by Kitty Curran
“Not the face!” cries Cad. He throws Benedict against a statue of Cupid with such ferocity it makes you wince. Dazed, Benedict staggers to his feet.
“Always so easy to provoke, Benny,” Cad jeers. “No wonder Father preferred me to you! Just like he preferred my mother, his true wife, over your cold, snobbish bitch of a mother!”
If Cad meant to throw Benedict off-balance with his taunts, he could not have chosen a worse way to do it. A strange light that crosses Benedict’s dark silver eyes makes you shiver in both fear and desire.
“How dare you,” Benedict says a little too quietly, his voice like the eerie calm before the storm.
Even Cad seems to sense his mistake. He swings a right hook that Benedict expertly dodges. A fire has been lit under Benedict now, and he comes at Cad with a series of brutal punches that send the other man collapsing to the ground.
Undeterred, Benedict launches himself onto the slumped golden form of his half brother with another volley of blows. As Cad whimpers, you realize with horror that the strange light in Benedict’s eyes is in fact a death gleam. It is up to you to intervene—lest this goosecap, who has somehow managed to touch your heart, does something he regrets.
“Stop this madness at once!” you cry, throwing yourself between him and Cad. The action seems to break Benedict out of his murder daze, and he stares at you in wonder. You stare back, your jaw obstinate and your expression unflinching.
“Do you wish to hang for fratricide?” you say coolly, your voice a bucket of ice water dousing the flames of the fight. Benedict shakes his head and raises himself off the ground. He offers a bruised hand to you and helps you up.
“You are not worth it,” he spits at Cad’s slumped form. The blackguard sits up and has the nerve to grin with self-satisfaction.
“It seems to me the young lady in question threw herself upon me to save my life.” Cad looks at you with an expression both mocking and hungry. He raises an eyebrow.
“It appears I am in your debt. And yet I think that you are perhaps having second thoughts about your allegiance to my brother. You know, sweeting, it is not too late. It’s never too late to make another choice…”
He’s not wrong…you do indeed have another choice!
Do you spit upon Cad’s caddishness and tend to Benedict’s wounds? Turn to this page.
Or do you, upon reflection, want a piece of Cad’s caddishness? Turn to this page.
The best person you can question is Mrs. Butts, and you seek her out presently. You aim to find her in the kitchens, but are waylaid by a manic Manvers.
“You are too bold for your own good, you sly little chit!” he spits at you, his eyes wild with unhinged rage. “You know, if you died here at Hopesend Manor, you would be the second lovely young thing to meet her end under the care of Garraway Craven! The authorities should be quite interested in that, I should think! Quite interested indeed! A-ha! A-ha-ha-ha!” Manvers laughs in the unsettling way of those who are about to commit unspeakable acts of violence, and you find yourself quite eager to flee his presence.
But flee to where?
If you wish to flee Hopesend entirely, perhaps returning to the safety of London, turn to this page.
If you wish to flee momentarily and gather your thoughts in the less-eldritch garden, turn to this page.
“Finally, Mac staggers out, with Timmy in his arms and Dodger at his heels.”
“I must save the boy!” Mac yells, but you grab him by the collar and hold him back. He shoots you that intense, dare you say smoldering (although that’s perhaps too apt given the circumstances) look, and your temperature quickly rises. The smell of smoke reminds you that, indeed, the orphanage is engulfed in flames. You drag Mac to a nearby water pump, tear his shirt from his rippling chest, and fully drench it.
“What are ye doing, lass? I wasn’t wet enough to save the damn child?” he rages.
“Not as wet as we all got in this blasted rain. Now you are more protected.” You toss the shirt back at him. He covers his face with it, lit with newfound respect for your practical foresight, and races into the burning building.
He is gone for five minutes, though you feel as if an age passes. Finally, Mac staggers out, with Timmy in his arms and Dodger at his heels. He collapses, choking. You give man and boy water and see to it that both revive. As they do, you notice that Dodger has a parchment in his mouth—he must have saved it from the house. The paper is covered with strange markings that you do not understand.
