My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  “My lady.” Benedict’s eyes are already wounded as they search your own. He is a wit, true, but while some wits are frivolous, you know he is more savage. If only he could be as free as his foolish, fiery, fine half brother, you could see yourself living with him, taking up by his side. But you know, as he knows, that he is still far too proper to be the man you need, or the man you want.

  “I came to save you, and to tell you that Henrietta had confessed the truth by the time I reached the house. I am baronet again. She has eloped with Sam. They are out for Cad’s blood, of course. But all is well.” Even as he speaks, his voice breaks with the knowledge of your decision.

  “I am sorry, Benedict.” You tenderly kiss him goodbye.

  “I could make you happy, you fool,” he whispers softly into your mouth.

  “Perhaps,” you whisper back. “But you could never make me free.”

  “Yes. Well.” Benedict takes a deep breath, desperate to collect himself. You wish you could take him with you. Perhaps you will meet again, under different circumstances. “Run now, take the spare carriage. I will say that Cad stole it and you decided to go off to America or something. That should give you a head start. I will miss you, damnable woman.”

  “I will miss you, too,” you say and nod in thanks. Cad, stunned, watches the exchange from his position, slumped against the high hedge of the labyrinth.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, man,” Benedict spits at him. “She’s clearly got plans for you.”

  You laugh, take Cad’s hand, and flee down the twists and turns of the maze. You most certainly do.

  * * *

  By the time you and Cad reach America, you have posed as betrothed, husband and wife, brother and sister, governess and employer, heiress and manservant. He’s had you in countless street corners in London, inns, riverbanks, and, one time, on horseback while crossing a riverbank. After you’ve swindled honest money from crooked folk (you have a predilection for conning con men of their recent takes), you point out to Cad that his error with Benedict was in trying to trick someone he knew.

  “It’s better this way,” he agrees. “Family isn’t hurt, and I get to partake of you between jobs.” He spreads your legs in the back of the coach you have hired, with stolen money, to take you to some seaside American town in search of your next easy mark. “I’m famished, ma’am,” he says in his best American accent.

  Maybe you will never marry him. Maybe you will pose as lover, bride, sister, cousin, friend. The roles open to you are as countless as the cities that do not know your name, your station, or your scandal. For with your Cad, you live a life of freedom, a life of trickery, and a life of lovemaking out of doors.

  The End

  “What are you doing, lass?” Mac asks, desire sparking in the depths of his voice. You respond by sliding your dress down your shoulders, exposing your mountainous region, your foothills, and, ultimately, the lush and alluring forest of your lowlands.

  “Come,” you whisper into the fall of indoor rain. “The water is fine.”

  In mere moments, he has peeled away his clothes to reveal a pelt the color of bright flame. You hold each other and kiss with the same endless tenderness of the water washing you clean.

  As Mac explores the inland ocean of your mouth, his intrepid sailor hands travel across the topography of your body, claiming new locations in the name of pleasure. As his tongue works a clear path down your neck to your breasts, you long for him to journey further. Still, there is something troubling your mind and upsetting the expedition. Something you must know first.

  “Who,” you gasp through waves of pleasure, “is Constantina?”

  Mac freezes for a moment, shocked into silence. “She was…my greatest regret.”

  “A woman you loved and lost?” you ask. No use putting it any other way but plain.

  “No,” Mac says simply, darkly, sadly. “The woman I killed.”

  Do you flee? Because murder! The note was right! Turn to this page.

  Or do you sit it out with Mac? We’ve all done things we regret, and you’re still a bit, ah, damp from your interlude. Turn to this page.

  Perhaps you loved Craven. Perhaps you only wanted him with the fiery desire of the forsaken and profane. In any case, your shared tale is now over, writ in a book that has been slammed shut by the hand of fate.

  You make a midnight run across the moors of Craven’s lands, all the way to the carriage house of Teddy Braithwaite, the handsome postman who, you will recall, carried you to the top of the hill at the beginning of this story.

  He answers the door, flushed and shirtless. You want him the instant you see him, and the instant you see him, you know he wants you.

  “I have been waiting for thee, miss,” he says. He helps you into his humble home and frees your body from your dress as gently as one would open a stolen letter from ‘neath its seal.

  His hands trace the outline of your breasts with wonder and skill. Your nipples harden at the touch of his work-roughened fingers, and he licks their cherry tips with a tongue made strong from licking countless envelopes. He sets that same tongue to the task of running the length of your midsection, all the way down into the plush pocket of your sex. There, he pushes into you with the soft pressure of a first-class stamp. You both cry out, in pleasure and sweet, sweet pain, for the handsome postman is intensely endowed.

  “The mail always comes on time in my district,” he whispers to you. “If you know what I mean.”

  “It does, it does,” you cry, straddling him for another round. You live happily ever after this way, simply and with much postal-innuendo-laced sex play, for the rest of your days.

  Some might say the postman sends you. Oh he sends you, indeed!

  The End

  “This is a fine offer, Lord Fleming,” you say carefully. “And Ollie, seeing you come back from the dead has been one of the more…thrilling experiences of my life. But—”

  Lord Fleming’s shoulders droop. Ollie’s heart, you suspect, breaks.

