Touch Me

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “He thinks yer a veterinarian?”

  Genevieve laughed. “No. Just an animal lover.”

  “Bloke wants more than yer help,” Baxter muttered. “I saw the way he looked at ye.”

  “How was that?”

  “Like he were a starvin’ beast and ye had a mutton chop tied around yer neck.”

  A shivery tingle raced through Genevieve. Yes, she’d noticed that as well. Surely she shouldn’t find that so…intriguing. Or arousing.

  “I’m not sure I trust the bloke around ye.”

  “You don’t trust anyone.”

  “I trust you,” Baxter said. “Ain’t sure about him. But since ye don’t look as sad as ye did before he arrived, I suppose I’ll hold off on the arse-tossin’.”

  “Don’t worry, Baxter. I don’t intend to see him again after tomorrow’s festival.” Genevieve headed back toward the sitting room. When she passed the library, curiosity had her entering and walking to the shelves. Which of her books had he borrowed? Perusing the volumes, she smiled when she noted that The Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs. Radcliffe was missing, as was the final volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. When she saw the third empty space, however, her smile faded.

  Why had Mr. Cooper borrowed A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore?

  The suspicions she’d pushed away earlier came back with a sickening crash, knotting her stomach with dread, a sensation she’d learned not to ignore. Especially considering that only a few months ago, someone had wanted Brightmore dead over the furor that had erupted over his scandalous writings promoting sexual independence for women. Was it possible that Charles Brightmore’s rumored departure for America hadn’t ended the threats against him?

  She could only pray it wasn’t so, because Charles Brightmore lived right here in Little Longstone. Indeed, she saw the fictional man every morning when she looked in the mirror. Was her secret identity as the author of the scandalous tome that had shocked society in jeopardy of being uncovered?

  She pressed her hands to her midriff and drew a deep breath. Dear God, was it possible there was more to Mr. Cooper’s visit to Little Longstone, to her cottage, than he’d admitted? Was it possible he knew, or suspected who she was? Had he been hired to locate Charles Brightmore? Or worse—harm Brightmore?

  She didn’t know, but she was determined to find out.

  5

  THE NEXT afternoon, after checking to make certain he was unobserved, Simon departed Mrs. Ralston’s cottage and headed swiftly down the path toward the village. Pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket, he glanced at the time. Nearly one o’clock, almost an hour past the time he’d agreed to meet her. He slipped the timepiece back in his pocket and quickened his pace.

  After watching her and Baxter leave the cottage at a quarter ’til noon, he’d slipped inside and continued his search for the letter. Unfortunately he’d been no more successful than he had during his last hunting expedition. He’d wanted to remain longer, but he dared not lest she return home and catch him where he wasn’t supposed to be.

  Bloody hell, what had she done with that damn letter?

  If only her cat Sophia could talk. The animal had followed him from room to room, rubbing against him and purring loudly. When he’d scratched behind her ears and asked where his letter might be hidden, Sophia had merely leaned into his hand and purred louder. And Simon had asked himself the question he most didn’t want to—What if Mrs. Ralston had destroyed the letter?

  With grim determination, he’d headed toward her bedchamber, telling himself that if that were the case, then he’d just have to return to London, continue his investigation, and convince Waverly, along with Miller and Albury, of his innocence and that he needed their help to prove it. Surely, on a gut level, his mentor and two closest friends knew Simon wasn’t guilty. Someone, somewhere, knew something, knew the truth, and by God if the letter was lost to him, Simon would find that something.

  Searching Mrs. Ralston’s bedchamber again, he’d hated himself for the way his hands lingered over her clothing, her perfume bottle. Never in his life had he been so overwhelmed with lust, and definitely never during an investigation. The fact that he felt such staggering desire for a woman whose innocence was suspect truly grated on him. Bloody hell, he’d stolen one look at her in that wet chemise and taken leave of his senses. Throughout his search he’d had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand, on finding the letter—the letter that would save his life.

