My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  “Please.” Now it is your turn to seethe and to circle him. “You could not disapprove of me if you tried.”

  “You try me now.” He gathers you up in a sudden, too-tight embrace. “You have tried my patience and my strength since the day you set foot in Hopesend Manor. Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted you? I expected a governess, not a challenge to all I knew of women in this life.”

  “And what should I have expected?” You snatch the brandy snifter and snift it at him for emphasis. “I came here to escape the life I knew, only to find myself living a life of never-ending happiness, of passion, of matched desire. All with a man who cannot keep his heart steady because he keeps his mouth shut!”

  You place the snifter on the nearest bookshelf, your hand trembling like a leaf as you do so.

  “If only,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper, his whisper the ghost of a horse that died tragically, galloping across the plains of your shared unconscious, “if only you could have been anything other than clever. If you could have been less intriguing, less beguiling, less enchanting and strange and good. If only you could have been anything other than who you are, then…then…”

  “Then what, you blasted man?” you cry. It is senseless how much you feel for him. It is hopeless and obscene and true.

  “Then I could have remained the monster I know I am! Without guilt. Without sorrow. Without shame.” He drops to his knees. He tears at his hair. He looks up at you helplessly—so helplessly, some might call it…the look of love.

  “Oh, Garraway, who has broken you, my love?” You caress his face.

  “I have broken myself,” he chokes out. “I have broken another. You will never kiss me again, I will never know the taste of love again, once you know the truth. Blanche hated me after the child was born—jealous, cruel, thinking I would never again find her beautiful. She called motherhood the curse of womankind and she cursed us all for it. She took lovers, that I knew from the beginning. But as long as I loved her, and thought she loved me, I didn’t care…but then…”

  “But then what?” you cry.

  “But then I did something. Something terrible. Something unforgivable.” He rises to his feet. “You should leave me! You should leave here and save yourself from me and what I am!” he roars as though a wounded wild animal.

  So do you? If you escape from him as he suggests and hie yourself to somewhere safer, turn to this page.

  If you know deep in your heart of hearts that his heart is a true and gentle heart, and you wish to continue this heart-to-heart, turn to this page.

  You say nothing but hold your gaze defiantly. The very space between you crackles, like the air before an electric storm.

  Benedict cups your cheek with a strong hand and checks surreptitiously for anyone observing you in this, the shadiest of corners.

  “Oh, dash it!” he growls. He pulls you behind the curtain to plunder your mouth with his.

  A respectable young lady should resist, should fight him, but you are tired of being respectable. Instead, your body melts into his, and you feel him smile in the darkness as his tongue parts your lips to explore the sweetness within. Your blood turns to liquid fire as you return his ardor with equal ferocity. You cling to each other, two lost souls journeying through the inferno together.

  “Forgive me…this is wrong.” He pulls away with a sudden sigh and departs, leaving you alone in the alcove to rub your tender mouth.

  You are not sure how much time has passed when you finally come to your senses. You manage to stumble out from the darkness. Fortunately no one notices…except Lady Evangeline. She arches an inquisitive eyebrow. You walk to her with the steady calm of a soldier.

  “My lady,” you whisper to her urgently, “do you trust me?”

  Laughter dances in Lady Evangeline’s eyes. “Even if I didn’t, you have me entirely intrigued!”

  “Good,” you say, “because I believe if I am to get to the bottom of this little escapade, I will need to go to London, and I will need you to go with me.”

  “For companionship?” The laughter has crept from her eyes to her voice.

  “That,” you say with a smile, “and the use of your carriage.”

  It seems you already have the most cunning of plans. Turn to this page.

  “Death is no matter to me. It will come as a relief!” cries Ollie to his traitorous ex-lover. Constantina smirks.

  “Perhaps. But first, you shall watch your friends die before you!”

  She aims the pistol at you. With heart pounding, you scream in terror, and as you cower, Ollie dives in front of you. A hideous gunshot sounds, and then silence.

  Your eyes are firmly shut. But open them you must. You gasp in shock—and then relief—as Ollie staggers to his feet, a chivalrous knight reeling from his noble errand. Truly, you have always had excellent taste in men, even as a young thing.

  Constantina, meanwhile, seems to have pitched backward into the loch the moment she pulled the trigger. And there, standing at attention on the banks, barking triumphantly, is—

  “Dodger!” you cry.

  “Och, Dodger. Good dog, good boy!” croons Mac. Dodger woofs and wags his tail.

  You spring forward, not wasting a moment, and pounce on the disoriented Constantina. As Ollie stares at his former lover and current betrayer (and his former former lover and current savior), you rip off your stockings. Mac raises an eyebrow, but then smiles when you use them to bind Constantina’s wrists.

  “Let’s go,” you command. “To the castle.”

  Heavens, that was a close one. Turn to this page before your feet get cold.

  Within hours, you are sailing down the Nile toward the lost temple in Noor’s swift vessel. The three sails of the sturdy little boat snap and quiver in the wind as you speed toward your destination.