“Do you recognize this document, Mac?” you ask. “It seems important. There are symbols, and…only one word I recognize, a name: Constantina,” you read aloud.
Mac’s face pales. He grips your shoulders with surprising strength for someone who has just cheated death. “Listen, lass. I appreciate all that ye have done here, I truly do. But there is nae job and nae home for ye here anymore. Have ye anywhere else you can go?”
If you are now fully committed to Mac and his drenched abs of intrigue—er, his orphans—and there is no way you are leaving them, turn to this page.
On the other hand, you do have a standing job offer with a certain Lord Craven. Sure, he sounds fairly terrifying, but you have only a single kid to teach in a structure that has not burned down. If you’d like to bid Mac adieu, turn to this page.
“I’m sorry, Benedict,” you whisper to him and then gently unweave your fingers from his. “But the ton is not the place for me. There is good work to be done, and I must strive to do it.”
You give him a gentle pat-on-the-shoulder goodbye before sidestepping his heartbroken form to approach Mac.
“Mac,” you say, your heart in full flutter, “I am ready to do good. May I do good with you?”
“Aye, lass!” The mountainous Scotsman beams at you with delight as a beautiful, flame-haired woman walks up and kisses him on the mouth. “My new and lovely wife Anjelica and I do most of the good work together, o’course, but the orphans never say nae to a kindly lass reading them a bedtime story here and there!”
Anjelica walks up to you and grasps your hands with genuine warmth.
“We are always so short-staffed, and the children are such brave little soldiers…” Her eyes swim with tears of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”
Mac beams at his beautiful, perfect wife. “Isn’t she the best and most wonderful creature ye’ve ever beheld?”
She really is, damn it. You want to be happy for them, but you feel your heart sink. You turn and see Benedict glare and roll his eyes.
So…you’ve exhausted your last good options. What are you going to do now?
Throw yourself on the mercy of Nigel. He hasn’t much money, given that he just started a job as a country parson, but he is sweet and devoted. Turn to this page.
Throw yourself on the mercy of Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw. Yes, he is super gross and odious, but he is also loaded and probably too old to bother you…much. Turn to this page.
“Of course my husband is joking,” you laugh. You reach for Mac’s incredibly taut bicep, pulling him close. He gasps audibly, causing the innkeeper to raise a bemused eyebrow. “He thinks I snore like a ‘bloody dragon, lass!’ ” you add in your best attempt at a brogue. The innkeeper laughs, and Mac stares daggers at you. “But I promise to be quiet, sir,” you tell the innkeeper conspiratorially. “He will be the only man I keep up all night.” You and the innkeeper share a round of wicked laughter, and you lead a dazed Mac into the cramped quarters where you will be spending the evening—together.
“What the devil are ye up to, lass? Goin’ and pretendin’ we’re married folk?” Mac asks once the innkeeper is well out of earshot.
You extend the privacy screen so you may undress, and as soon as you have hidden yourself from him, you begin to strip off your clothes. “After such a journey, there is no way you should take your rest in the stable. As husband and wife, you can get as good a night’s res
t as I. We can split up the bedding so one of us is on the floor, if you wish. In any case, I trust you.”
“Aye, but what if I dinnae trust ye?” he says. “Ye are being reckless with your honor, as much as ye are being reckless with my—” He cuts himself off. “Fine. I will change here, but as soon as ye are asleep, I will head out to the stable and be proper about it.”
“Suit yourself, husband,” you say, smiling despite yourself at his bullheadedness and his slip of the tongue. You imagine several more ways you could enjoy his slipping tongue while you strip down to your underthings. As you do, the strange bit of paper that Dodger brought out from the fire falls from its hiding place in your bodice. You bend to pick it up and read the name again. Constantina. You remember Mac’s strange expression when you said the name before.
Who could she be, you wonder. A lover? A sister? A friend? An enemy? Clearly, she means a lot to Mac. You wonder if you could ever mean a lot to him, or if he sees you merely as an impulsive, reckless woman with a caring streak.
