Touch Me

7

“SO TELL ME, Mrs. Ralston, what else do you enjoying doing aside from reading and indulging your weakness for artwork?”

The instant they were seated on the wooden bench, Simon tossed out the question as a matter of self-preservation. He’d suggested they sit because the sensual waters their conversation had drifted into had made it difficult for him to walk without limping. The image that had haunted him since watching her in her bedchamber, of her tying his hands with her satin hair ribbons, had roared into his mind, resulting in yet another Genevieve Ralston-inspired arousal. Bloody hell, he hadn’t suffered so many unwanted erections since he was a green lad.

No doubt part of the problem was the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman for several months, a situation that confounded him, since he’d had ample opportunity to end his celibacy at a number of soirées. However, none of the ladies, in spite of their willingness and beauty, had lit more than a superficial spark within him. He wasn’t quite certain when his liking for purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaisons had waned, but there was no denying that over the past year or so it had. Until, it seems, he’d set eyes on Genevieve Ralston. One look at her in that damn soaked chemise, and a purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaison was all he could think about.

He shifted his sleeping puppy more comfortably into the crook of his arm, and in spite of himself his lips twitched. He hadn’t really been looking to purchase a dog, but as it had provided a perfect pretext to entice Mrs. Ralston into meeting him at the festival, he’d seized the opportunity. Otherwise, he feared, she might have refused his invitation, even though he sensed she found him attractive. Or perhaps she didn’t. Unlike most women, he found her frustratingly difficult to read.

“I enjoy spending time in my garden,” she answered.

Relief rushed through him. The garden. Excellent. Nothing sensual about that. “I saw something of it when I walked to your home yesterday. The grounds are lovely.”

“Thank you. I find it very peaceful.”

“And so well-tended. Perhaps you’d share the name of your gardener so I could pass it along to Dr. Oliver? I’m afraid his shrubs have become overgrown since he left Little Longstone.”

“I’m actually in need of a new gardener myself. My dear friend Catherine used to help me-we’d spend hours together in the garden, but she recently married and now lives in London. Baxter’s taken care of things since she left, but I’m afraid he has trouble telling the difference between what is and isn’t a weed. And given his tendency to stomp about…” She chuckled. “I think he’s scared several plants to death.”

Simon nodded. “Gardening requires a delicate touch.”

Her eyes took on a wistful expression. “Yes. I used to do it all myself…” Her gaze drifted down to her gloved hands which she’d hidden among the folds of her pelisse. “But as the garden grew, it became more than I could handle alone.”

He followed her gaze. He noted she kept her hands out of sight as much possible, even though she wore gloves. She’d even worn them in her house during his visit yesterday, an oddity to be sure. He recalled how pained she’d looked when she’d been writing, the cream she’d rubbed into her hands in her bedchamber before donning her gloves to sleep, and her mention of the therapeutic springs. Clearly she’d suffered some sort of accident or injury. Curiosity jabbed him, but he pushed it away. If he pushed for too much information too soon, he feared scaring her off, and he couldn’t risk that before he had his letter. Still, he needed to know more about her, needed to establish a connection between them. A connection of trust.

Before he could proceed, however, a young boy Simon judged to be perhaps eight, approached him, his round-eyed gaze fixed on Beauty.

“That’s a fine puppy, sir,” the lad said, drawing nearer. “May I pet him?”

“He’s a she,” Simon said with a smile. “And yes you may. But I warn you, if she wakes up, she’ll want to slather you with doggie kisses.”

The boy smiled, revealing a gap-toothed grin. “That’s all right, sir. I like doggie kisses.” He reached out and ran a slightly grubby hand over the dog’s soft fur. “What’s her name?”

“Beauty.”

The boy’s grin deepened. “And she’s sleeping-just like the fairy tale.” His expression turned serious. “ ’Cept she’s a dog, not a princess. And I ain’t a prince.”

“Perhaps once she kisses you, you’ll turn into one,” Simon said.

The boy chuckled. “Doubt it. I’m going to be a sailor. Like my da.”

Simon nodded gravely. “Excellent. England needs good sailors. And what is your name?”

“Benjamin Paxton, sir.” The boy thrust out his none-too-clean hand.

Simon shook it. “Simon Cooper. And my friend, Mrs. Ralston, who helped me pick out Beauty.”

Benjamin nodded at Mrs. Ralston. “A fine job you did. Got her from the blacksmith’s litter, did you? I saw he was selling pups.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ralston said. “Are you going to buy one?”

The boy scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground and shook his head. “We can’t have a dog. They make my little sister sneeze and cough something awful.” He ran his fingers over Beauty’s fur. “Dogs don’t make me cough and sneeze, though.”

