Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “No, thank you, Baxter.”

  Baxter headed toward the door, his heavy footfalls rattling the porcelain on the mantel. “Holler if ye need me. I’ll be close by.” With that he quit the room.

  “Clearly if I’m foolish enough to give you any reason to ‘holler,’ I shall find my innards in Baxter’s large hands,” Mr. Cooper said in a very serious tone.

  “Your innards would indeed become outards,” Genevieve agreed, indicating he should help himself to sugar or cream for his tea.

  “As you stated, he’s very protective,” Mr. Cooper said, his gaze not wavering from hers as he dropped a sugar lump into his steaming tea. “But then, he should be. He has a great deal to protect.”

  Another wave of heat suffused Genevieve, this one annoying her. At two and thirty, she was far past the age for her head to be turned by a man’s flattery. It’s been a long time since a man has flattered you, her inner voice whispered.

  Yes, obviously that was the problem. She suddenly realized that other than Baxter, she hadn’t been alone with a man since Richard had tossed her aside like yesterday’s trash. And there was no denying Mr. Cooper was extremely attractive. No wonder she felt so uncomfortably warm. And uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

  She watched him add four more lumps of sugar to his tea—so many that the liquid nearly spilled over the top, and her lips twitched. “You like a bit of tea with your sugar, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, lifting her cup to her lips to hide her smile.

  He lifted his cup and regarded her steadily over the rim. “I confess I’ve a weakness for sweets. Do you?”

  “I suppose, although my preference is for Baxter’s raspberry jam. You must try it.”

  She watched him spread the clotted cream and jam on a scone. His hands were browned by the sun, large and capable-looking, his fingers long and strong. The faint remnants of an ink stain marred his index finger, no surprise given his profession. He obviously spent many hours filling in columns of numbers to keep his employer’s accounts.

  An image flashed in her mind…of those masculine hands sifting through her hair, scattering pins, holding her head immobile as he leaned forward to brush those lovely firm lips over hers. Then his hands drifting lower—

  “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Ralston?”

  The question, asked in his deep voice, popped the sensual picture like a soap bubble. Good heavens, what on earth was wrong with her? Her thoughts never wandered like that. He was gazing at her with an expectant expression. Clearly he’d asked her something…something he wondered if she agreed with. To her chagrin she had no earthly idea what that something was.

  “Agree?” she murmured, her outwardly cool demeanor at complete odds with the heat racing through her.

  “That we should indulge our weaknesses.”

  She watched, transfixed, as he took a bite from his scone and slowly chewed. Recalling herself, she opened her mouth to speak, but her words evaporated in what felt like a puff of steam when he swallowed then licked a bit of jam from his lips. That tiny flick of tongue reverberated through her as if he’d licked her lips rather than his own and to her consternation, she found herself involuntarily mirroring his action. His gaze dropped to her mouth and fire flared in his eyes.

  “I…I suppose that depends on what one’s weaknesses are,” she murmured. Dear God, was that breathless sound her voice? “And if they are within one’s means.”

  His gaze returned to hers. “Meaning?”

  “If one harbors a weakness for diamonds but not the means to purchase them, well, then that is a weakness that should not be indulged.”

  “Lest one finds oneself deeply in debt.”

  “Or in Newgate for stealing.”

  “Are diamonds a weakness of yours, Mrs. Ralston?”

  She thought of the stunning necklace and matching earbobs Richard had given her, trinkets she’d sold soon after he’d left her. “No. In fact, I don’t really care for them. I find them cold and lifeless. I much prefer sapphires, although I wouldn’t call them a weakness.”

  “What would you call a weakness?”

  She considered fobbing off the question with a light laugh then changing the subject. But if she did, she wouldn’t be able to ask him what his weaknesses were. And she very much wanted to know.

  “Flowers,” she answered. “Especially roses.”

  “Any particular color?”

  “Pink is my favorite.”

  He smiled into her eyes and her breath hitched. Dear God, he was beautiful when he was serious, but when he smiled…oh, my. “I’m delighted that I brought you not only your favorite flower, but in your favorite color. What else?”

  It took her several seconds to recall what they were discussing. Then she cleared her throat. “Cats. Books. Artwork.”