  “I must say only thank you and bid you fond adieu,” you conclude. “A spy’s life isn’t for me.”

  Ollie gathers your hands in his. “But what of us, my lady? I…I do still…” His eyes are so earnest and longing that it almost pains you to tell him the truth.

  Almost.

  “Oh, Ollie.” You embrace him warmly before pulling away and chucking him playfully on the chin. “You should have thought of that before you allowed me to believe you dead for years.” You now address Lord Fleming and Ollie equally. “Good day to you both, and thank you for all of your assistance.”

  The spies say their goodbyes, and when they have gone, there is no one but you and Mac. The mighty Scot looks at you with nothing but love (and, admittedly, a fair deal of lust) in his eyes.

  “Lass,” he says. “Ye’ll stay wi’ me?”

  You have a choice.

  Do you stay with Mac for a tough but meaningful life helping the orphans while enjoying rigorous lovemaking for the rest of your days? If so, turn to this page.

  Or do you long for yet another adventure? If so, turn to this page.

  You flee to the comforting confines of the less-eldritch garden. It grows vegetables, rather than flowers planted out of jealous rage, and is the perfect place to collect your thoughts and perhaps a sprig of wild clover.

  “I-I do hope I’m not intruding…”

  You spin from your wild-clover-picking stance to face none other than the strange, handsome vicar standing in a patch of rhubarb. His eyes wear a haunted look.

  “Forgive me, I shouldn’t be here. But I knew…I knew I would never forgive myself for not saying something—” he chokes out.

  “What is it, Reverend Loveday?” you implore him.

  “It—it’s just that…you wouldn’t be the first beautiful young woman to disappear in Craven’s care, my dear,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. “If
you should ever need me, my aid or my ear, I hope you know you can always come to the vicarage.”

  You nod and step toward him, unsure exactly why. Your movement releases something in him, and his face floods with relief. “Forgive me my boldness,” he half orgasms, half whispers, before pulling you into an inappropriate embrace. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he murmurs into your hair before pulling himself free and disappearing into a patch of flax.

  You shake your head and watch him go. At least you have an ally in this handsome man of faith.

  This was a fun, if odd, encounter, but you didn’t really gather your thoughts. Better head to the straight-up eldritch garden now. Turn to this page.

  You and Mac birth the everloving daylights out of that horse. The two of you perform the procedure with such precision, grace, and showmanship that you could have entirely revolutionized veterinary techniques of the early nineteenth century, if only someone had been there taking notes. Mac’s corded arms move gently as he pats the mare, whispering tender reassurances into her ear.

  After hours of exertion, the gangly, newborn foal whimpers its first nicker unto the world, and its mother nuzzles it kindly. The great beast looks at you both with gratitude, then you turn to look at each other with eyes full of pride, trust, and desperate longing. The moment is intense. You then stare at the foal, and your heart swells with the joy of birth and creation—even though you are covered in baby-horse goop.

  “A miracle of life,” Mac says hoarsely.

  “It is,” you say, also—appropriately—hoarsely.

  “Nae, lass. You are.”

  You look up from the foal and into Mac’s searching eyes. You never knew you could be so aroused after spending several hours with your arm inside a horse’s body cavity, but here you are.

  You feel thrillingly bold. “How long until it is ready to ride?” you ask.

  Mac laughs. “This wee slip of a thing will have to find its legs first. It will be quite some time.”

  “I don’t mean the horse.”

  Mac’s eyes widen. Still sticky—mostly in the unpleasant way—you strip down and dump a bucket of water over your body. As you do, Mac’s own faithful steed strains at the flap of his kilt, ready to take you on as far a journey as you wish.

  “Lass,” Mac says breathily, “are ye sure?”

  What do you think?

  If animal husbandry truly gets you going, turn to this page.

  If, on second thought, you feel a little less than alluring thanks to the afterbirth, and making violent love in front of two horses seems a wee bit weird, go to this page.

  Oh, how you wish you were less sensible. That you could throw caution and your underclothes to the wind and mount this magnificent, frustrating man, right here on the settee. But your lives are soon to be rent asunder. Why make it more painful for you both?

  Instead you repeat yourself, sadly this time.

  “Absolutely the worst idea we have ever had…in fact, we should stop.”

  Benedict nods tenderly and removes those magic fingers. You curse yourself inwardly for your good sense.

  Still, you know it is for the best. As intense as your feelings are for each other, you both are now penniless and unable to support a life together. Trained for one particular life, Benedict must marry an heiress, and you know you are far from that.

  “Forgive me,” he whispers, as tears well in your eyes.

  “No,” you sigh, kissing him one last time. “I want this more than anything. But you and I both know…that this is impossible. That we can never be.”

  You stand and then run from the room, restraining your tears until well out of earshot. You need time alone to clear your head, but instead you run, blurry eyed, smack into Evangeline.

  As you wipe away your tears, you see that she is comforting Henrietta, who is also crying.

  “My dear, there really are other options for you,” Lady Evangeline says kindly. “You can start a new life with me as my companion when I go to Egypt.”

