My Lady's Choosing Read online

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Kitty Curran and Larissa Zageris

  All rights reserved. Except as authorized under U.S. copyright law, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2017941582

  ISBN 9781683690139

  Ebook ISBN 9781683690146

  eBook design adapted from printed book design by Andie Reid

  Illustrations by Kitty Curran

  Cover art by Alice Mollon

  Production management by John J. McGurk

  Quirk Books

  215 Church Street

  Philadelphia, PA 19106

  quirkbooks.com

  v5.2

  a

  To our cherished loved ones

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Halt!

  Dramatis Personae

  About the Authoresses

  Acknowledgments

  Halt!

  The course of true love never did run straight—and neither does this book. Do not submit yourself to woe and confusion by turning the pages in numerical order! Skimming to a different section or letting your eye linger too long on the entry next to your intended destination could have the same result as committing a similar act of impropriety while at a ball: SCANDAL! HEARTBREAK! UTTER RUIN!

  In other words, no cheating.

  Instead, begin your romantic journey on page one, and follow the instructions at the bottom of each page. These choices will guide you from the sweeping Highlands of rugged Scotland to the mysterious moors of foggy Yorkshire to the exotic plains of sand-swept Egypt. Every decision has the potential to bring you everlasting happiness or deepest despair—so select with care!

  Choose wisely, and you could end up the talk of the ton, wrapped in the embrace of an exciting, eternally faithful, extremely becoming mate of superior charm and devotion. Choose poorly, and you may end up destitute and begging for scraps in the slimiest slums of London. Truly, in matters of love, anything is possible.

  Now on with you—your romantic fate awaits!

  Dramatis Personae

  YOU are you. The plucky, penniless, Regency-era London version. As a lass of eight-and-twenty who can cover a screen just as well as she can jam out sonatas on the pianoforte, you are under the gun to find love with a suitably wealthy, good-hearted, or libidinous match—else find yourself an eternal spinster.

  LADY EVANGELINE YOUNGBLOOD is a free-spirited Woman with a Past—and your very best (ahem, only) friend. She is a lover of intrigue, battle, and experiment; scandal attends her every move. She gives the rakes of the less-fair sex a run for their money in the roguish-behavior department, when she isn’t sending her aunt, Lady Aurelia Craven, to despondence with tales of her bluestocking bawdiness. She promises to save you from spinsterhood one way or another, if you insist. She has wanted to get back to Egypt for quite some time and could use a traveling companion…

  SIR BENEDICT GRANVILLE is a well-off relation of Lady Craven. He is pretty, witty, and earns ten thousand a year. Banter is this baronet’s weapon of choice in the war waged between London’s marriage-hungry society mamas and eligible young bachelors. Too clever by half for most of the half-wits he interacts with, Sir Granville meets his match only when you deign to engage him in a battle of wits—and base desires.

  CAPTAIN ANGUS MACTAGGART is a rugged Scotsman with a chip on his shoulder and a heart of gold. Not a man for society’s frivolities, he spends his days caring for the orphans and widows of recent wars. Although a finely muscled ginger with a passion as fiery as his hair, “Mac” is more concerned with doing good works than doing others. Still, his honorable soldier’s body courses with the awesome power of the Highland moors from which he hails, and the love of an honest woman could give both Mac and that lass the ride of their lives.

  LORD GARRAWAY CRAVEN is so mad and bad that word round the ton is even Lord Byron finds knowing him to be dangerous. Prone to rages and prolonged unexplained absences (and no shortage of shirts worn open to reveal his rippling muscles), Lady Craven’s son is master of Hopesend Manor. Could he also be master of your heart? Brutish and brooding, Lord Craven is a wild beast who cannot be tamed. But perhaps so are you…

  Move that leg, girl!” the dowager Lady Craven hisses as she prods you with her cane. The two of you are sitting in the back of her rather shabby carriage, on the way to your first social event since you started working as her lady’s companion more than a year ago. Sadly, this behavior is far from extraordinary, so you merely sigh and squeeze yourself into an even tinier part of the seat. At this point, one more prod and you would be making love to the carriage door.

  “Such a miserable occasion. I can’t think why Evangeline is making us attend,” Lady Craven mutters.

  “Well, it is for the widows and orphans of the war—” you venture to say politely, before being cut off with a glare that could strip paint.

  “Did I sound like I wanted your opinion?” You know what’s good for you and stop talking immediately. Lady Craven continues on her tirade. “Truly, you are just as woolheaded as your grandfather was. Odious man! I have no idea what your grandmother was thinking when she married him—and with no fortune to recommend him, either! I daresay your late father was just the same, seeing as he didn’t see fit to provide for you after his death…”

  Spending most of your time with Lady Craven has made you a master at biting your tongue, yet her cruel words about your beloved papa cut you to your core. Still, you depend upon the old dragon for your entire livelihood, so you have no choice but to grit your teeth and clench your fists into the worn fabric of your dress. An old castoff from Lady Craven, the frock is at least twenty years out of date, and you highly suspect that she chose it for you because the mustard-yellow color clashes horribly with your complexion.

