Touch Me

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “Perhaps,” he said. He extended his hand in the direction Baxter had indicated. “Shall we go see?”

  6

  “I DON’T BELIEVE I’ve ever seen anyone fall in love quite so quickly,” Genevieve remarked an hour later as she and Mr. Cooper slowly made their way through the noisy hustle and bustle of the festival. She eyed the tail-wagging puppy secured in the curve of Mr. Cooper’s arm. The bright-eyed dog eagerly looked about for something to lick with her active pink tongue.

  Mr. Cooper’s lips curved upward and Genevieve’s breath caught. Dear God, that slow, lopsided smile of his was simply dazzling. “She was rather taken with me, wasn’t she?” There was no missing the smug, male satisfaction in his voice.

  Genevieve hiked up a single brow. “Yes. However, I meant you falling in love with her. You dropped like a brick tossed in the Thames.”

  “Clearly I harbor a weakness for pale-haired beauties,” he murmured, his green eyes resting on hers while his long fingers ruffled the puppy’s fur.

  Genevieve’s midsection tightened and she pulled in a slow breath, mentally chiding herself for her reaction. She didn’t want to feel this heightened sense of awareness. This giddy sensation that threatened to bubble up and burst forth like the air in the hot springs. His every look, every brush of his shoulders against hers, shot heat through her, warmth that settled low in her belly and couldn’t be called anything other than what it was—desire.

  She tried to ignore it, but failed completely. Her common sense chided her that it was ridiculous and unseemly. Yet it was apparently unstoppable.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “You also clearly harbor a weakness for rambunctious dogs. You realize she was the naughtiest pup in the entire litter.”

  “I noticed. However, I like naughty.”

  Another layer of heat engulfed her. “Perhaps that’s what you should name her—Naughty.”

  “That’s certainly better than what her previous owners called her.” He held the puppy out at arm’s length. “You didn’t like being called Daffodil, did you?”

  The puppy yipped twice in apparent agreement and wriggled to lick Mr. Cooper’s wrist. “Of course you didn’t,” he said, pulling the dog against his broad chest. Genevieve noticed the energetic animal immediately quieted—except for its tongue which enthusiastically bathed the underside of Mr. Cooper’s jaw.

  Unable to help herself, Genevieve laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a dog more determined to kiss anyone.”

  “How fortunate that I harbor a weakness for kisses as well.”

  Her gaze snapped up from the dog to his eyes and found him regarding her with unmistakable heat. “Perhaps you should name her Licker.” Heavens, was that breathless sound her voice?

  “Perhaps. After all, there’s much to be said for a well-placed lick.”

  An image immediately rose in Genevieve’s mind…of his tongue brushing across her bottom lip. Then trailing down her throat. Between her breasts. Then lazily circling her nipple—

  “But as you helped me choose her, I thought I’d name her after you,” he continued, jerking her from her errant thoughts.

  She had to swallow to locate her voice. “You wish to name your dog Genevieve?”

  “A lovely name. But as it’s already taken, I thought I’d name her Beauty.”

  Genevieve blinked. Pleasure washed through her, and, to her dismay she found herself utterly charmed. Surely she never used to fall victim to meaningless flattery so easily? Had she? She couldn’t recall. Most likely because it had been so long since any man had flattered her. Had found her attractive. Had made her feel desire. And desirable. And as much as she might wish it otherwise, she found this man’s attentions exhilarating. After Richard’s rejection, she’d forced herself to forget how this wanting, this physical need had felt, but now…now it was all rushing back, so quickly it was as if she were drowning.

  Yet she needed to recall that she didn’t know this man. And even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. She pressed her gloved hands together, wincing at the soreness in her joints. She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow things between them to advance beyond a mild flirtation under any circumstances. She had no reason to trust him. Indeed, she had more reason to be suspicious of him and of his motives for coming to Little Longstone, for seeking her out. And for borrowing her copy of the Ladies’ Guide. Was he on a simple holiday as he’d claimed—or on a mission to discover Charles Brightmore’s whereabouts? Why had he chosen that particular book? It was a question she needed answered. Now.