  Henrietta answers with only a fresh gale of sobs. Evangeline, still kind, looks as though she is beginning to doubt the wisdom of this plan.

  “Or…um…perhaps I could help you find a position more to your choosing elsewhere?”

  “B-but I don’t want a position elsewhere! I-I just want—” Henrietta stops suddenly, her eyes wide with fright.

  “What Henrietta means is that she wishes only to be with her true love, a humble farmer named Sam,” you explain. Henrietta gasps.

  “Oh, no, please don’t say anything! You don’t understand! My brother says he will kill my darling Sam if our love is ever made public! That is why I have remained silent on this matter all along!”

  You square your shoulders.

  “This is one situation where Cad is not going to win. Evangeline, you say you have connections. We will need to call upon them soon—for Henrietta and Sam!”

  Evangeline nods.

  “You can trust me, my dear. No matter what happens, you are still my family and I will do anything to help you.”

  Henrietta gazes at the two of you, her eyes filled with gratitude and hope.

  “She’s right,” you say. “Henrietta, if I cannot be happy, then I think at least you should be.”

  Off you go to this page!

  Governesses come and go. You came, and now you’re going.

  If you had sullied your reputation with anyone other than a mad lord who spends his time pacing the grounds of his castle in the moonlight, you could kiss all your chances at anything other than impoverished spinsterhood goodbye.

  But because you chose your nights of passion and indentured childcare wisely, you get another chance at love—and romance.

  But where?

  Do you fancy a bit of posh and wish to zip back to London for another go-round at the crème de la crème of society? If so, turn to this page.

  Or do you feel not up to traveling quite so much and would rather take that handsome local postman and yourself to the mailbox? (By mailbox, we mean orgasm.) If so, turn to this page.

  You, Mac, and Ollie exchange looks. All this time, the traitorous Constantina was hidden in plain sight.

  “We must go.” Mac lays a gentle and comforting hand on Ollie’s shoulder. Ollie looks up, his animosity having melted away into warm gratitude.

  “Yes. Yes, you are right.” Though his voice remains calm, it sounds strangely hollow. Despite everything, you cannot help but empathize. “We should leave now, in case she slips from our clutches for good!”

  “Timmy,” Mac says gently, “how good is Dodger as a sniffer dog?”

  Timmy gulps. “Oh, he is the very best of the best!” He nods so vehemently you fear his head may fall off.

  “Go to your bed now,” says Mac. “Wake your friends and barricade the doors to the Great Hall. It is rough work we have to do tonight, lad, and we need you to hold the fort.” Timmy responds with a shaky salute and then rushes off to raise the other orphans from their slumber.

  With Dodger and a lantern, you and the men venture onto the moonlit Highlands to look for Constantina. Dodger seems instinctively to understand the gravity of the situation and practically pulls Mac’s arm out of its socket as you race at full speed toward a long-deserved reckoning. You only hope you are not too late.

  As you approach the loch, eerie in darkness, you find Constantina waiting for you. She has removed her false nose, heavy maquillage, and strawberry-blonde wig, revealing a mass of dark curls and a strangely foxlike beauty. You gasp. Truly a master of disguise, she looks like an entirely different person.

  She also has a pistol aimed at your group.

  “Constantina!” Ollie’s voice is laced with pain. She raises one eyebrow.

  “Ollie. How nice of you to come, and to bring your friends.”

  “I don’t understand!” Ollie’s voice cracks. “Why did you do it, Connie? How could
you do it? After all the sacrifices you made! For your country…” He can barely choke out the last part: “For us?”

  “Oh, my darling.” Her tone remains eerily calm. “Don’t you see? I had to. I had to pretend so that I would be trusted with information I could then pass on to the great Emperor Napoleon!”

  “No!” Ollie cries. “You are not—you couldn’t!”

  “Oh, I could, and I did. But my feelings for you…well, they were not false. Not at all. You must believe that.”

  Incapable of speech, Ollie simply shakes his head. You realize you need to take over, to stall for time and distract her if you can.

  “So you are a Bonapartist?” you ask. Constantina turns to you with a mocking smile.

  “Of course, you foolish chit!” she spits. “I am dedicated and loyal, even to this day. Even when the great man is dead and my cause is lost!”

  You lean closer to Mac, and he puts a protective arm around you. Constantina barely notices.

  “Do you understand how hard it has been? After betraying Britain, faking my death with the help of dear Captain MacTaggart, and then the fall of Napoleon in France? There was nowhere safe for me to go.”

  “So what did you do?” you ask, unable to keep your voice from shaking. Constantina tosses back those dark curls and fixes a gimlet eye on you.

  “I went into hiding. Took a job at the Rose & the Smoke to stay near to the only person who could betray me to the British. The only one who knew I was still alive.”

  “Abercrombie!” you gasp. Constantina smirks.

  “Not quite as stupid as you seem. Yes, I needed to keep an eye on him. The old fool was consumed with guilt and was going to blab—I could tell. He did it for the money, you see, and not his beliefs. His resolve was weak. He just wanted to repair that old ruin he laughingly called a castle. Then, when the payment for his betrayal wasn’t what he expected, it finally hit him that he had sold out his country.”