Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Simon shook his head to dispel the sensuous image. Bloody hell, no wonder this book had caused such an uproar. He’d never read anything like it. Of course, he wasn’t in the habit of reading ladies’ guides. At least, he hadn’t been, until now. Even as his mind ordered him to put down the damn book and resume his search, he found himself again turning the page. Just as he peered at the words he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening then closing.

  Bloody damn hell.

  A feminine voice softly crooned, “Hello, sweet Sophia. Did you miss me?” Sweet Sophia answered with a loud meow. “I missed you, too. We’ll play tomorrow. I’m tired and off to bed.”

  Double bloody damn hell.

  2

  FURIOUS that he’d allowed himself to be so uncharacteristically distracted, Simon quickly replaced the book then glanced around the room. The only two exit possibilities were the door—not a viable option, or one of the two windows, offering at least a thirty-foot drop to the ground—not a healthy option. Besides the potentially fatal fall, he’d have to leave the window open and she’d know someone had been in her chamber. Of course, unless he moved his arse—immediately—she was going to discover that anyway.

  Bloody aggravating woman. Why couldn’t she have a nice balcony off her bedchamber? And have stayed away for several more hours?

  Ignoring the screen and the wardrobe—both of which she’d undoubtedly use in the course of readying herself for bed, he moved swiftly toward the statue in the corner. He’d no sooner secreted himself in the deep shadows behind the marble woman than the bedchamber door opened.

  Inwardly cursing the rotten luck that had brought Mrs. Ralston home so early, he remained still and prayed that she’d get into bed quickly and fall asleep immediately. From his hiding place, he watched her close the door behind her then move to the bedside table where she lit the oil lamp. Surrounded by a soft golden glow, she pushed back the hood on the dark cape she wore.

  Simon blinked in surprise. Mrs. Ralston was much younger than he’d imagined. Based on the meager information he’d been able to gather in the short time he’d had to investigate, he’d discovered she’d retired from the life of being a mistress a year ago when Ridgemoor had ended their arrangement. That news had led Simon to assume she’d aged and lost her beauty. Between that and the fact that the earl was over fifty and she’d been his mistress for a decade, he’d envisioned a woman in her forties, at the least. But this woman didn’t appear much older than thirty, if she was that.

  And she certainly hadn’t lost her looks. The woman standing before him in the halo of golden lamplight was nothing short of stunning. The combination of high cheekbones and full lips lent her an exotic yet delicate beauty. He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but given her porcelain skin and upswept honey-blond hair, he’d wager blue. He found himself wondering if they’d more resemble a cloudless summer sky or a stormy sea. Or perhaps a shard of ice.

  All thoughts of ice vanished in the next instant when she unfastened her cloak. The garment slid from her shoulders to reveal that she wore only a chemise. A wet chemise. A wet chemise that clung to her body as if it had been painted on her skin—with transparent paint.

  Simon’s breath halted, and for several seconds he completely forget where he was. Who she was. And how much was at stake. His conscience—an inner voice he’d bludgeoned into silence long ago—unexpectedly coughed to life and informed him that honor and decency demanded he avert his gaze. He immediately consigned his conscience back to the depths from where it had crawled and kept his eyeballs steadfastly trained on the vision before him. After all, she was a person of suspicion. For reasons he’d yet to discover, she’d taken what he’d come to steal before he could rob her of it—the letter that would save his life. It was imperative he learn all he could about her.

  And God knows he was learning plenty, given the way that wet material clung to her. His gaze roamed slowly downward, lingering over her firm, full breasts topped with erect nipples. The curve of her waist flared to generous hips then tapered to shapely thighs. The curls between her legs were the same golden honey shade as her hair.

  Clearly Mrs. Ralston had indulged in a dip in the hot springs. It was well documented that taking the waters was good for the body, and she absolutely was testament to that.

