwoman and Delphine the neglected daughter of a French deserter. But for a long time they were always in each other’s company.”

  “So what happened?” you blurt out.

  “It is a mystery, though the change in their friendship coincided with Delphine suddenly disappearing from respectable society. Lady Evangeline and her late husband returned to England not long aft—” Kamal’s eyes widen suddenly. The crossroads you stand in have become suddenly deserted, save four dangerous-looking ruffians. At the very head of the group stands the man you had entrusted to protect you, his green eyes coldly triumphant.

  “Farouk?!” Kamal cries.

  “No,” says the man, ripping off the scarf to reveal a face as beautiful as it is brutal. He laughs mirthlessly. “My true name is Fabien. Fabien de Mangepoussey. You have been too preoccupied with your foolish antiques to notice that while you employ me as your guard, I have been working for another this whole time. And now my mission is almost complete.”

  Farouk—Fabien—takes a step toward you, his fluid movement betraying a sleek, pantherlike power.

  “The young lady is coming with me.”

  Do you fight off the ruffians and their handsome leader tooth and nail? You’ll be damned if you are going down without a struggle! Turn to this page.

  Do you run for your life, dragging Kamal with you? You haven’t a hope in hell of fighting them off, and you doubt your new Egyptologist friend does either. Turn to this page.

  For some, sharing a moment such as this would erase any desire but to hold each other close and cry. But for you and Craven, the moments soon give way to each stroking the other’s body and speaking fluently in the unmistakable language of carnal lust.

  By the time you finish, bookshelves have toppled. The brandy bottle has broken. You both have lost a bit of hair. But you feel flushed and satisfied in the knowledge that your sexual match exists in this world and is currently slumbering peacefully: Craven, washed clean in moonlight. You dare not disturb him and rise softly to your feet.

  You creep out of the room and into the hall with visions of leftovers from the sideboard in the morning room dancing in your head. You will help yourself to a brief repast and bring some back for your love. Likely, you will both need nourishment for a full night, and possibly morning, of lovemaking ahead.

  You stumble blearily through the manor. When you have hit the main hall of the house, you hear the sound of a burbling brook nearby. You figure you are in that happy, half-dreaming state in which people in love operate, or so you’ve heard. But when the brook burbles the words “I have done all you have asked of me, my queen,” you immediately sober up.

  You realize you are standing just outside the morning room, and the voice you hear within belongs to none other than…that devil Manvers.

  Hang on tight, sweeting. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Turn to this page.

  All hope is lost, except for that of financial gain.

  “I will marry you, girl,” Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw leers at you, literally waggling his fingers in a lewd display.

  “Fine,” you say. Extremely begrudgingly.

  On the day of your wedding, you try to restrain your tears. Oh, how you bitterly regret your choices that led to this moment! The ceremony is conducted, per Sir Charles’s orders, “as swiftly as humanly possible.” Afterwards, he sends you to your dressing room to disrobe for him and, in his words, “the festivities.”

  Your flesh crawls as you contemplate your fate. Then you hear an awful cry and a sickening thud!

  You run to the bedroom and find your new husband dead on the floor.

  How festive.

  * * *

  It is the start of the next season. You are decked out in a glamorous and expensive black ball gown that suits you perfectly. Lady Evangeline catches your eye from across the ballroom and serves you a delicious wink. All the eligible young men are whispering about you, when they aren’t drinking deep the sight of you in that dress.

  “The black widow!”

  “They say her husband died of apoplexy on their wedding night!”

  “That much of a tiger in the bedroom, don’t you know!”

  “Left her an enormous fortune, rich as Croesus!”

  “Dash sight better looking than Croesus!”

  You smile enigmatically. With your youth, looks, new title, and money, you could do anything your heart desires. But that is for another time…and another story.

  The End

  “Did some of your sense burn in the fire? I’m not going anywhere, man,” you tell Mac. “I’m fully involved with…with the fate of the orphans. I’m sticking this out, come hell, high water, or Constantina.”

  Mac flinches at the name, but his clear eyes blaze with admiration. They also can’t help but follow the trajectory of the parchment as you tuck it into your straining bosom for safekeeping.

  You watch as the firefighters finally arrive. They do their best to put out the blaze, but the home has been demolished. Mac’s spirits, too, seem to be sagging.

  “Aye,” he says sadly. “Before, I had a home for the orphans that was missing the comforts of such. Now I have the orphans, and nothing else.”