You are so distracted by these confusing thoughts that you lean against the screen to contemplate, forgetting that it is a flimsy bit of screen and not a solid wall built for contemplative leaning.
You tumble, mostly naked, into Mac, who, you are thrilled to discover, is mostly naked as well.
You hold yourself over him, arms trembling, and he holds your waist with thick, limber fingers.
“You’re naked,” you whisper, both surprised and pleased.
“Ye said to trust you,” Mac offers by way of weak explanation.
“Well,” you say, and ever so gently arch your valley to meet his throbbing tor. Mac groans with rare pleasure and release at the slight movement, and your heart races at the thought of what other symphonic exultations the undulations of your bodies could bring. “Better than the stable floor?”
Mac throws his impressive caber against you in sweet release. “We can’t, lass,” he gasps. “It’s improper.” He kisses you, his tongue as true in its aim as his mind is in deed.
You kiss like moss growing, wet and lush and full of secret direction. Your kisses give the other guidance, to lick here, bite there, pull, push, ride.
“Honor my body,” you whisper into the cup of his ear. He shudders, and you spasm just to witness this great lighthouse of a man shine on you. He worships your breasts, kissing them as fully and forcefully as he has your mouth, as tenderly as he strokes the wet apex of your sex. You thrum and thrill at his touch, at the final show of desire from which he does not hide. The fact that it is desire for you heats his touch all the more, until you are blazing hotter than his red hair.
Just as you both are tearing at his belt to free yourselves completely, and you imagine the sweet, pleasurable pain you will feel when he throws his impressive caber deep into the sky of your sex, he pulls away.
“We must…be honorable,” he gasps, raggedly. “You deserve…honor.” His massive shoulders sag, and he cannot help but kiss you once more. “I am sorry, bonnie lass. I-I will be in the stables.”
He leaves you, heading off to sleep among the horses and deny both of you your desires.
But why? As you dress yourself, you again catch sight of the strange slip of paper. The word Constantina burns you like a brand. You stuff the damn thing back into your bodice.
Your unfulfilled desire throbs uncomfortably within you, and you toss and turn for the rest of the night.
Damn it. Turn to this page.
Well. You’ve had some times, haven’t you?
While you’re glad to have your feet back on solid London ground, your head is still stuck in the clouds of your recent memories—as well as the London fog.
But despite your adventures away from home, you feel pulled to this city, the Big Smoke, and you know it holds something better for you than anything you have experienced so far. It is also dead expensive, and with empty pockets and a heavy heart, you swallow your pride and beg the Dowager Dragon to give you back your old job.
After Lady Craven has begrudgingly accepted you, you find yourself in another London ballroom. She takes no small delight in detailing how happy Lady Evangeline is in Egypt, still, and that she plans to be abroad for quite some time. “You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” she trills, before narrowing her eyes. You begin to make your rounds. “Stay close. Stay quiet. And for heaven’s sake, fetch me my sherry,” she seethes under her breath.
“Of course, my lady.” You smile through gritted teeth. Oh, how you hate the taste of humble pie. You beeline for the refreshments.
“Truly, my lady, is there no greater thrill in this life than serving my wicked relation her happy water?” A cool, bemused voice caresses your ear. Benedict. You smile, all the way down to your bones, and turn to him, keeping your face calm but letting your eyes betray your delight. He continues, eyebrows raised. “I’ve tried to work it out, and I see it as the only compelling reason you would return. That surely must be it.” He offers to take your hand and bends low to kiss it, with ridiculous ceremony. You stifle a laugh.
“And that alone,” you reply as he rises to meet your gaze. You are standing close, face to face, just a little too close to be completely proper. Just close enough to feel the heat simmering beneath his sass…and waistcoat.
“If you’re holding your breath for me to confess I’ve missed you, I am rather afraid you will die of asphyxiation, my dear. Aunt will be most displeased.”
“As will you?” You arch an eyebrow. Oh, it is delicious to slip back into this banter.