“Perhaps not,” Simon said, “but it is a brother’s duty to look after and protect his sister. I’d wager you’re a very fine one.”

Benjamin drew himself up then nodded. “Yes, sir. Rufus Templeton said mean things to Annabelle and I bloodied his nose for him.”

“Good man. I’ve bloodied a few noses myself to defend my younger sister.”

“It’s what we men must do,” Benjamin said gravely.

Just then Beauty awoke, and, as predicted, immediately looked for something to lick. Benjamin’s fingers provided fertile ground.

“Would you like to hold her?” Simon asked.

Benjamin’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes, sir.”

Simon transferred the squirming bundle to the boy who dissolved into giggles when Beauty’s busy tongue laved his chin. Simon couldn’t help but chuckle and when he glanced at Mrs. Ralston, he noted her broad smile.

“She’s certainly energetic,” Benjamin managed to say between bouts of laughter.

“Yes. I think she needs a good run and I’m rather tired. Are you up for the task?”

“Yes, sir.” Benjamin carefully set Beauty on the ground and fisted his hand around her lead. “I’ll be very careful with her.”

“I’m sure you will be.” Simon pointed to the large clock mounted to the church tower on the opposite side of the square. “Why don’t you bring her back here in about a quarter hour’s time?”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Cooper, and thank you, sir!” Benjamin trotted off, an eager Beauty prancing at his heels.

“I stand corrected,” Mrs. Ralston said.

Simon turned and found her looking at him through amused eyes. “Regarding what?”

“I’d said I’d never seen anyone fall in love quite so quickly as you did with Beauty…and then little Benjamin came along and proved me wrong.” Her low, husky laugh made Simon wonder if she’d make that same delightful sound in bed. “Asking that boy if he wanted to hold her was rather like me asking Sophia if she’d care for a rasher of fish.”

“I take it Sophia likes fish?”

“It’s merely her most favorite thing in the world.”

Simon shook his head. “I’d wager you are her favorite thing in the world.”

“Only because I am the one responsible for providing her with fish. As far as Sophia is concerned, the cottage belongs to her. I may remain as her guest only so long as I cater to her every need.”

“I see. And if you don’t?”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I fear I’d be cast aside with nary a thought.”

“I disagree.” Before he could stop himself, Simon gave in to temptation and propped his elbow on the back of the bench, allowing his fingertips to lightly graze her shoulder. Heat sizzled up his arm, a ridiculous reaction to such a whisper of a touch-to her clothing, no less. “It would be impossible to cast you aside.”

She froze and Simon stilled as well at the unmistakable pain that flashed in her eyes. Clearly someone had cast this woman aside, someone she’d cared for deeply, and Simon’s guess was Ridgemoor. Earlier, he’d wondered if, in spite of the information he’d gleaned that Ridgemoor had ended their affair, if perhaps their arrangement had ended at Mrs. Ralston’s behest. But based on that look in her eyes, he doubted it. And he once again questioned how Ridgemoor could have tired of such an exquisite, intelligent, witty woman. Perhaps like many men, the earl had decided he preferred a woman who didn’t present any intellectual challenge. Or perhaps Ridgemoor had suspected his paramour had secrets? Had those secrets cost the man his life?

“I’ve learned that nothing is impossible, Mr. Cooper,” she murmured.

“Please, call me Simon. All my friends do.”

She shifted, moving so his fingers no longer touched her, and lifted her chin. For the first time he noticed the tiny flecks of gold in her blue irises. Her eyes reminded him of a sun-dappled sea. And bloody hell if he didn’t feel as if he were drowning.

“You consider us friends?” she asked.

“I’d like to. Certainly I consider you a friend to me. After all, you helped me choose my dog.”

“You and Beauty chose each other without any assistance from me.”

“Yet I wouldn’t have known where to find her if not for you. Besides, you are the only person I know in Little Longstone.” He dropped his chin and sent her an exaggerated woebegone look.

A whiff of amusement ghosted over her features. “Heavens, that is the saddest face I’ve ever seen. Do you practice that look in front of your mirror?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Is it working?”

“Not a bit. I’m made of much sterner stuff than to fall victim to-”

“The saddest face you’ve ever seen?” he broke in, attempting to make his expression sadder still.

“Correct. And I’m not the only person you know in Little Longstone. You know Baxter.”

“Yes. And if glares were knives, I’d have bled to death in your foyer yesterday, long before ever meeting you.”

“And you know Benjamin.”

“True.” He arched a brow at her. “And I’m guessing that if I invited him to call me Simon, he’d accept-and ask me to call him by his given name.”