  She moistened her lips and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. He squinted through the shadows. Were her lips naturally so plush or were they kiss-swollen? Had someone joined her at the hot springs? Did Mrs. Ralston have a lover? Perhaps the artist from the neighboring cottage? Or an accomplice who’d helped her murder Ridgemoor? Surely a woman who looked like her wouldn’t lack for male companionship. An unexpected mental image flickered through his mind…Mrs. Ralston, standing in the gently bubbling water…and himself, joining her—

  “Meow.”

  The sound cut off Simon’s unsettling fantasy and his gaze jerked downward. Sophia slid into the shadows and once again twined herself around his boots. Bloody hell. Clearly the cat possessed the same unfortunate habit as her owner—turning up in places she wasn’t wanted. And wasn’t that just like a female? Give one the smallest amount of attention then they kept pestering you for more.

  He looked up and stifled a groan. With her cloak folded over her arm, Mrs. Ralston moved toward him. His breath halted—partly due to the great risk of discovery and partly because the sight of her rendered his lungs incapable of functioning. He’d seen many alluring sights in his life, but he’d be hard-pressed to name any that could compare to the sight of a wet, nearly naked Genevieve Ralston.

  And speaking of hard…his gaze flicked down to the erection straining against his snug breeches. How bloody delightful. It was humiliating enough that he might very well be discovered. To be found in such a condition was completely unacceptable. He tried to will away his arousal, but with his gaze locked on her luscious form once again, he utterly failed. By God, Ridgemoor must have been jaded indeed to have tired of this woman. Had she sought revenge by murdering him?

  Or perhaps he hadn’t tired of her as rumors had suggested—perhaps she’d betrayed him and that had precipitated Ridgemoor’s swift ending of their relationship. As Simon well knew, women could be perfidious creatures. And he had no doubt there was more to this particular woman than her simple existence as a former mistress who’d retired to the country. At the minimum, she possessed a box that contained information vital to Simon and many other people—or at least, it had contained that information, until the box had come into her possession. What possible reason other than guilt of some sort could have driven her to remove the letter?

  She laid her cloak over the back of a wing chair near the fireplace and he held his breath. For several tension-filled seconds, she stood so close to him he had but to reach out his hand to touch her arm.

  “What are you doing in the corner, Sophia?” she murmured. “I hope you haven’t found a mouse.”

  No, not a mouse.

  Sophia unwrapped herself from Simon’s boots and trotted toward her mistress. After giving the cat an affectionate pat, Mrs. Ralston crossed to her dresser and removed a clean chemise from the drawer, while Sophia jumped onto the bed and settled herself in the center of the counterpane. Simon pulled in a slow, deep breath of relief, noting Mrs. Ralston had left behind a hint of her scent—the same soft rose fragrance that filled the crystal bottle on her dresser.

  Standing with her back to him, she peeled the wet chemise down her body, giving a slow wriggle that had him clenching his hands. A fine layer of sweat misted his forehead and, although he continued to fight to control his body’s reaction to her, it was a battle well and truly lost when she bent over to pick up the garment, a move that hiked her shapely bottom in the air and afforded him an unimpeded view of her feminine charms—a heart-stopping, concentration-destroying vision that drove every thought from his mind, including the fact that the verdict of hanged by the neck until dead could figure prominently in his near future.

  As he gritted his
teeth and bit back a groan, she pulled the fresh chemise over her head, then walked to the wardrobe and, thank God, pulled out a satin robe which she donned. The soft material clung to her curves like a second skin, but at least they were covered. He hoped now she’d go to bed.

  Instead, she returned to the dresser and massaged cream from one of the pots into her hands, wincing several times as if in pain. Then she donned a pair of gloves from the top drawer. The ritual struck him as odd. Did all women wear gloves to bed? Any time he’d spent the night with a woman, he kept her too busy and too sated to think about anything as mundane as hand cream and gloves.