  He nodded and glanced around the room. “You’ve some lovely pieces.” He tilted his chin toward the painting hanging over the mantel. “That piece, in particular, is remarkable. It’s so vivid I can almost feel the sea spray hitting my face.”

  Genevieve glanced at the painting she’d created, at the swirling waves crashing against the rocks, and recalled the first time she’d touched a paintbrush to canvas as a young girl, so filled with hope, her hands free of the arthritis that would strike her years later as an adult, stunting her talent and leading to heartbreak.

  Her gaze strayed to the woman standing at the top of the cliffs amidst a profusion of swaying wildflowers. She faced the tumultuous waters, her features indistinguishable, yet Genevieve knew who she was. Or at least who she was supposed to be.

  “Thank you. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”

  He rose and moved to the mantel, leaning forward to more closely examine the painting. “The pattern of brushstrokes is very unusual,” he said.

  Genevieve’s brows rose. He showed unexpected knowledge for a steward. “You are a student of art?”

  He hesitated for several seconds, then turned to smile at her over his shoulder. “In so far as Mr. Jonas-Smythe enjoys adding to his collection, I therefore need to know something of the subject.” He returned to his seat. “The painting isn’t signed.”

  “No.” She’d never signed any of her work, a matter of discretion as Richard had placed many of her pieces in his homes.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift.” To herself, which made the statement true, although not completely truthful. But then she had no intention of telling him the truth.

  His attention shifted to the doorway and she followed his gaze. Sophia meandered into the room, tail high, every line of her proclaiming that this was her house and those within it were fortunate that she allowed them to be there.

  “It appears your mention of a weakness for cats was overheard,” he said.

  “That’s Sophia. I’m afraid she’s rather shy…”

  Her words trailed off as her pet, who usually couldn’t be bothered with strangers unless they offered her food, trotted toward Mr. Cooper as if a rasher of kippers hung around his neck. To Genevieve’s surprise, Sophia jumped onto Mr. Cooper’s lap without hesitation. She batted his lapel with her front paw, twitched her fluffy tail under his nose, then settled herself across his thighs as if he were her own personal mattress. Looking across at Genevieve through squinty eyes, she kneaded her front paws against Mr. Cooper’s breeches and purred so loudly, it sounded as if three cats were in the room.

  Mr. Cooper cleared his throat. “Um, yes, I can see she is extremely shy.” When he lightly scratched her pet’s head, Sophia closed her eyes and stretched her neck into his touch.

  Genevieve stared in amazement. “She’s never behaved like that with a stranger before. It’s almost as if she knows you.”

  He shrugged lightly. “Animals like me.”

  Good Lord, the sight of his long, strong fingers stroking her cat caused flutters in Genevieve’s belly.

  “Tell me more about your weaknesses,” he said.

  She forced her gaze away from that stroking hand. More o
f her weaknesses? She dared not. Especially as it appeared she had one for him. “I’ve already confessed mine. It’s your turn.”

  Petting the sleepy-eyed cat with one hand, he sipped from his tea with the other, his gaze never leaving hers. His unwavering regard flustered her in a way she refused to show. Yet for all her outward serenity, her insides quivered with something she’d thought long forgotten, but had felt enough times in the past to know without a doubt what it was.

  Desire.

  Desire she wouldn’t, couldn’t, refused to act upon, and therefore desperately didn’t want to feel. Which meant she needed to end this impromptu tea party as soon as possible and send her far-too-attractive guest on his way. Still, to send him off too abruptly would no doubt make him wonder why, question whether she might have any interest in him.

  Ten minutes. She’d give him ten more minutes. That was enough time not to appear rude or raise questions. She could endure his company and keep her unexpected, unwanted desire hidden for ten more minutes.

  “We share a weakness for books,” he said.

  “Oh? What do you enjoy reading?”

  “Anything. Everything. I recently read Frankenstein and found it fascinating. Shakespeare and Chaucer are favorites. As I’m not accustomed to all this quiet in the country, I fear I’ll run out of reading material before my stay in Little Longstone is over.”

  “I’ve a good number of books. Before you leave, you’re welcome to borrow several from my collection.” The instant the words left her lips she regretted them. What was she thinking? Borrowing books would require another visit to return them.

  “A very generous offer. Thank you. What do you like to read?”