  “If it wasn’t for the affection I still hold for your late mother, I should have cast you out into the street! And what would you have done then, eh?”

  You brood silently yet demurely.

  “Probably try to find yourself a protector, no doubt!” she continues. “Just as you have shamelessly set your cap at Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw. Though I doubt anyone would want to have anything to do with such a silly little chit!”

  Your fists grip even tighter around the fabric of your skirts. The repellent Sir Charles is old enough to be your grandpapa and has indeed been sniffing around your person, looking no doubt for a pretty, compliant, and much younger bride. Still, would life in a loveless marriage be any worse than the one you live now?

  The carriage arrives at your destination, and you are shaken from your gloomy thoughts—if only for a moment. Perhaps tonight will be the night when everything changes?

  Do you accompany your tyrannical employer to the fundraising ball for the Society for the Protection of Widows and Orphans of the War? The company may be atrocious, but balls are fun! If so, turn to this page.

  Or do you run away from Lady Craven, only to find yourself with no other means of survival than to sell your young body into the cold, cruel night? If so, do not go to any other place in this book, for you will be utterly doomed and dead from syphilis within a year.

  Sorry. This may be a choosable-path adventure, but as a penniless young unmarried
woman at the start of the nineteenth century, your options are somewhat limited. They will get better, though! Turn to this page.

  “I’m sorry, Kamal, but I’m not sure it is good for me to stay here.”

  “I understand,” he says ruefully. “I’m sorry, too.”

  You give him a gentle smile of companionship. You both pretend it doesn’t crush him.

  “Do you have a plan for what you are going to do next?” he asks with genuine concern. You stare at him calmly.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  What are your plans?

  Do you take up that governessing job with the mysterious—and potentially dangerous—Lord Craven? If so, turn to this page.

  Or are you done with danger for good? Perhaps the dragonish Lady Craven will let you have your old job back…and possibly take you to a few more balls for good measure. If that sounds more up your alley, turn to this page.

  You await the cheap passage you’ve booked on the overnight mail coach with your belongings in your valise and your heart in your throat. Hopesend Manor, the home of your new employer, is located in deep obscurity amid the rolling moors of Yorkshire. Far from the ton, far from London, and, you hope, far from all you have already endured in your search for love. You try not to shiver in the cold, thin rain. The mysterious lord is the dark-horse son of the Dowager Dragon, a wealthy man who has made it his priority to keep his mother at arm’s length and with minimal assistance. You know, too, that the man has a living son and a dead wife, and that the mourning Lord Craven never married again.

  “This weather’s not fit for man nor beast, miss.” A friendly, handsome face appears out of the shadows—the carriage driver. “Eee, but th’art as pretty as a flower,” he says breathlessly, with not a trace of guile in his broad Yorkshire tones.

  “A rather wet flower at the moment, good sir.” You cannot help but giggle.

  He smiles back, harboring a strangely haunted look in those pure chocolate eyes, and hurries to throw himself out of the carriage and help you and your bags inside the Slaughtered Lamb, your designated meeting place. The young, handsome man’s body is built with a compact, pleasing masculinity, and the rain has done both him and you a service by causing his jacket and shirt to cling to him as tightly as a lover.

  “I hope tha’ll be…comfortable.” He rubs his neck nervously, as if mustering the nerve to say something out of turn…or out of the question. “Look, I shouldn’t say…,” he finally ventures, “…but after I told me mam that I were taking a young lady to Hopesend Manor—well, she’s been worrying herself sick, miss. I am, too, to be perfectly honest wi’ thee. Hopesend Manor is no place for a sweet lady such as thyself.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” you ask, your heart racing.

  “It’s just that…folk talk foolish things round these parts, miss, and normally I take no stock in such nonsense. But still…it is well known that bad ends have come to young ladies at Hopesend Manor. I know I am getting above myself when I say this, but I—I just wanted thee to know I am only a walk to th’ village away, should tha ever need help or shelter, miss.”

  “Of…course,” you squeak, distracted as much by his warning as by his broad shoulders, which are spread in a concerned bracing stance against the carriage doorway. “Of course, Mister…”

  “Teddy, miss. Teddy Braithwaite, at thy service, ever and always. I swear it.” He kisses your hand in a rush. Improperly, he holds on a moment too long and lets his hot cocoa eyes burn you with his deep, gentle desire.

  Time to embrace your gothic destiny and head on. Turn to this page.

  A life spent in Glenblair Castle might be safe, but now that you’ve had a taste of espionage, you know the life you truly want.

  “At your service, Lord Fleming,” you say with a curtsey.

  “Och.” A masculine voice thick with emotion rings out behind you. “I never did ken what to do with goodbyes.” You turn to Mac, and he laughs to conceal the tears shining in his eyes. He looks at you, his good and glorious gaze searching yours for what might be the last time.