  His hope that Mrs. Ralston would now retire was dashed when she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, releasing a curtain of shimmering blond curls that fell to her hips. He immediately imagined running his hands through those spiral tresses, wrapping them around his fist. Pulling her closer—

  He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the unexpected, unwanted image. What the hell was wrong with him? Bad enough he should be entertaining fantasies while on a mission, but it was completely unacceptable that he do so when the subject of those fantasies was a woman who well might be implicated in a deadly plot.

  She emitted a low groan and his eyes snapped open to find her tying off the end of the braid she’d made with a pale blue ribbon while he’d been lustfully daydreaming. Before he could decide why she’d made such a sound, she again walked toward him. His every muscle tensed. Had she detected his presence? Sensed she was being watched? Bloody hell, it seemed as if she were staring directly at him. If she discovered him, he’d have no choice but to subdue her. A mental picture instantly formed in his mind…yet the vision wasn’t of him subduing her, but rather of her tying him…with pale-blue ribbons. To her bed.

  Damn it. That bloody Ladies’ Guide had utterly corrupted his mind.

  To his relief she settled herself on the dainty chair before her escritoire, but his ease quickly evaporated when she lit the single candle on the desk. Light flared and he shrank as far into the shadow cast by the marble statue as possible. What the bloody hell was she doing?

  She silently answered his question when she withdrew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and reached for the quill pen. In spite of his wish that she’d retire so he could escape, Simon’s interest quickened. She was going to write a letter. One that might provide him with vital information? It seemed an odd time to compose a missive—unless one was being secretive.

  Simon watched her write smoothly for several minutes, but then her movements began to slow. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed tightly together. She bent over the vellum with what he first assumed was concentration on her task, but then his gaze dropped to her hand that held the quill. She now gripped the instrument in an awkward manner. After writing several more words, she stopped then slowly flexed her gloved fingers as if she were in pain. Given her pinched expression, it was obvious something was amiss. Had she suffered some sort of accident that had damaged her hands?

  She wrote with that same pained expression for another minute or two, then set the pen back in the holder and sanded the vellum. After slipping the paper into the drawer, she blew out the candle, rose and walked to her bed. He watched her remove her robe then extinguish the oil lamp. Bathed in a swathe of silver moonlight, she pulled back the counterpane and settled herself between the sheets. Sophia raised her head for several seconds, then resumed her curled-up position. Mrs. Ralston closed her eyes. She looked like an innocent angel—but Simon knew better than to accept outward appearances.

  Soon he detected the sound of her slow, even breathing. He waited an additional few minutes, then, satisfied she was indeed asleep, he slipped from his hiding place and silently left the room. As he closed her front door behind him, he vowed that he would discover not only what Mrs. Genevieve Ralston had done with his letter and why, but what all her secrets were.

  Especially whether those secrets included murder.

  3

  London is hectic and exciting, and married life is wonderful. The only thing missing is you, my dear friend. I wish you would come to town to visit…

  THE WORDS of the letter blurred as tears flooded Genevieve Ralston’s eyes, tears she quickly brushed away when she heard heavy footfalls in the corridor. Seconds later her giant of a manservant, Baxter, entered the sitting room.

  “Wanted to let ye know that—” His words cut off, and setting his beefy fists on his hips, he narrowed his eyes. “Yer upset. Wot’s wrong?” Before Genevieve could answer, his gaze dropped to the letter she held and understanding dawned in his dark eyes. “Yer sad from missin’ yer friend Lady Catherine.”

  Genevieve swallowed the ball of misery tightening her throat and forced a light laugh. “A bit.”

  “More than a bit,” Baxter said, his voice gruff. He studied her for several seconds with an expression that made her feel as transparent as glass. “Ye ain’t been the same since she got married and moved to London. Been three months. I hate seein’ ye so unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy,” Genevieve said, walking to the desk and slipping the letter into a drawer. It was true, she told herself. She was merely lonely. Before Catherine had moved to London, hardly a day had gone by when they hadn’t seen each other. But now…Catherine’s absence left Genevieve floundering. The days that used to be filled with laughter, conversation and confidences with her best friend now echoed with silence and loneliness and far too much introspection. She now had too much time to think about Richard and the pain of being cast aside after ten years. The arrival of the puzzle box had only made things worse. As had his cryptic note: “You’re the only one I can trust. Keep this safe and I will come for it as soon as I can.”