  He wished to flirt? Fine. She wanted to learn his true motives and had no qualms about playing the coquette to find out what she wished to know.

  “Beauty is a lovely name,” she said, “but I suspect Devil might be more apt.”

  “Perhaps, but I like challenges.”

  She slanted him a sideways glance. “Is that why you borrowed A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment from me? Because you thought reading such a book would present a challenge?”

  She watched him carefully, looking for any sign of guilt, but couldn’t detect anything other than a slight sheepishness in his expression. He flashed her one of his disarming smiles. “I suppose it must seem an odd choice, but the title captured my attention.”

  “Why? Are you normally in the habit of reading ladies’ guides?”

  He gave a light laugh. “No. I hope you don’t mind that I chose to borrow it?”

  “No. Merely curious as to why you would.”

  “The title struck a chord in my memory. I recalled that there was some scandal attached to the book and its author, so I thought it might be an interesting read. Certainly a departure for me. And I was right.”

  Her brows shot up. “You’ve already read it?”

  He nodded. “Last night.”

  When he offered nothing further, she couldn’t help but ask, “And what did you think of it?”

  “Given the explicit nature of the content, I can see why it caused a scandal. I also think Charles Brightmore knows more about women than any man I’ve ever met. Clearly the book required a great deal of research on his part.” “A Whiff of mischief gleamed in his eyes. “He’s a lucky man.”

  “And an exiled man.” she said lightly, watching his reaction. “He left England after threats were made against him.”

  He frowned then nodded. “Yes, now that you mention it, I recall hearing that as well. Shame. Personally, I think he should be awarded a trophy.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because his book provides information not readily available anywhere else. I believe knowledge equates to power.”

  She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Yet that was what those who made threats against him objected to. They didn’t want women to have such information, or anything for that matter, that might equate to power.”

  “Then I can only say that those people are ignorant. Personally, I prefer well-informed, intelligent women.” His intense green gaze roamed her face. “Indeed, you might say I harbor a weakness for them.”

  She ignored the warmth spreading through her at his unabashedly admiring regard. “You’re apparently a man of many weaknesses, Mr. Cooper.”

  For several seconds he said nothing, just looked at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher other than to know it made her skin feel as if it were on fire. Finally he cleared his throat then said softly, “So it seems.”

  She moistened her suddenly dust-dry lips, noting how his gaze dropped to her mouth. “So…you’ve no objection to women having information, even if that knowledge might lead to power?”

  “Knowledge, experience, power…I find them all very attractive qualities in a woman.” His gaze again flicked to her lips. “Very attractive.”

  “You’re not afraid of being…overpowered?”

  His gaze caught fire and seemed to burn into hers. “I suppose that would depend on who was doing the overpowering.”

  The certainty that his meaning en
compassed more than knowledge rippled a secret thrill through Genevieve, one that set up an insistent throb between her thighs. She’d led the conversation into these treacherous waters to determine if he had any interest in her connection to Charles Brightmore, and, unless he was a superb actor, it appeared he didn’t. That was good, and a huge relief to be sure. The way he made her feel, however—as if her clothes were suddenly too tight and her skin too small—was not good. It was, in fact, most alarming.

  Yet, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wading further into the hot, churning waters he inspired. Wasn’t there a saying about keeping one’s friends close but one’s enemies closer? Perhaps Mr. Cooper wasn’t her enemy, but neither could she call him a friend. Besides, what harm could there be in a little flirting? He wasn’t a titled gentleman looking for a mistress, merely a steward enjoying a brief holiday. They were surrounded by hundreds of people. Nothing could or would come of it. She’d see to that. Indeed, given how he unsettled her, she had no intention of seeing him again after today. So surely there was no reason to deny herself the pleasure of indulging in a little fantasy…to pretend that she didn’t have any physical flaws that would lead to rejection. To feel that she was free to touch and be touched, and to once again simply enjoy the company and admiration of a handsome young man. She could imagine herself…overpowering him. And him retaliating.

  A delicious shiver trembled down her spine. She allowed her gaze to drift slowly over him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, his strong hands holding his now-sleeping dog, the way his snug breeches clung to his muscular thighs, the play of those muscles with every step he took. When she once again met his gaze, she could tell he knew he’d just been ogled. And that he hadn’t minded one bit. “How would someone go about overpowering a man like you, Mr. Cooper?”