  Still, while he hadn’t found the missive, he had discovered something very unexpected. Curiosity regarding what she’d been writing the night he’d hidden in her bedchamber had propelled him to her escritoire. Snatches of words written on the stack of vellum sheets he’d found in the top drawer of her desk drifted through his mind.

  Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to seduce her man…Today’s Modern Woman must master the art of removing her gentleman’s clothing—and her own…Today’s Modern Woman will greatly benefit from discreetly brushing her body against her gentleman’s in a crowded ballroom, then “accidentally” stroking her hand over the front of his breeches…

  The handwriting had started smoothly, but had degenerated into an increasingly cramped jumble of letters. Last night he’d read A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore and although the writing style and mention of Today’s Modern Woman were identical to the pages he’d found in Mrs. Ralston’s desk, nothing in the published book matched what she’d written on those pieces of vellum. Therefore, Mrs. Ralston was either very closely connected to Charles Brightmore—or Brightmore was merely a “nom de plume,” and she was the author of the book. And working on a second volume.

  His instincts told him the latter was the case. He recalled that several months ago there had been a great deal of interest in the mysterious Charles Brightmore. The author had never shown himself in society or at any literary gatherings. Simon vaguely remembered talk of threats against the man whose Ladies’ Guide had incensed the gentlemen of the ton for its radical ideas on women’s independence. The last he’d heard, Brightmore had left the country.

  But Simon would wager everything he owned that Brightmore hadn’t left the country at all. That the reason he’d never shown himself was because he was a she. And that she was Genevieve Ralston.

  Very interesting.

  As was the information contained in the explicit book. Frankly, he’d never read anything like it. Under the guise of an innocent guide for ladies, Genevieve Ralston had provided an arsenal of detailed information on carnal relations that only a very sexually experienced woman could provide. He’d found the information fascinating. Stimulating. And damned arousing—even more so now that he suspected his beautiful and mysterious neighbor had secretly written it.

  Certainly that information would prove useful. All he wanted was his damn letter, so he could return to London and clear his name, regain his reputation with Waverly, Miller and Albury. He’d do whatever was necessary to get the letter, and now he had the ammunition to do so. He wasn’t above resorting to blackmail. Not that he had any desire actually to tell anyone her secret, but she didn’t know that. Yet, given her obvious experience in the bedchamber, it would be much more civilized—and pleasurable—for him to simply seduce the information from her.

  Yes, that was an excellent plan—seduce her, then get her to confide the whereabouts of the letter. He’d begin by flirting today, then coaxing her into his bed as soon as possible.

  The same image that had haunted him since the night he’d read that tantalizing snippet of the Ladies’ Guide in her bedchamber…of her, wet and naked, tying him to her bed, flashed through his mind. Of her beautiful, lush body brushing against his. His tongue exploring all the places his bound hands couldn’t touch…

  His rapid footsteps faltered on the path to the village and he halted. Damn it, his skin felt hot and tight and his
lungs pumped like a bellows—and not because of any physical exertions. He glanced down and glared at the erection pressing against his snug breeches. Bloody hell. Every time he thought of the woman his damn cock swelled. And he’d thought of her more times than he cared to count since seeing her in that damn wet, transparent chemise. Clearly seducing her wouldn’t present any hardship—his body could hardly wait.

  Which thoroughly vexed and confused him. Even the knowledge that she’d removed the letter that, according to Ridgemoor’s last words, would name his murderer and thereby clear Simon’s name didn’t cool his ardor. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

  Wincing, he adjusted himself, buttoned his coat—thank God the weather was cool enough to require one—then once again resumed walking. Several minutes later he arrived at the outskirts of the village. The humming mixture of voices, singing, music and shrieks of children’s excited laughter grew louder as he approached, as did the savory scents of a variety of foods.

  Pausing in the shadow cast by a tall brick building, Simon surveyed the scene. Dozens of bright awnings surrounded the large village square, with vendors calling out to the passersby in hopes of tempting them with their wares. Several hundred people, certainly more than he’d expected, milled about, purchasing trinkets and household items, sampling food and drinks. On the far side of the square an area had been cleared where a group of children chased each other about in circles. A quartet of musicians played, filling the cool air with their lively tune.