She arched a brow right back at him. “I’m guessing that as Beauty’s owner, you could have invited that child to call you Penelope and he would have obliged you.”

Simon couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re no doubt correct. And he would have taken great joy in teasing me about it. He had a bit of mischief in his eye, that lad did. Reminds me of my nephew, Harry.”

“How old is Harry?”

“Eight, although there are times I would swear he’s eight and twenty.”

“You mentioned a younger sister-is Harry her child?”

“Yes. Marjorie-my sister-also has a daughter. Lily is three, and if I may say so, the most beautiful child in the entire kingdom. When the time comes, her father is going to need a dozen brooms to sweep the suitors off his porch.”

“Of course, you’re not the least bit biased.”

“Not the least bit,” Simon agreed with a smile, his body relaxing a bit now that the conversation wasn’t so steeped in sexual innuendo and he was no longer touching her.

“Do you have siblings other than Marjorie?”

“A younger brother. Robert’s wife is expecting their first child this winter.”

“You sound…wistful?”

Did he? Yes, he supposed he did. Robert and Beatrice had married ten months ago and were very much in love, a fact which pleased Simon for his brother’s sake, but one that had left him examining his own life-and discovering that in spite of all his good fortune, his work for the Crown, he still felt unfulfilled. Which perhaps explained the discontent he’d been unable to shake the last few months.

“Perhaps a bit wistful,” he conceded. “Both my siblings are very happy in their respective marriages. It sometimes makes me, well, envious, even while I’m delighted for them.”

“Then perhaps you should marry.”

“A fine idea, however, to the best of my knowledge, a wedding requires a bride as well as a groom,” he said lightly while inwardly wincing. Bloody hell, what was he saying? A fine idea? He’d managed to avoid the matrimonial noose so far. Yet even as that thought crossed his mind, he had to admit that lately the idea of taking a wife didn’t seem like such a rope around his neck. Indeed, the thought of sharing his life with someone, having the sort of relationship that Robert and Beatrice enjoyed, that Marjorie and Charles shared, wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Over the last year he’d grown increasingly tired of transient lovers, of moving from one social rout to the next. Much of his socializing in society’s upper circles was done purely for investigative purposes-to keep his eyes and ears open. His society peers were ignorant of his connection to the Crown, which enabled Simon to gather very useful information. But the constant demands on him had become wearying, and lately he had found himself longing to just…be. To be able to enjoy his country estate rather than be forced to remain in London or travel to the continent for missions. Not to have to constantly lie to his friends and family about his doings. Not to have to look over his shoulder for danger. Not to have to prove to his peers and superiors that he was innocent of murder…

While he was proud of the work he’d done for the Crown, of what he’d accomplished, the traitors he’d brought to justice, there was no denying the sense that something was missing from his life.

“Have you looked for a bride?” she asked.

Her question jerked him from his brown study. Looked for a bride? God, no. Indeed, he’d had to perform some very fancy sidestepping from matchmaking mamas over the years to avoid having one. A fact which suddenly didn’t please him as much as it should have. “I’m afraid I’ve yet to find anyone who’s inspired me to propose.”

“Come, come now, Mr. Cooper. I’m certain there’s a trail of broken hearts behind you.”

He almost laughed out loud. To the best of his knowledge, none of his former lovers’ hearts had been involved in their brief trysts. Certainly his heart hadn’t been. “Not that I’m aware of. Why do think that?”

Her brows rose. “On the basis of your looks alone, I’m certain you don’t lack for attention.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I’m not looking for attention.”

“You think I am?”

“Aren’t all men?”

He laughed. “So…you think me handsome?” he asked in a teasing tone.

She laughed. “Heavens, I’ve never known anyone to fish for compliments with less subtlety.”

“I was merely making certain I understood your meaning.”

“You understood perfectly.”

“In that case, thank you. And allow me to return the compliment. You are-” his gaze wandered over her and all the relaxation he’d briefly achieved vanished in what felt like an engulfment of steam; he raised his gaze back to hers and once again he felt himself drowning in those eyes “-exquisite.”

His words, or perhaps his obvious desire, or perhaps both, clearly flustered her. Instead of acknowledging either, she said, “I can only conclude that the reason you don’t have a wife is because you haven’t wanted one.”

Which was absolutely true. Yet, hearing her say it unreasonably irked him. “Perhaps it’s because I haven’t fallen in love.” That was certainly true-he never had. And even though he’d never allowed himself to become emotionally entangled due to the secretive nature of his spy work for the Crown, he suddenly realized he hadn’t had to put forth much effort to avoid it. He’d yet to meet a woman who affected him in more than a superficial, fleeting way.