  “A man like me?”

  “Strong. Capable.” Beautiful. Delicious. Physically perfect.

  “I suppose it would depend on who was doing the overpowering. Were you referring to someone specific? Such as yourself, perhaps?”

  Genevieve’s blood whooshed through her veins. “And if I were? Would I require a pistol or saber?”

  Amusement kindled in his gaze. “Do you have a pistol and a saber?”

  “Naturally. A woman needs protection, you know.”

  “I rather thought that’s what Baxter was for.”

  “He certainly deters unwanted attention.”

  “When he’s not baking scones.”

  Genevieve laughed. “Precisely.”

  “Well, in your case, neither a pistol nor a saber would be necessary. Beautiful women have been overpowering strong men for centuries with nothing more than a single touch.”

  Genevieve’s fingers curled inside her gloves and she winced at the aching soreness in her joints. A single touch…Yes, at one time she’d been capable of overpowering, seducing a man with her touch. Before the arthritis had stricken her hands—slowly at first, just a few twinges, that had increased in frequency, intensity and duration. The combination of the hot springs and her cream had offered relief and had enabled her to hide her growing discomfort from Richard for months. But when the swelling had begun, she couldn’t hide any longer.

  She missed the woman she used be. Yet, since there was no point in dwelling on the past or on things she couldn’t change, she opened her mouth to steer the subject into safer waters. Before she could, however, he added softly, “Of course, if a touch doesn’t quite do the trick, there are other ways.”

  “Indeed? And what are those?”

  “I’m surprised that a woman familiar with Brightmore’s Ladies’ Guide needs to ask.”

  At his mention of the Guide, her breath caught. She knew, of course, what he referred to. “Unlike you, I read it months ago. I fear my memory isn’t as fresh as yours.”

  “Ah. Then allow me to remind you. According to Brightmore, Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to insist upon getting what she wants, be it in the drawing room or in the bedchamber—even if she has to tie up her man to get it.”

  Genevieve’s heart began to beat in slow, hard thuds. She’d written those words—or rather, dictated them to Catherine because Genevieve’s hands had rendered writing so uncomfortable—never dreaming she’d hear a man recite them back to her. And so exactly. Clearly that passage had left an impression. “So you believe that a woman can overpower a man with ropes?”

  “Not unless he’s willing. As for ropes…” He shook his head. “Something softer, such as a satin ribbon, would be much more…pleasurable.”

  His quiet, husky tone dared her to contradict him. Which she needed to, of course. They were in a public place. Anyone might overhear them. Certainly anyone observing them would see the way he was looking at her. As if he wanted to devour her. And this conversation…it was completely improper. Beyond the pale. She needed to end this. Now.

  Yet when she parted her lips, no words came forth. Nor could she pull her gaze away from his.

  “Of course, if the lady wasn’t quick to do the overpowering, she might find herself overpowered instead,” he murmured.

  An image of herself sprawled in her bed, her wrists bound with satin ribbons and him looming over her flashed through her mind.

  Desire gushed through her, hardening her nipples, swelling the aching folds between her thighs, dampening her drawers. She felt flushed and out of breath and, damnation, she needed to sit down before her shaky knees gave away the fact that she felt less than steady.

  As if he read her mind, he pointed to a copse of trees ahead, on the fringe of the festivities. “There’s a bench over there. Would you like to sit down?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded and quickened her pace, resolved that she’d sit only as long as she needed to to regain her composure, then she’d plead a headache and beg off from his company. Clearly, her instincts that had warned her there was more to his trip to Little Longstone than he’d told her had been wrong. She now felt fairly confident his reasons for being here had nothing to do with Charles Brightmore. Which meant they had nothing to do with her. Which meant there was no reason to prolong their outing or to see him again. She would return to her cottage, resume her routine of visiting the springs to ease the pain in her hands, and forget all about Simon Cooper.

  Unfortunately, a little voice inside her whispered that forgetting about this man who had reawakened wants and needs she’d thought long buried would prove very challenging indeed.

  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.