  His gaze searched the crowd, halting, along with his breath, when it found Mrs. Ralston standing across the square. Dressed in a cornflower-blue pelisse and matching bonnet, she stood in a bright pool of sunshine, smiling up at her giant of a manservant. To Simon’s annoyance, his every muscle tensed with want and his heart performed some sort of acrobatic maneuver—the same odd rollover he’d experienced when he’d called upon her yesterday and seen her for the first time up close and in the daylight.

  No doubt about it, Genevieve Ralston was exquisite. Flawless porcelain skin, huge sky-blue eyes, delicate features, full lips, honey-blond hair—he could easily understand why Ridgemoor had kept her as his mistress, and again he wondered why the earl had tired of such a beautiful woman—a question that truly perplexed him now that he knew, through her writings in the Guide, of her expertise in the bedchamber. He’d entered her sitting room yesterday afternoon and the sight of her had hit him like a blow to the midsection. He’d experienced hard punches of lust before, but never like that. Never on such a primal, visceral level. Surely it was only due to the fact that he’d seen her in that sodden chemise, an image that was branded in his mind.

  Yet even as he told himself that, he couldn’t deny there was something about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that threw him off balance. Perhaps it was the unexpected air of vulnerability he sensed. He could see it in her eyes, that and a hint of hesitancy, of self-consciousness that he wouldn’t normally equate with such an experienced woman. The fact that she’d been surprised when he’d flirted with her intrigued and puzzled him. Oh, she’d regained her aplomb quickly, yet there was no missing how he’d disconcerted her. But why? A woman who looked like her was surely accustomed to male attention.

  Indeed, looking around now, he noticed a number of men glancing her way, a fact that tightened his jaw, and he wondered, as he had that first night in her bedchamber, if she had a lover. If she didn’t, it was obviously because she chose not to. Because he couldn’t imagine any man with a pulse not wanting her.

  Not that it mattered. Of course not. Still, he didn’t like unanswered questions. Or this unwanted preoccupation with her. The fact that he had to keep reminding himself that she was more than she seemed, more than a simple widow living a quiet existence, that she had secrets—one or more of which could cost him his life—unsettled and confused him. He needed to keep his mind on his mission, and recall that Genevieve Ralston was merely a means to an end.

  Keeping that in mind, he crossed the square, weaving his way toward her through the milling crowd. As he drew near, Baxter caught sight of him and sizzled a glare in his direction surely meant to reduce him to ashes.

  “There you are, Mrs. Ralston,” Simon said with a smile, offering her a formal bow. “Please forgive my tardiness. I was waylaid by half a dozen merchants and then couldn’t locate you in this crowd. I had no idea so many people resided in Little Longstone.”

  “The festival draws visitors from miles around,” she said, raising a gloved hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “I thought perhaps you’d decided against coming.”

  “Not at all.” He looked into her clear blue eyes and experienced that same visceral punch of lust. Bloody hell, she looked like a succulent peach—ripe, delicious and ready to be plucked. Before he could stop himself, he stepped closer to her. The subtle scent of roses tickled his senses and he was struck by an overwhelming desire to press his face against her neck and breathe her in, then drag her off to the nearest deserted corner and strip her bare to discover if she smelled so delicious everywhere. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” he said quietly. It wasn’t until he spoke the words out loud that he realized just how true they were.

  Her breath caught and her pupils dilated. The insane thought that thank God it wasn’t just him experiencing this profound physical attraction ran through his mind. For several seconds he felt as if he were under some sort of spell, trapped by her gaze and the desire he saw simmering there. It was as if everything faded away except her. The noise, the crowd, the music, all seemed to evaporate, leaving just the two of them. Her lips parted slightly, drawing his attention to her mouth. Her lush, delicious mouth that beckoned him like a siren’s call. In his mind’s eye he saw himself leaning forward…brushing his lips over hers—

  “Saw a number of folks with pups fer sale.” Baxter’s gruff voice broke through the fog surrounding Simon and he turned toward the giant man. And found himself the recipient of another dark scowl. “Can’t say how many beasts might be left, seein’ as how ye saw fit to turn up an hour late.” Baxter narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t see ye talkin’ with any merchants.”