  You thrill with excitement. No longer the hapless waif of just a few short weeks ago, you are now armed to the teeth and assisted by an army of dangerously powerful Amazons. Lady Evangeline leads the vanguard, a modern-day Joan of Arc, filled with equal righteous determination.

  “No regrets?” she asks, a smile playing about that sensuous mouth.

  “Never!” You meet her gaze with enthusiasm. “But, my lady, there are still some things I want to hear from you. So that I might understand why all this is happening.”

  Evangeline understands you at once. “You mean how I came to be involved with such a reprobate as Delphine St. Croix?

  You nod. Evangeline shrugs with a sigh and then wraps her arm around your waist once more in a familiar, yet still thrilling, gesture.

  “When I was much younger, I was in a position somewhat like yours. I could not make my way in the world as I wished—not alone, anyway, as was my desire. I was expected to marry and, well, and submit to the requirements of marriage. But my now-late husband was an older man, and kinder than most any I had met before. He was a politician, and ambitious, but hounded by the fact that he had led a bachelor life for many scandalous years until meeting me.”

  “He kept many ladies, then?” you ask. The instant you do, you wish you could erase the words from the air. Evangeline laughs gently.

  “Not ladies, my dear.”

  Understanding dawns, and you curse yourself for being so simple.

  “By marrying me, he could be knighted and come into his wealth, and I thus attained that same wealth and ladyship—a classic mariage blanc. Years later, when he was stationed in Egypt on a diplomatic mission during the war, I met Delphine. We were two young, green women fascinated by Egyptology. We both have facility translating hieroglyphs.”

  Now you curse yourself for not knowing how to read hieroglyphs.

  “Well, of course I loved her,” she continues. “But she was French, and while I initially suspected that she was loyal to Napoleon, I learned harshly that she was more loyal to her own interests than to any country, belief, or person. Sh
e sold valuable secrets—locations and information I should never have shared with her, that my husband had shared with me. I thought I was merely processing the events of the world with a lover in bed, but Delphine thought she was making a mint. She leaked my foolishly spoken words to the French, even though her own father had turned against them. She did it for nothing but money. And since she had acquired this information behind my husband’s back, it caused terrible consequences for him and his career. We were sent back to London not long after. He died with disgrace and regret on his conscience which I put there, because I trusted Delphine. Delphine, on the other hand, never forgave me for not forgiving her. And thus, she is out for revenge.”

  You think maybe it’s fine that you don’t read hieroglyphs. Now you wish you could stop reading the look on Evangeline’s face, which is one of tortured, anguished love.

  Turn to this page.

  You seek out a suitable room for fencing lessons. Mrs. Butts recommends the stables, which have been empty ever since the horses were poisoned by a passing vagabond a few years back. Betsy the mute maid clutches her duster in silent horror at the mention of them. This reaction does not quite convince you of the suitability of the venue.

  As you leave the servants’ quarters, you are cornered by Manvers. Your body stiffens at the sight of him. He bears a look you don’t quite recognize. Could it be a mask of contrition?

  “I want to apologize for my brusque behavior earlier, my dear,” he says. “Everything has been quite high tension since the death of Lady Craven. She was so beloved, and, I humbly say, so beloved by me that I…I…” You are stunned to watch the man dab a tear from his stoic face. “I do appreciate that you are trying to right some of the wrongs of the house. And it is quite good that the child has you here, to learn from your example.”

  You feel a flush of shame for the hateful thoughts you have harbored toward Manvers, even if they were fleeting. “Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

  “If there is anything I can do to help show you the courtesy I perhaps denied you prior to this moment, simply say the word and I will do all in my power—”

  “As a matter of fact, we are looking for somewhere to fence. Any notions of a suitable place?” you ask. “Any long hallway could serve as our piste, but most of the halls and rooms I’ve encountered are encumbered with fine artifacts that stand too strong a chance of meeting death by épée.”

  Manvers considers unknown options before speaking. “Well, there is the main room in the West Wing—it is suitably large and completely unused. It would be a shame to let it go to waste. Shall I show you the way?”

  “Oh, please!” you say, delighted by his suggestion.

  You take Master Alexander by the hand, hoist your épée in the other, and follow Manvers through great halls and twisting passages, then up a staircase to an area of the house that seems not to have been used for some time. Yet, despite the closed-off feeling, the rooms are spotless, without a trace of dust.

  You find this curious, but only for a moment. Alexander has taken to whipping his blade through the air, yelling, “HYAHHHHHHH!”

  Manvers disappears down the stairs before you can thank him. Within seconds you must dive to avoid having your eye poked out by Alexander’s enthusiasm.

  “I don’t like this room,” the boy says plainly, before slashing at the rug near the great hearth.

  “So you must wish to conquer it?” You cock an eyebrow and lift your blade.

  “Yes!” he squeals with delight.

  “First, you must learn the basics,” you say. “And the most basic elements of fencing are knowing when to keep your distance, and when to find your move—and make it!”

  With some fancy footwork, you have backed the boy against the fireplace in no time. His eyes are wild with fear but he smiles, as if he somehow knows that while in your company he need not worry.

  Midway through teaching the boy how to parry effectively, in storms Lord Craven in a white-hot rage.