  “Not so fast, m’lad!” Abercrombie returns from whatever business he was conducting during the fire. “I just sent word to my people back home in Scotland. I own a ramshackle old place in the Highlands, and it’s yours for the using. Now, a large part of the walls and roof need mending, not to mention that it is far from the only home the orphans know, but—”

  “It’ll do!” you and Mac respond in cheerful unison. You beam at each other, and at Abercrombie, and as a result the children respond with wild, happy confusion.

  “It’s settled, then!” Abercrombie roars. “I need to stay behind while I sort out a few things, but I suggest you take the orphans to the Highlands straightaway.”

&
nbsp; Abercrombie says his farewells, and you and Mac set about arranging travel. “I’m sure Madam Crosby could lend a hand,” you say.

  “Or a few other body parts,” says a sweet, thin voice. You turn and see two ladies hovering by you who are, by the looks of them, “professionals” from the nearby Rose & the Smoke. The smaller of the two nods at you and continues speaking.

  “The name’s Jane, and this is Gertie.” She gestures to her friend, who has a sumptuous crop of strawberry-blonde hair. “We was wondering…well, you see, I have been wanting to get out of London for quite some time now. But it is hard, miss, when you have been in our line of work, to move on.”

  “People don’t like giving girls like us second chances,” Gertie says, nodding in agreement. “And when I heard that you was leaving town, I thought to meself, well what if we went with you?”

  “We’d help with the ankle biters, miss!” says Jane. “I’m the oldest of eighteen brothers and sisters. I know how to handle a group of screaming brats!”

  “Not that we think your wards are screaming brats,” Gertie says harshly, glaring at her friend. “But we could help look after them…Not being funny, love, but you do seem rushed off your feet.”

  Out of the corner of your eye, you see Timmy screaming as Dodger charges headfirst into an oyster girl, sending shellfish flying across the cobblestones and into several passersby. You and Mac exchange glances and sigh.

  “That would be wonderful,” says Mac.

  “Oh, thank you, Captain!” exclaim Jane and Gertie.

  “No, thank you,” you say vehemently. “However, we do still have the problem of how to get twenty children from London to Scotland. You wouldn’t know where I could procure a wagon or cart of some sort at a reasonable price?”

  “We can do you one better than that, love,” says Gertie. “Give us a couple of hours and a chance to call in a few favors, and we will find you one for free!”

  A few hours later, a solid, if humble, cart lined with soft straw is ready to be filled with the children.

  “You are marvels!” you say to Jane and Gertie.

  “We also brought you something else,” says Jane, offering a bundle of sensible but high-quality fabric. “Seeing as your dress got ruined.” You look down and see the smoke- and mud-stained wreck you are wearing. They are not wrong.

  You hastily go to change into the dress, made of a rich forest-green fabric. Clearly designed as simple everyday wear for the ladies of the Rose & the Smoke, it is still finer and more revealing than anything else you have previously owned. You awkwardly cross your arms over your chest, but it only seems to add to the effect.

  Something, or someone, is adding to the heat of your embarrassment. You look up to catch Mac, entranced, taking in the newly revealed curves of your body. He snaps his gaze away as soon as you look, but as you load the orphans into the wagon, you are gratified to see that Mac is unable to keep his eyes from you. Your satisfaction is of course foolish—you are here to work, not expose your bosoms to handsome Scotsmen. You continue your work as primly as possible and try to concentrate.

  As you do, a dark blur tugs at the edge of your vision. You turn to make out just what it is, but the figure suddenly melts into the depths of the murky shadows of the street like a soul of the damned sent to wander this earth, never finding salvation.

  You dismiss it as nothing.

  Get ye to the Great North Road! And Scotland! Turn to this page.

  The ballroom is a vast channel of well-bred, well-dressed gallimaufry, and Lady Evangeline sails through it with the earned ease of a veteran sailor.

  “To me, you are a friend,” Lady Evangeline says. “That is why we are drinking the good brandy.”

  Once you reach the other end of the ballroom, far from the prying eyes of the ton and yet farther from the still-doubled-over Cad, Lady Evangeline reveals a small flask she has secreted in her reticule. She swigs deeply and hands it to you.

  “Drink,” she insists. You know how to follow orders and do so gladly. After taking a sip, you open your mouth to form a question. She passes an elegant finger over her lips to hush you before you can. “Please,” she says. “While I would rather you not be so intimately acquainted with the skeletons knocking about my family’s closet, it appears they will stop at nothing to perform a danse macabre for you this very evening.”

  “A danse macabre done with two left feet, no less,” you say. You both laugh conspiratorially, then right yourselves.

  “Truly,” Lady Evangeline continues. “But I must say, I have never enjoyed Cad’s antics. I have always dismissed him as a vibrant man on the fringes of proper society with misdirected energies, but his performance tonight has me…concerned.” Her lovely brow knits with worry.