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

  “Nothing at all.”

  You nod at each other and then, rubbing his eyes, Mac strides away.

  Ollie turns to you, bewildered. “I cannot believe you are being promoted from civilian to spy with absolutely no experience!”

  “That is why I am choosing an experienced handler for her,” Lord Fleming says tersely. “One who is well versed in the profession and has a connection with the young lady in question.”

  Ollie scoffs. “Good luck finding a chap that fits that bill.”

  Lord Fleming rolls his eyes for your benefit. “My dear Ruston, I already have. Congratulations. It appears you have a new partner.”

  Ollie gapes. “But…she’s…”

  “ ‘Pretty as a city park, I’d love to touch her after dark’?” you offer. Ollie blushes scarlet, and even Lord Fleming lets out a patrician chuckle. “Surely you remember that verse, Ollie.”

  “I assure you, my dear,” Ollie says, flustered, “I would write you a new poem this minute if I could think of a rhyme for ‘dreadful savage upstart know-it-all.’ ”

  You smirk. “There, there, now, partner,” you say. “I promise to let you solve a few cases on your own.”

  Lord Fleming claps his hands. “Save it for the next mission, you two.”

  And with that, you and Ollie go off to become lead characters in your own series of historical thrillers.

  The End

  There is nothing like a carriage ride back to a country estate that is in dispute between two men—one of whom you just nearly killed and the other of whom you just passionately kissed—to further frazzle one’s already frayed nerves.

  You didn’t know when you attended that first ball with the Dragon that the story of your life would be so full of scandal, intrigue, and deadly lamps in the shape of certain, ahem, body parts. You never could have dreamed that the story of you and Benedict would overflow so violently, like an upended jar of ink over a fresh sheet of creamy writing paper.

  Benedict seems as tense as you are. He must take your weary silence—and aching desire—for anxiety.

  “Dash it, woman, you didn’t kill him. Give yourself a rest.” Benedict shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I nearly killed him.”

  “Sorry you didn’t finish the job?”

  “I am sorry for the mess we made in Madam Crosby’s fine rooms.”

  “Her fine rooms have seen much worse, I am sure,” Benedict says with a sigh.

  “And much better.” You’re content to have the last word with him, but troubled by your longing for his smart, tender mouth to once more press against yours. You wonder if he, too, is thinking of that moment back in the fray. You notice him struggle to find a comfortable position. You long to touch him and to reprimand him for not arriving at the obvious best solution to his problem.

  “You do know if we simply remove this bench cover and arrange it thusly, we could both have a lie-down in this blasted carriage.” You brush him aside and rearrange the seating so the carriage becomes more of a traveling bed than a torture chamber on wheels. But before thinking much of it, you have flung the man onto his back and yourself on top of him. You feel a sudden heat and pressure against your skirts and realize your newfound seating arrangement is not lost on him. Not lost at all.

  You retrieve the cushion and place it under his head. He arches to receive it and, by so doing, presses his straining manhood against your beskirted sex. You cannot help moaning, slightly, with the pleasure of it.

  “Is that better?” You try to keep your voice as even and rhythmic as he keeps the powerful yet restrained thrusting of his rock-hard, searching nethers.

  “Much,” he replies, and before the terse little word escapes his lips, they are upon you
. Your mouth, ears, neck are the skin of a forbidden fruit he is desperate to taste.

  “This is wrong,” he whispers into your décolletage. His fingers work swiftly against the common enemy that is your bodice, and soon all of you is tumbling between his hungry hands.

  “Should we?” you whisper into his knit brow before running your fingers through his thick, tumbledown curls and pulling his face into your newly freed bosom.

  “Mmmmf,” he answers before breaking free. “You know damn well I can’t respond with your amazing breasts in my mouth.”

  “Did you not think that was intentional? Ohhh…” You lose your desire to sass as he pleasures first one nipple with his limber tongue, then the other.

  “What does it matter what I think, what does any of it matter? Whatever happens to us, we have now. We have a discreet driver and a bed-carriage and each other and—” You cut short his tragic reverie by deftly unbuttoning the panel of his pants. “We have now.”

  A bird on the wing overhead would think nothing of your carriage, a small rollicking shadow in a wide world of trees slashed with moonlight. But if that bird could hear your cries, it would know the happiness of animals who have found their mate. A joy made even sweeter by the bitter knowledge that the mate could be lost, and likely would be, in the bright light of morning.

  You are a shooting star in a dark sky. Turn to this page.

  You shake your head, with your heart in your throat. Mac nods unsteadily and hugs you tightly.

  “I never did ken what to do with goodbyes,” he says, laughing to conceal the tears shining in his eyes.

  “Especially ones you don’t want to say,” you agree. He looks at you, his good and glorious eyes searching yours for what you think might be the last time.