  “GET OUT!” he roars. Alexander yelps, almost in good humor, but scampers out of the room to practice his lunging elsewhere.

  “How dare you enter these rooms,” Craven says menacingly. He regards you with revulsion. “These rooms are forbidden, and all in the house know this to be so. How could you bring my child to this…this place of evil.”

  “We took the stairs,” you say simply.

  “You know nothing of this house!” he yells. “Nothing of this room, nothing of me, and nothing of my son!”

  You punctuate your next phrase by flicking the tip of your blade across the impudent man’s vital points. “I am doing nothing more than caring for your son and giving him something to soothe his young mind. It is more than can be said for you!”

  Craven grips the épée blade with his monstrous hands, tears it from your grasp, and throws it into the unlit fireplace.

  “What say you now?” he spits. “Now that you are weaponless?”

  “I am never weaponless,” you retort, before you slide your hands through the length of his hair, then wrap it tightly around your fist and pull.

  He lets out a cry of pleasure and pain. As his poet’s mouth breaks, you descend to kiss it, then mercifully allow the tormented soul to come up for air.

  Well. That took a familiar turn.

  Do you give in to your basest of base urges? Turn to this page.

  Do you fight your baser urges (vincit qui se vincit and whatnot) and get the hell out of this house of horrors? Turn to this page.

  You will not let this silver-spooned yet newly paupered brute throw his weight around with you.

  “Perfectly,” you respond confidently. Benedict looks uncertain but releases you from his grasp and half stalks, half staggers back into the game room. Perhaps your little encounter has had more of an effect than he thought it would. You scowl at his retreating back. You will save this fool from ruin whether he likes it or not!

  Lady Evangeline, who has been watching much of the exchange from the opposite side of the room, arches an inquisitive eyebrow in your direction. You walk to her with the steady calm of a soldier.

  “My lady,” you whisper to her urgently, “do you trust me?”

  Laughter dances in the blue depths of Lady Evangeline’s eyes. “Even if I didn’t, you have me entirely intrigued!”

  “Good,” you say, “because I believe if I am to get to the bottom of this little escapade, I will need to go to London, and I will need you to go with me.”

  “For companionship?” The laughter has crept out of Lady Evangeline’s eyes and into her voice.

  “That,” you say with a smile, “and the use of your carriage.”

  Go to this page.

  “What the devil is the girl doing?” A shaky voice grates out behind you. “Flinging costume jewelry about and disgracing my name after I show her nothing but kindness!” The voice belongs to none other than Lady Craven, and from the insalubrious quality of its tone, it is clear she has had quite more than her fill of Madeira.

  “Oh, my dear. You must take my wretched aunt home before she further disgraces herself,” Lady Evangeline says. She tuts at the Dragon. Dejected at what could be your last turn around the ton ending so soon, you slump your shoulders and set your jaw. Your glum appearance prompts Lady Evangeline to gales of laughter. “Oh, heavens!” she cries. “You act as if you have been banished from society! If only one could be so lucky, oh. Oh!”

  You adore the sound of your friend’s laughter, but not so much when it is squarely at your expense.

  “Have I missed something, my dear friend?” you ask as Lady Evangeline recovers from her riot.

  “Of course you have, you chit!” she says with a laugh. “I have secured you an invitation to Benny’s—Sir Benedict’s—country-house party coming up. They’re always great fun, and this way you can, ahem, entertain yourself with the very notion of eligible bachelors, such as my cousin.”
<
br />   You laugh sharply in response. This prompts Lady Evangeline to a fiercely stifled fit of giggles.

  A handsome, noble ginger arrives to interrupt the laughter.

  “Mac!” you cry.

  “My lady,” he nods a quick greeting to both you and Lady Evangeline, but his manner is all business. Yet his soulful eyes burn into yours as he speaks. “If you were sincere about helpin’, lass, I may have a job for you teaching the kiddies at the Home for Orphans of the War. It is in London, so if you are ever there and wish to inquire, so will I receive ye.”

  With another quick nod, he is off, probably to go do good in the night.

  Lady Evangeline raises a gorgeous, quizzical eyebrow.

  The opportunity to mingle with the upper-crustiest of society’s upper crust is supremely tempting. Indeed, with your humble background, you’d be a fool to turn down such a rare invitation to improve your standing in the company of your betters. And the presence of Sir Benedict…well, that certainly doesn’t lessen your intrigue.

  Yet you cannot help but be intrigued by the Scotsman’s offer. You’ve always had a tender heart for children, and something about his rugged altruism sparks a dangerous recklessness in your chest.

  What will be next?

  If you wish to rub elbows with the ton—and Sir Benedict’s elbows in particular—hustle your bustle to this page.

  If you think doing good for poor kiddies is infinitely better than pretending you can hang with the elites of London (and you can’t help your curiosity about what Mac’s got under his kilt), hop on over to this page.

  “I have just finished deciphering the parchment in the canister that dear Kamal transcribed,” Lady Evangeline explains as she strides down the corridor to your rooms. You hurry to keep up with her.