She studied him for several seconds, her clear blue eyes searching his, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. Finally she asked, “You’ve never been in love?”

“No. Have you?”

Her expression turned cool. “You ask this of a woman who was married?”

“I meant no offense. But you cannot deny that not all marriages are based on love.”

“No, I suppose they’re not.”

“What was your husband’s name?”

She hesitated, then said softly, “Richard.”

Her answer was precisely what he had suspected she’d say. Richard was Lord Ridgemoor’s Christian name. Simon was beginning to believe that there never had been a Mr. Ralston. Only her lover, Ridgemoor, whom she had clearly loved. And who, based on her reactions, had cast her aside. Did she have any idea that her former lover was dead? Certainly she would know if she was in any way involved in his death.

“You loved him very much.” It wasn’t a question.

She pulled her gaze from his and looked down at her lap, but not before he detected the sheen of tears in her eyes. Tears of sorrow for losing the man she loved-or tears of guilt, for complicity in his death?

“Yes,” she whispered. “I loved him.”

The heartfelt sincerity in her words, her tone, unexpectedly touched Simon in a way he didn’t quite understand. Reaching out, he gently laid one of his hands on her tightly clasped ones. “I’m sorry.”

She went perfectly still for several seconds. Then a shudder seemed to rack her entire body. She snatched her hands from beneath his and abruptly stood. “I must go,” she said, her voice agitated.

Simon rose. “Are you all right?” he asked. Ridiculous question. It was obvious something was amiss, yet he didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m fine. I simply recalled a previous engagement, one to which I’m already late. Thank you for the outing. Good day, Mr. Cooper.” With that she turned and strode quickly away from him.

Simon’s first impulse was to go after her, but he forced himself not to. Instead he watched her melt into the crowd.

He didn’t believe for a minute that there was a previous engagement, so what had sent her fleeing from him? Grief? Or perhaps guilt over her lost love? Or was it his touch that had sent her away? His guess was the latter, which then begged the question why. That gentle touch couldn’t have hurt her, yet she’d fled as if he’d burned her. Had that brief connection affected her the same way it had him-filling him with a deep hunger for more? Or was it aversion that had her running away? She clearly shied away from touching, no doubt because of whatever the problem was with her hands.

Simon blew out a sigh and slowly sat back down to await Benjamin’s return with Beauty. Genevieve Ralston inspired far too many questions-questions that would be damned difficult to answer under the best of circumstances. To make matters worse, the lady wasn’t being honest with him. Certainly she hadn’t been forthcoming about her past, although he couldn’t blame her for not telling him she’d spent ten years as a nobleman’s mistress. Or that she’d authored the most scandalous book of the decade.

Nor could he throw any stones, given the glass house in which he dwelled. He certainly hadn’t been honest with her about who he was or why he was in Little Longstone. Given his suspicions regarding her and the number of lies he’d been forced to tell over the years, this shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.

He heaved a weary sigh. He needed to bury his conscience and concentrate on finding that damn letter, getting it back to London and into Waverly’s hands, so that together they could clear Simon’s name.

Still…how would it feel to tell someone the unvarnished truth? A humorless sound escaped him. It had been so long since he’d done so, he couldn’t recall. But he imagined it would be…liberating.

Of course he couldn’t, wouldn’t consider saying or doing anything that could jeopardize his mission. Still, he idly wondered what her reaction would be if he were honest with her. What if he told her he was a spy for the Crown? That his true surname was Cooperstone? And that he wasn’t a steward but a viscount? The spy revelation would no doubt shock her, as it would his acquaintances, friends and family. Very few people knew about his secret life. As for his exalted title-would he see the same flicker of greed he observed in so many other women’s eyes? That glimmer of assessment as they calculated how much they could get from him? A bracelet? A necklace? A proposal?

Before he could ponder the question further, an odd chill stole over him-a sensation he well recognized after spending eight years in the spy game.

He was being watched.

He scanned the crowd, but saw nothing amiss. No one’s attention appeared fixed on him. Keeping his movements casual, he rose and glanced around. Hundreds of people milled about, none of whom he recognized, none of whom seemed the least interested in him. Yet he felt the weight of someone’s eyes on him. And he sensed danger.

No one except his butler knew he was here, and he’d sworn Ramsey to secrecy. He looked around again, but the feeling of danger faded, convincing him that whoever had been watching him was no longer nearby. Every instinct screamed that whoever it was had to be connected to the letter he sought, which made Simon’s mission even more urgent. He needed to find that letter-before someone else did.