  “Like you, anything and everything. Sir Walter Scott. The poetry of Blake, Lord Byron and Wordsworth. The gothic novels of Mrs. Radcliffe. I recently finished reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

  His brows rose. “Quite a departure from Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

  “Indeed. However, I enjoy variety.”

  “‘Variety’s the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor,’” he quoted softly.

  Genevieve’s heart lurched. The husky timbre of his voice made it sound as if he were discussing something far more intimate than poetry.

  “William Cowper,” she murmured.

  “One of my favorite poets.”

  “One of mine as well.”

  “It appears we have quite a bit in common, Mrs. Ralston.”

  Genevieve ignored the blatant interest she heard in his voice. Saw in his eyes. “Clearly you like cats.”

  “I like animals of all sorts.”

  “Do you have any pets?”

  “Not at this time, but I have had in the past. I am considering getting myself a dog.”

  “Then you should plan to attend the annual Autumn Festival in the village tomorrow. In addition to booths filled with food and trinkets and crafts, there are always several families with litters of puppies for sale.”

  “An excellent idea. I’ll go—if you’ll accompany me.”

  Genevieve firmly ignored the way her heart leapt. She opened her mouth to refuse, but before she could do so, he continued, “Choosing a dog is a serious decision, one that requires a second opinion.” His eyes glittered with deviltry. “You wouldn’t want me to pick out the wrong dog, would you?”

  “There will be dozens of people at the festival who can help you choose.”

  “Perhaps. But I’d much prefer your opinion.”

  “And why is that?”

  He finished the last sip of his tea, set the empty cup on the table, then, with a hand on Sophia’s back to keep her in place, he leaned forward. A mere three feet separated their faces and she could see the fine grain of his skin. The thickness of his eyelashes. The tiny scar in the center of his chin. “I could say it’s because you’re familiar with the village and its residents, including those with puppies. I could also claim it’s because you’re intelligent. And both of those would be perfectly true. But in the name of honesty, I must confess I also have a weakness for beautiful, well-read women.”

  “I see. And you think to disarm me with flattery?”

  A slow smile curved his lips and Genevieve had to press her own lips together to prevent herself from heaving a gushy feminine sigh. “Honesty, rather than flattery, was my weapon of choice. I also think we’d enjoy each other’s company. I know I’d enjoy yours. Will you accompany me?”

  Genevieve knew she should say no. Nothing could come of this flirtation other than her longing for something she couldn’t have. Why torture herself? A flirtation with him, with any man, would ultimately lead to the same rejection she’d suffered with Richard.

  Wouldn’t it?

  The fact that she asked herself that question stunned her, and with a jolt, she realized that the temptation of this attractive man’s company was simply too strong a lure to ignore. It had been so long since she’d felt these flutterings. Since she’d felt attractive. Since she’d experienced even the tiniest flicker of hope that she might again experience any sort of physical intimacy. Of course, she’d never allow things to progress that far. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his attentions, just for a little while.

  “I’ll meet you in the village square at noon,” she said for a compromise. As he’d finished his tea and the ten minutes she’d allotted had passed, she asked, “Before you leave, I’ll show you my library.”

  “Thank you.” His slow smile warmed her. “And I’ll look forward to tomorrow.”

  Genevieve rose, and, after gently setting Sophia on the carpet, he stood as well. His clear reluctance to depart wrapped another layer of warmth around her. She escorted him to her cozy library, remaining in the doorway while he perused her collection. After several minutes he returned to her bearing three books. “I appreciate the loan,” he said. “I’ll take very good care of them.”

  She escorted him to the foyer where a glaring Baxter thrust Mr. Cooper’s hat at him.

  “Thank you, Baxter,” Mr. Cooper said, giving his slightly dented hat a look. He then shot Genevieve a quick smile and made her a formal bow. “Until tomorrow, Mrs. Ralston.”

  Genevieve watched him walk down the flagstone path leading from the cottage and barely suppressed a sigh. The man looked as good leaving as he did arriving.

  “Until tomorrow?” Baxter asked, cocking a brow. “He’s plannin’ to visit again?”

  “We’re meeting at the Autumn Festival in the village. He’s looking to acquire a dog and asked for my help.”

  “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.