Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “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 drownin
g 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 forth-coming 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.

  8

  GENEVIEVE paced the length of her bedchamber, pausing at the window to stare down at her garden. Moonlight bathed the gravel paths winding between the hedges and plants. Usually the sight calmed her, but not tonight. Her thoughts had been in turmoil ever since she’d walked away from Mr. Cooper this afternoon after they’d chatted and laughed together, after he’d flirted with her, and she’d flirted back.

  After he’d touched her.

  Genevieve closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass, recalling the unforgettable sensation of his fingertips brushing over her shoulder. So light a caress to inspire such heat within her. She should have left then. But she’d been enjoying his company and the admiration and want in his eyes. It had been so long since she’d been desired, felt desirable. It had been so long since she’d experienced the longing tug, the yearning of sensual need. So, instead of listening to her better judgment, she’d simply shifted away from his touch and stayed, basking in his attention.

  But then he’d laid his hand over hers, and she’d frozen, shocked by the unexpected touch. No one had touched her hands in a year. Fear had momentarily paralyzed her. Could he feel the swollen joints beneath her gloves? Did he know the ugliness that marred her? Would the disfigurement that had caused Richard to reject her affect him similarly? The warmth of his hand over hers penetrated the soft leather, melting her fear with a fire that seemed to engulf her, filling her with the overwhelming need to touch him in return, feel his hands on her, and hers on him. Those unwanted, dangerous needs would ultimately only lead to hurt and rejection. And she’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.

  But then why, why couldn’t she banish this man from her thoughts? Why could she not rid her mind of the unwanted fantasies he inspired? She pictured herself coming naked to his bed…of having him naked in hers. Kissing, touching, exploring—her hands were perfect as they glided over his body. She should be sleeping in her own bed right now, not pacing the floor with her skin on
fire and her heart beating in rapid, hard punches against her ribs. She pressed her thighs together to relieve the insistent ache between her legs, but the friction only served to frustrate her further.

  There was only one way to relieve the tension gripping her—a soak in the hot springs. She lifted her head and glanced at the mantel clock. It was just after midnight, but that didn’t matter. She often visited the springs late at night, when the pain in her hands prevented her from sleeping. Tonight she suffered from a different sort of ache, one she hoped a good soaking would diminish.

  She kicked off her slippers, replacing them with sturdier boots, then she grabbed the small pistol she kept hidden in her wardrobe. She’d never been threatened in any way, either by a person or an animal during her nocturnal visits to the springs, but better to be careful than sorry. She hurried down the stairs and pulled her cloak from the brass rack by the door. After donning the garment and slipping the pistol in the pocket, she silently left the house. Not that silence was needed. Baxter’s quarters occupied the far corner of the cottage, and he always slept as if he’d been hit on the head with an anvil. Just as well; she knew he would strenuously object to her visiting the springs at night alone. Still, what he didn’t know, he couldn’t worry about.

  The moon provided a bright, silvery light, but she could have navigated the familiar route through the thick copses of trees without it. She breathed in the cool, crisp air and immediately felt a layer of tension slide from her shoulders. After a brisk five-minute walk, she arrived. Surrounded on three sides by an outcropping of rocks that provided privacy, the circular spring wasn’t large, no more than eight feet in diameter, the water only deep enough to reach her shoulders. A submerged natural ledge curved around a three-foot section close to the rocks, providing a perfect seat. Genevieve shed her gloves, cloak, robe and boots, leaving her clad only in a chemise. After setting her pistol within easy reach next to her bundle of clothing, she stepped down into the heated water.