  “You, too, think there is something questionable with his claim?” you press.

  “I do,” she answers slowly. “But I am vexed.”

  “As am I,” you agree. “Benedict is a vexation to me, but I see no reason he should be thrown out on the street due to the claims of a particularly theatrical half brother. Do you believe there is merit to what Cad says?”

  Lady Evangeline is silent for several moments. Finally she says, “Cad and Benedict’s father never spoke much on the subject of his affaire—or should I say marriage—with Mrs. Caddington, and all I knew for a long time was that there must be a scent of unpleasantness hanging around it. Like perfume gone stale.”

  “How so?” you ask, eyes widening.

  “Well, Rafe is the eldest. We don’t know why, but the late baronet threw Mrs. Caddington aside for a while and married Benedict’s mother. A most respectable woman. But then…”

  “But then what?” you ask, impatient.

  “But then a few years after that, he returned to the intoxicating arms of Mrs. Caddington. He could resist her for only so long. Little Henrietta is the result of that.”

  “But why did he leave her in the first place if they were married? Was there some secret scandal…something in her past that made him lose his affection for a time, perhaps?” Your mind reels.

  “Nothing like that, I don’t think,” Lady Evangeline answers. “She was already well-known as an actress when they began their liaison, but other than her profession she was by all accounts simply a respectable widow. Her first husband died long ago, after a trip to the Continent.”

  “Do you suspect foul play? Not to malign Mrs. Caddington, rest her soul, but could she have had her first husband…taken care of in order to grant her a life’s pleasure with the second?” Your mind is so thoroughly in thrall with intrigue that you do not realize the candor of your own tongue until it is too late. “Oh, Lady Evangeline, I—”

  Lady Evangeline looks at you with wonder and appreciation. “No. No apologies, dear. It is a thrill to watch a mind as clever as yours set itself to work. Still, I think it works in error. Mrs. Caddington was not known to be a malicious woman. She was clever and fine as well as loyal and dear. Still, she went to the Continent married and returned a widow.”

  Befuddled, you stare at the pattern of the brocade curtains decorating this end of the ballroom. The weave plays tricks on your eyes, and you think you see shapes that could not truly exist. Answers where there are only questions.

  “It must have been a trial, bringing the body back home for the funeral,” you say with empathy.

  Lady Evangeline looks at you curiously. “She did not bring back a body. It was too much trouble, so he was buried there. On the Continent.”

  “A shame,” you say, but a flutter of intrigue dances in your heart. “Do you know where?”

  “She never—no one ever said,” stammers Lady Evangeline, a woman unaccustomed to stammering.

  “Perhaps he wasn’t buried at all,” you hear yourself say excitedly. “Perhaps the late Mrs. Caddington’s late first husband isn’t late after all. Perhaps he didn’t die on the Continent. Perhaps”—your eyes flash, and Lady Evan
geline’s do, too—“perhaps he merely disappeared.”

  You are cool and sharp and a wonder to behold.

  Do you take a victory turn about the room and rub your grandness in a certain deserving someone’s face? Turn to this page.

  Or do you get straight to getting to the bottom of things? Time’s of the essence! Turn to this page.

  Stomping through the glen, you find yourself mired in brooding jealousy—of both the mysterious Constantina and the lovely Fiona. There is no earthly reason that a man so handsome and rugged and kind and good as Mac would have lived his life as a monk prior to your meeting. Besides, he is your employer, nothing more. One torrid night in a coaching inn changes nothing of the situation.

  You stamp down a tuft of heather and, you hope, your ridiculous flights of fancy. You need to right your fevered emotions before you do something stupid. Blowing off steam with a brisk walk so that you may temper your passions before you again face Mac sounds like just the remedy.

  You take the scenic route that brings you alongside a magnificent loch. Sighing, you feel your blood cool. This was a marvelous idea. You continue walking, a woman reborn, until you are confronted by your inflamed emotions and desires in the form of Mac, standing among the verdant grasses. His kilt is on, his shirt is off, and the good man is working on his caber toss.

  As Mac’s thick, steady, clever fingers strain and stroke the larch-wood pole, you find yourself wondering how many women have ever counted themselves jealous of a tree trunk.

  A haunting, alluring pennywhistle melody begins to play in the lush valley of your sex as you watch Mac’s toss through from the run-up to the moment of release, following the impossibly long, perfectly thick beam as it tumbles, end over end, in glorious flight. When the wood strikes the ground, it earns a perfect score by the judge of your heart…and your dewy lowlands.