His smile could have melted the soles of her shoes, had she been wearing any. “I don’t know when I’ve heard better news. I think honey would go well right here.” He drew a lazy fingertip around one of her nipples then dipped his head to lave the sensitive peak with his tongue.
“To start,” she murmured. And with that he rolled them over, and the magic began all over again.
14
THE SUN was close to setting, the autumn sky streaked with fiery fingers of red and gold, when Simon and Genevieve, pulled along by an energetic Beauty, neared the path that led to his cottage. Simon deliberately slowed their footsteps, knowing that very soon Baxter would be returning from Genevieve’s home and their day together would be over. And he wasn’t ready for it to end.
For the past quarter-hour, as they’d strolled along the wooded path from the springs after Genevieve had soaked her hands, he’d tried his damnedest to recall the last time he’d spent such an enjoyable day, only to finally conclude that he never had.
How was that possible? How could it be that in nearly thirty years of living—a life filled with privilege, friendships, lovers, parties, passion and adventure—that this day, with this woman, out of all the days he could recall from a lifetime of days, was his favorite? He didn’t know, but there was no denying it.
They’d spent hours in sensual exploration, their bouts of lovemaking interspersed with laughter, conversation and a picnic of biscuits, jam and honey on the hearth rug in his bedchamber—a meal that led to an even more delicious pastime of painting honey on each others’ bodies. After licking off the sweetness, they’d made love again, their skins warmed by the fire and bathed in flickering golden light. Genevieve was not only beautiful, she was witty and intelligent and an exciting, adventurous and generous lover. He’d found himself unable to stop touching her, and was consumed with the unprecedented desire to wrap his arms around her and never let go, to meld their bodies so tightly together they couldn’t be separated.
There were women he’d known for years with whom he didn’t feel so comfortable, with whom he didn’t share such an easy rapport. And never had there been one who set his blood on fire as Genevieve did. Every minute spent in her company only served to further convince him that she hadn’t been, in any way, involved in Ridgemoor’s death. Indeed, he was convinced she didn’t even know her former lover was dead. Surely a woman who’d trusted him enough to remove those gloves, to show him, share with him that which she considered her greatest shame, was trustworthy. He’d asked her to trust him, and although she had no real reason to, she had.
And damn it, that kicked at his conscience—a fact that both unsettled and alarmed him. It had never bothered him in the past to coax confidences from people while feeding them a sack of lies. It was all part of his work. After all, he could hardly announce to suspects, “Good afternoon, I’m a spy for the British Crown, come to unearth all your secrets. But if you’d simply tell them to me, it would save me a great deal of time and trouble.”
Yet because he was not telling her who he was, why he was here, each lie was beginning to taste like a dose of bitter medicine. Which could only mean that the stirrings of discontent he’d experienced over the past months were more pressing than he’d believed. If he couldn’t stomach telling lies, then his days as a spy were truly numbered. Indeed more than once today he’d considered telling her the truth, but his mind warned him to be cautious, that he didn’t really know her, that while she’d shared one secret with him, she had others—the fact that she’d been a mistress, and her secret identity as Charles Brightmore. But his heart…his heart which had never before been so engaged told him her secrets regarding her past were only to protect herself and her reputation in Little Longstone. They were not for any nefarious reasons.
This day in her company had also convinced him that Ridgemoor had been a bloody, blind fool. He knew that when Genevieve claimed her husband had rejected her, she had really meant that it had been Ridgemoor who had done so. He frowned at the earl’s idiocy, and anger pumped through him for the way Ridgemoor had hurt her. He’d never forget the trepidation in her eyes, the vulnerability when she’d removed her gloves, so brave, yet so fearful that he’d reject her. That any man could do something like that simply stunned him. These hours in her company had left him with a deep hunger for more. More days like this.
“Heavens, what a frown you’re sporting,” Genevieve said, her voice pulling him from his brown study. “That scowl doesn’t bode well for whomever you’re contemplating.”
Simon relaxed his features and offered her a smile. “Actually I was thinking about you.”
“Oh, dear. It couldn’t have been good.”
“On the contrary, it was very good.”
“Your forbidding expression says otherwise.”
“It was due to my inability to come up with the correct word. I was thinking how enjoyable this day has been, only to realize that enjoyable is much too lukewarm a word to describe it.” Beauty stopped to sniff at a tuft of dried grass and Simon turned to face Genevieve. “It’s been…”
“So much better than merely enjoyable?” she suggested with a half smile.
“Yes.” He lifted her hand—her ungloved hand—to his lips and pressed a kiss against her fingers. “It’s been the sort of day I’d like very much to repeat.”
His hope that she’d echo the sentiment withered and died when her warm amusement faded, replaced by unmistakable chagrin. Everything inside him froze with disappointment. Damn. Clearly she hadn’t found the day as special as he had, although this was the first indication of that.
It was only with the greatest effort that he managed to keep his expression neutral. When she said nothing, simply continued to stare at him with those dismay-filled eyes, he finally spoke the obvious truth that hovered between them like a dark cloud. “You don’t want the same thing.” The words came out flatly, which was fitting as flattened was precisely how he felt.