  That brief missive had struck her like a hard slap, leaving her confused and angry. Why hadn’t he sent the box to the younger, exquisite mistress he’d replaced her with? She could still see the pity, and worse, disgust in his eyes when he’d looked at her imperfect hands the last time she’d seen him, when he’d rejected her touch and attempts to seduce him. Two days later, he’d abruptly ended their arrangement, without even the courage or the decency to tell her to her face. Instead he’d sent a curt note, along with a parting monetary gift. As if money could soothe the hurt and pain and humiliation.

  Even now, a year after he’d discarded her, a part of her still couldn’t quite believe that he’d been so unfeeling. So unkind. He’d told her he loved her. And she’d loved him—perhaps not at first, but soon after they’d met. At the beginning of what had turned into a decade-long affair, she’d merely been pitifully grateful to have found a way out of the desperate situation in which she’d found herself. She hadn’t wanted to become a mistress, but given the alternatives, or lack thereof, Richard’s offer had been nothing short of a miracle. When she’d agreed to be his mistress, all she’d known was that he was wealthy, attractive and that he desired her—enough to save her from the nightmare her existence had become—and that was enough. She soon realized, much to her relief, that he was also kind. Generous. Intelligent. A progressive thinker who cared about the plight and sufferings of those less fortunate than himself and who hoped to bring changes to the laws to help the poor. She’d fallen in love with his character, his mind, his goodness. But his cold dismissal of her had shown her a side of him she’d never known existed, one that had made her feel like a fool. She’d felt ugly and dirty, and the day he’d discarded her she’d vowed she’d never be another man’s mistress. Never let another man own her, especially a damned noblemen, one with the wealth and power to replace her within days with another lover. By God, if another nobleman looked at her with so much as a gleam in his eye, she’d set Baxter on him.

  Well, she’d keep Richard’s puzzle box safe until he came for it, although she’d wager he’d send someone in his stead, in which case she’d just keep the letter she’d discovered inside the box. She’d read the missive and couldn’t fathom the importance of such an innocuous note. Perhaps it was a code of some sort
, but she couldn’t decipher it, and she really didn’t care to know its significance. Richard would have to fetch the letter himself if he wanted it, as she was certain he did. She’d simply force him to do what he should have had the decency to do in the first place—face her. She’d pleasured him and shared herself with him for ten years and had foolishly fallen in love with him. He owed her that much.

  She couldn’t deny there was a small, petty part of her that hoped he regretted his actions, that he wanted her back. But it didn’t matter if he did. That part of her life was over. While she’d never allow herself be that vulnerable again, she was grateful that her years of financial support from Richard had enabled her to purchase this cottage and provide this sanctuary for herself and Baxter.

  “Bloody hell,” Baxter muttered, shaking his head. “I know ye better than anyone. I know yer miserable and nothin’ I do seems to help. I’d like to pound that fancy bastard lordship to dust for wot he done to ye. ’Tis the way of the rich and titled to take wot they want then spit out wot’s left over with no regard for anyone or anything ’cept their own selfish needs.”

  Guilt flooded Genevieve. Here she thought she’d successfully shown a brave face, but clearly she’d failed. Dear Baxter. He was the most loyal of friends and guarded her as if she were one of the crown jewels. They’d known each other since adolescence and had been through a great deal together, some of it very good, some of it very bad. She loved him like a brother. He credited Genevieve with saving his life years ago when, at age fifteen, he’d been left for dead in an alleyway behind the bordello where her mother plied her wares and Genevieve cooked and cleaned and prayed for a better life. Given her own precarious situation at the time, she knew she and Baxter had saved each other.