“Me? Oh, I will—” But before he can finish, Benedict is interrupted by a clap on the shoulder. He spins to face a man built just as finely as he, but twice as wide across the shoulders and a full head taller, boasting a mane of fire-red hair.
“Aye! How goes the legislation to benefit the orphans and wives of the war then, laddie?” Captain Angus “Mac” MacTaggart’s voice booms a hole through Benedict and lands straight in your heart.
“It…goes…slowly, as things unfortunately—” Benedict stammers, losing his cool momentarily in the presence of the large, do-gooder captain.
“Always do. Aye, aye.” Mac laughs ruefully. “Just remember, as we fine folk here enjoy our sherry and reels, the folk left bereft by the war snatch what sleep they can, tossin’ and turnin’ on a bed of empty promises and broken dreams. Aye!” Mac slaps Benedict on the back so hard, you fancy you hear a bone break. Benedict takes his leave, and you are left alone for a moment with the fireball of rugged handsomeness and beneficence that is Mac.
“Hello, Mac,” you say softly. His eyes twinkle—and perhaps peer a bit longingly—at you.
“Aye, lass,” he returns, as soft as his body is hard. “If you aren’t jest a sight for sore eyes. I have oft wondered what ye were getting up to out there, in the great wide world. And if, perhaps, were needin’ helpin’.”
“Does the lady need help? May I be of assistance? Would the lady like a glass of brandy? I have fetched you brandy, my lady, here is, oh, oh my!” The excitable voice belongs to none other than the hopelessly goofy, awkward, and adoring Nigel Frickley. He stumbles all over himself (and several others) to hand you a glass of brandy.
Unfortunately, the proffered refreshment ends up all over your dress, instead of in your mouth. “Thank you, Nigel,” you demur. “But really, you shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, he should!” Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw leers at you from across the room. “And he should do it again!” The old coot’s eyes dance with delight at the sight of your clinging gown, and you and most of the ball’s attendees shudder with deep disgust.
“Where the devil is my sherry?!” the Dragon shouts. Despising yourself for it, you scurry toward her with the drink outstretched.
“Here you are, my lady,” you say, extending the glass to her. She snatches it, and in front of all of the ton, throws the drink full in your face!
“Oh…oh my,” Nigel stammers. “
I shall fetch my lady another napkin—”
“You shall fetch nothing of the sort!” the Dragon spits. Nigel freezes in his somewhat adorably goofy tracks. She turns her nigh-villainous gaze on you and narrows her already beady eyes. “I have longed for the moment you would come crawling back to my employ. I have longed for it expressly because, in turn, I longed for the moment I would teach you a valuable lesson. You do not bite the hand that feeds, my dear, and you most certainly do not caress longingly the hands that are related to the hand that feeds. You have invited scandal into my family, and for it, you shall pay. You are a terrible, ungrateful, spiteful little chit. You have disgraced yourself and my family with your life choices, and you shall pay for your actions. You, my lady, are fired.”
Ninety percent of the ton gasps, scandalized. Eighty percent of that ninety percent do so with cruel delight.
Your heart drops to the floor. You are now penniless, jobless, beauless, and drenched in two types of aperitif. Clearly, the Dragon took you back only to publicly humiliate you, dismiss you, and leave you with neither income, home, nor dry change of clothes.
“Get thee hence, harlot!” she cries, casting her beady eyes about for more cocktails to heave at you. Benedict locks eyes with you and takes a deep, shivering breath before stepping forward and gathering your hands in his.
“This harlot is my fiancée!” he says, loud enough for everyone, even those at the fringes of the ton, to hear.
Several members gasp so hard they need to sit down to catch their breath.
“Benedict,” you say, burning partly with desire, partly with humiliation, “you do not need to marry me to save my honor.”
“No,” he responds, and his eyes search yours in that intense back-and-forth way that future generations will know only by watching romantic comedic narratives on a sort of moving screen. “I need to marry you to save myself. From a life of boredom, from a life of mediocre sex, from a life of grinning and bearing it when all I want is to sass around. I need to marry you to save myself from a life spent without you. Any moment I continue to live without you as my wife is one moment too many.”