Even more dismay filled her eyes and she shook her head. “That’s not true. I do. It’s just…” She stepped away and paced several times before turning to face him. She lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Simon. And if we’re to spend more time together…see each other again as we have today, then I’d prefer it to be without lies between us.”
His conscience slapped him for his own dishonesty, a blow he forced himself to ignore. “I’m listening.” When she hesitated, he said softly, “Genevieve, I give you my word that whatever you tell me will remain just between us.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed, then spoke, the words coming out in a rush. “My circumstances are not what I led you to believe. The truth is, I am not a widow. Indeed, I’ve never been married. For ten years I was the mistress of a nobleman, a man whose mistress I would still be if he hadn’t terminated our arrangement last year when he could no longer stand to have my less-than-perfect hands touch him. For the sake of propriety and discretion, I’ve presented myself as a widow.” She paused, moistened her lips, then lifted her chin another notch. “I realize you will probably now think ill of me—”
He stopped her words with a fingertip to her lips. “I don’t think ill of you at all, Genevieve.” Bloody hell, he wished he did, for surely that would be preferable to this unsettling, uncharacteristic possessiveness sweeping through him, one that filled him with the overwhelming urge to protect her from anyone or anything that might hurt her. “Your deception is completely understandable given the circumstances. I appreciate your honesty.” Yes, even though it lodged a tight ball of guilt in his gut.
Some of the tension drained from her expression. He moved his hand from her lips to lightly brush his fingers over her soft cheek. “How did you come to be his mistress?” He knew he had no right to ask, but damn it, he wanted to know just the same.
Long seconds passed and he could see she struggled with what and how much to reveal. Finally she said quietly, “My mother was a prostitute. She wanted more for me.
Didn’t want me to suffer the sort of life she’d endured, and God knows I wanted more for myself. Unfortunately, women have very few choices.” Her lips tightened. “She saved every shilling she could so I wouldn’t have to become what she was. I had an aptitude for drawing and painting and she bought me supplies. When I was fifteen we came to London and she went to work in a brothel. I worked there as well—as the seamstress, cook and laundress. That’s where I met Baxter. I found him in the alley behind the brothel one winter morning. He’d been beaten and left for dead. I brought him to my room and by some miracle, he survived.”
Simon’s insides knotted. Bloody hell, at fifteen he’d enjoyed every privilege his family’s rank and wealth had afforded, while Genevieve and Baxter had been fighting to survive. He cleared his throat. “You saved his life. No wonder he is so protective of you.”
“And I of him. He returned the favor by becoming the brother I never had.” She drew a deep breath, then continued, “I continued my work, and painted in what little spare time I had. Claudia, the madam, liked my work and displayed my paintings in the house, which filled me with the foolish hope that someday I might become a real artist. Unfortunately, Claudia died, and under the new madam, the situation at the house, as well as the clientele, began to change. My mother was beaten several times by clients and I was desperate to get her—both of us—out.”
A bitter sound escaped her. “Sadly, there weren’t many places we could go, especially places where I could simply work in the kitchen and laundry and not render sexual favors. To make matters worse, the new madam claimed my mother owed her money for the wages she’d lost when she couldn’t work while recuperating from her beatings. She wouldn’t consider letting Mother go until the debt was paid and the interest she levied was exorbitant. Although I hated to leave my mother alone there, I sought a position as a governess, but it quickly became clear that the man of the house expected me to entertain him once his wife and the children were abed. I was desperate enough to do it, to do anything to earn enough of a wage to get my mother out of that house and not have her forced to lift her skirts in back alleys at the docks. I was prepared to give in, to do what was necessary, when my mother called upon me at the house where I was employed. She told me that during the several weeks I’d been gone, she’d met a man…a kind man, a wealthy man who was a regular of one of the other girls. A man who’d admired one of my paintings. When my mother told him her daughter had painted it, he said he wished to meet me.”
“And that was the nobleman.”
She nodded. “I found him handsome and agreeable, kind and, most importantly at that point, very generous. Being with him saved me from my repulsive employer and enabled me to remove my mother from her horrid situation.”
“So you saved her as well.”
Unmistakable sorrow shadowed her eyes and she shook her head. “She died less than a year later. But at least I have the solace of knowing her final months were as comfortable as possible.”
“Did you love him?” Another question he had no right to ask, but he wanted the answer just the same.
“Not at first. But over time…yes, I grew to love him. He was very good to me. Until…” Her voice trailed off and her gaze dropped to her hands. “Until he stopped caring.”
“Do you ever see him?”
Something flickered in her eyes then she shook her head. “No. Nor do I expect to. He made it perfectly clear that he wanted no more to do with me, that our arrangement was irrevocably severed.”
Yes. Until he’d sent her the puzzle box. “Do you still love him?”
She considered, then said, “No, he effectively snuffed out that flame, although I will always be grateful for the protection he gave me, and for making it possible to help my mother. It turned out that the man I loved did not really exist—if he had, he would not have cast me aside. Yet even as I say that, I do not blame him for doing so.”
Simon barely managed to tamp down his anger. “You should blame him. His reason for abandoning you was dishonorable and selfish in the extreme.”