  “Nor did I see you,” Simon said smoothly. “Or any dogs for sale. Where are they?”

  Baxter jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Back that way. I’ll show ye.”

  Baxter managed to make I’ll show ye sound like I’ll pulverize yer bones then toss ye into the Thames. Before Simon could reply, Mrs. Ralston said, “I’ll show Mr. Cooper the pups, Baxter.”

  Baxter clearly planned to veto that suggestion, but once again, Mrs. Ralston spoke, this time in an undertone. “Miss Mary Winslow is headed this way—” she glanced over Baxter’s broad shoulder “—looking very much in need of an escort.”

  Baxter turned his head so fast Simon swore he heard the man’s neck snap. Simon shifted and watched a pretty young woman with dark-red hair and light-brown eyes approach. “Good afternoon, Baxter,” she said with a shy, dimpling smile, stopping next to him.

  To Simon’s utter amazement, a deep scarlet flush suffused the bald man’s cheeks. “Uh, I…I…Good afternoon, Miss Winslow.”

  “And to you, too, Mrs. Ralston. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is,” Mrs. Ralston answered. Although her expression was suitably serious, Simon could hear the whiff of amusement in her voice. “Have you met Mr. Cooper? He has let Dr. Oliver’s cottage for the next two weeks.”

  Simon made a formal bow, relieved that Mrs. Ralston had undertaken the introductions. In his amazement over Baxter’s reaction to the young woman, Simon might well have momentarily forgotten that here in Little Longstone he was Mr. Simon Cooper, not Simon Cooperstone, Viscount Kilburn. “A pleasure, Miss Winslow.”

  Miss Winslow inclined her head. “Mr. Cooper. Welcome to Little Longstone.” She offered him a bright smile. “Heavens, we’ve all sorts of newcomers. First that artist fellow, Mr. Blackwell, and now Mr. Cooper. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

&nbs
p; “I’m certain I will, thank you.”

  Miss Winslow returned her attention to Baxter who seemed nailed in place, gazing upon her with such an utterly besotted expression Simon had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. When the giant remained mute, Mrs. Ralston suggested gently, “Perhaps Miss Winslow would enjoy a meat pie, Baxter.”

  “Oh, yes, I would,” replied Miss Winslow, nodding.

  Baxter swallowed hard. “I…I…Meat pie. Yes. Good.” Then he seemed to recall himself and managed to tear his gaze away from Miss Winslow long enough to give Simon another fulminating glare. “I’ll be close by should ye need me,” he said to Mrs. Ralston before extending a beefy arm to the petite Miss Winslow.

  After they’d drifted off into the crowd, Simon turned to Mrs. Ralston, who still stared after the departing couple. “Baxter may be hewn of granite on the outside, but on the inside he’s—”

  “Overcooked porridge,” Mrs. Ralston said, turning toward him. A slow smile curved her lips. “Please don’t let on that you know.”

  “His secret is safe with me. I must say, I don’t believe I’ve ever before seen anyone manage to appear flushed and pale at the same time.”

  Mrs. Ralston laughed. “Yes, that’s quite a feat.”

  “Clearly that little devil Cupid shot an entire quiver of arrows at Baxter.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Ralston agreed. “I’ve known Baxter for more than half my life and I’ve never seen him so smitten.” She pursed her lips and gave him an arch look. “Perhaps when you see the puppies offered today you’ll find yourself equally besotted, Mr. Cooper.”

  Staring into her beautiful blue eyes, Simon’s heart began to pound with hard, erratic beats and he indeed found himself feeling besotted. Ridiculously so. Annoyingly so. Unacceptably so. It was one thing to seduce the woman to glean the information he needed. It was quite another to fall victim to her obviously potent charms. That was a trap he had no intention of falling into.