A humorless sound passed her lips. “I’m flattered by your outrage on my behalf, but truly, what good is a mistress if she no longer brings pleasure?”
“Any man who didn’t find you immeasurably pleasurable is blind. And a complete arse.” Her words, her manner, all cemented what he’d already known in his heart—she didn’t know Ridgemoor was dead.
Her eyes went soft, like a summer sky blurred by a gentle rain, and she gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”
“What of your painting?”
“I enjoyed it for many years, but it would be too difficult now.” Her gaze flicked to her hands.
“Have you tried?”
“No. Not recently. I was afraid…”
“Afraid of what?”
“Failing. Of not being able to create anything beautiful again.” A frown creased her brow. “But now…you’ve given me hope that…” Her expression cleared and she gazed into his eyes. “Well, perhaps I’ll try it again.”
“I think you should. And I hope you do.” A memory flashed through his mind and realization hit him. “The painting in your sitting room, above the fireplace. That’s your work.”
She nodded. “Yes. It was always my favorite.”
“I can understand why. It’s extraordinary.” Just like you.
“Thank you. Simon, I want you to know…he was the only man I was ever with. Until now. Until you.”
Bloody hell, he felt as if his heart shifted in his chest. “Thank you for telling me. I know it cannot have been easy to share something so deeply personal.”
“You’re welcome.” Her gaze searched his, and once again he could see the vulnerability in her eyes. “And now that you know the truth…is today still the sort of day you’d like very much to repeat?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You?”
“Yes.”
Her smile damn near undid him, and he cursed the fact that for today, at least, their time was nearly over. She glanced down and he followed her gaze, noting that Beauty had fallen asleep with her head resting on his boot.
“We’ve bored the dog to sleep,” she said.
“Good. Otherwise she’d be wanting to gallop down the path and I wouldn’t be able to do this.” He drew her into his arms and brushed his lips over hers. She immediately opened for him, and with a groan he sank into the kiss, his tongue exploring the silky heat of her mouth. And he prayed they would have the opportunity to enjoy another day like this before his mission and his life in London separated them.
15
SIMON STOOD in Genevieve’s sitting room and stared at the painting hung over the mantel, the painting she had created. He lifted the single candle he held, noting again the vibrant colors that seemed to jump off the canvas even in the dim light. The intriguing brush strokes. The vividness of the sea waves that were so lifelike he could almost hear them smashing against the cliffs. Was the blond woman gazing out over the water Genevieve? He found himself reaching out to touch the lone figure. In addition to her intelligence, wit, kindness, charm, beauty and sensuality, she was immensely talented. Or had been, until the problem with her hands had stolen her confidence.
With a sigh, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand and moved about the room, searching for hidden recesses in the paneling, loose bricks in the fireplace, false bottoms in the desk drawers, loose floorboards—anything that might provide a hiding place for the letter he sought, all the while fighting his frustration over the fact that he was no closer to knowing who had killed Ridgemoor than when he’d arrived in Little Longstone. Simon considered sending Waverly a message, asking if he or Miller or Albury had discovered anything that could clear his name, but he quickly discarded the idea. A message could be intercepted, and Simon wasn’t ready for his whereabouts to be known. He was certain a political foe of Ridgemoor’s had killed him, but which one? There were dozens. And Simon was running out of time. Damn it, he needed that letter.
>
He moved methodically through each room, concentrating on his task, but when he searched Genevieve’s bedchamber, his gaze kept straying to her bed, his imagination filled with flashing images of the two of them, limbs entwined, hands and lips exploring, bodies arching. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the erotic mental pictures, but that only rendered them more intense. Muttering an obscenity, he purposefully shifted to face away from the bed and turned his attention to the escritoire.
After a thorough examination of the small desk failed to yield the letter, he once again opened the top drawer. His hands lingered over the handwritten pages of what he didn’t doubt was a sequel to the Ladies’ Guide. His fingers traced the tight, painstaking script, his heart squeezing in sympathy at how painful it was for her to write. It was fortunate she’d found this place, Little Longstone, where she had access to the hot spring that brought her relief. It was where she belonged. While his life was in London. Where he belonged.
His gaze dropped to a woven basket next to the desk and he bent down to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper from within. He flattened the square sheet and peered at the words, written in Genevieve’s hand.
Today’s Modern Woman must always keep her head about her when in the company of a charming, attractive gentleman. The more charming and attractive the man, the more difficult this is to accomplish, therefore concentrating on something unrelated to him, such as mentally reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy, or something tedious such as counting to one hundred can prove very useful.
A small smile tugged at his lip at the advice. She was a remarkably insightful woman. The last line was badly smudged, no doubt the reason she’d tossed the sheet away. For reasons he couldn’t explain, other than to know he couldn’t throw that bit of her back into the trash, he folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, then continued his search.
Several hours later, just before the first streaks of dawn leaked through the darkness to paint the sky, he finished the last room and heaved a heavy sigh. He’d found nothing—except his suddenly active conscience, which had balked incessantly at invading Genevieve’s privacy.
Touch Me Page 14
