Touch Me (3 page)

T
HE 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.

“I’m fine, Baxter,” she said, proud of how sincere she sounded. “A bit lonely, I admit, but I’m adjusting.” She shoved aside her conscience that informed her she was, in fact, miserably lonely and wasn’t adjusting at all. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you it’s not necessary.”

“Them tears in yer eyes say different,” Baxter muttered with a fierce scowl that would have terrified
anyone but Genevieve. Certainly no one would guess that this giant bald man with thighs that resembled tree trunks and fists the size of hams was as gentle as a kitten and baked the most delicious scones in the kingdom. Of course, he could also break a man’s neck with his bare hands if necessary—something that never failed to make Genevieve feel safe and protected. A woman living on her own could never be too careful. Especially a woman with secrets…secrets that could potentially bring danger to her door.

She straightened her spine and met his gaze. “They are tears of happiness—for Catherine. Who is deliriously in love and thriving in London.” Determined to change the subject, she said, “When you entered the room you mentioned there was something you wanted to let me know?”

It was clear by his mutinous expression that Baxter wanted to press his point. But after heaving a sigh that indicated he knew damn well she wasn’t being entirely truthful, he said, “That bloke is here, askin’ if yer at home.”

“Bloke? What bloke?”

Baxter thrust a calling card at her. “The one wot rented Dr. Oliver’s cottage.”

Ah, yes. Baxter always knew the goings on in Little Longstone—not that there were many—and had mentioned that the Oliver cottage had been leased by some “bloke.” Several months ago the good doctor had inherited an estate. He’d wasted no time packing up his wife and heading for greener pastures.

Genevieve took the card and perused the words. Mr. Simon Cooper. His direction, printed below his name, was in a respectable, although far from wealthy, section of London. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet her suspi
cions were immediately aroused. This was the second newcomer to the area recently—first Mr. Blackwell the artist, now this Mr. Cooper. Her thoughts instantly flew to the worry that always lingered in the back of her mind: did this stranger know something? Suspect? Had evidence of her activities come to light?

Clearly her concern showed in her expression because Baxter said, “I know that look. Ye think he’s here because of yer writin’s? Because of Charles Brightmore?”

Genevieve’s stomach tightened at the mention of her “nom de plume.” “Do you?”

Baxter scratched his bald head. “Doesn’t seem likely. That matter was taken care of months ago with those newspaper articles. Everyone knows Charles Brightmore left England. No reason to look for him here.” Baxter’s expression collapsed into a fierce frown. “Course if this bloke
is
sniffin’ around for Charles Brightmore, ye can be sure I’ll be breakin’ his damn nose. I’ll let no harm come to ye, Gen.”

The tension tightening Genevieve’s shoulders relaxed. “I know. And you’re right—as far as anyone knows, Brightmore has left England with no plans to return.”

Baxter nodded. “Still, always pays to be careful. But I hafta say, this bloke don’t look like any sort of investigator type. Acts more like a damn lovesick suitor is what, movin’ in just this mornin’ and not wastin’ any time to call on ye. Says he’s come to introduce himself since ye’ll be neighbors for the next two weeks.” He flexed his sausage-sized fingers. “I were tempted to toss him out on his gift-bearing arse, but seein’ as how yer
just a bit
lonely, I suppose I could resist the temptation if some company might make ye smile.”

“It’s always best to avoid arse-tossing, unless it’s ab
solutely necessary,” Genevieve said in her most serious voice. Then she raised her brows. “Gift-bearing?”

“Brought a bouquet of flowers with him.” Baxter’s lip curled. “Bloke should know a woman like you is worth diamonds.”

Genevieve laughed. “And of course you wouldn’t be the least suspicious of a man I’ve never met who called upon me bearing diamonds.”

A sheepish expression momentarily softened Baxter’s rough-hewn features. “Suppose I would be, now that ye mention it.” Then his scowl returned. “But ye can’t trust anybody nowadays. Bloke musta gotten wind of the fact that a beautiful woman lived here, so wot’s the first thing he does? Comes callin’ with flowers, that’s wot.”

Genevieve barely squelched the incredulous sound that rose in her throat at what Baxter was implying. “There’s no need to worry about that.” Indeed, that part of her life was over. She glanced down at her gloved hands and pressed her lips together. The doctors called her affliction arthritis. She called it the curse that had robbed her of the man she’d loved. The man who couldn’t bear to have her less-than-perfect hands touch him. Why would another man look upon her affliction differently? The answer was, they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter if Mr. Simon Cooper, or anyone else, called upon her. She had no intention of ever allowing herself to be hurt again.

When she looked up she saw that Baxter’s gaze had followed hers. There was no missing the flash of sympathy in his eyes as he looked at her gloves. She quickly clasped her hands behind her back. While she appreciated Baxter’s concern, she damn well didn’t want his pity.

“What does this Mr. Cooper look like?” she asked.

He raised his gaze back to hers and frowned. “Like a flower-carryin’ bloke who should be tossed out on his arse.”

“I see. What sort of flowers?”

“Roses.”

Her favorite. Of course Mr. Cooper would have no way of knowing that.

Under normal circumstances, she would have told Baxter to inform Mr. Cooper she wasn’t in. She didn’t care much for socializing outside her small circle of friends, and except for occasional visits to the village, she kept to herself. With Catherine gone, however, circumstances were no longer normal. A visit with a bloke bearing roses might not be ideal, but at least it broke up what had turned into a monotony of dull, dreary, solitary days.

“You may show Mr. Cooper in,” she told Baxter.

After Baxter quit the room, she rose and crossed to the window. Nostalgia and loneliness stabbed her at the sight of the golden leaves floating past the glass panes. Normally at this time of year, she’d be strolling through her beloved garden with Catherine, discussing which plants needed to be pruned back and what should be added in the spring. And she should be looking forward to Little Longstone’s annual autumn festival tomorrow instead of wallowing in loneliness.

She heaved a sigh that fogged the glass. Leaning back, she wiped away the condensation and forced aside the unwanted envy that welled inside her. She was happy for Catherine, truly she was. This desperate, aching emptiness would subside. When her inner voice whispered that she was fooling herself, she lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Nonsense. She
wasn’t alone. She had Baxter. And Sophia. And today, she had Mr. Cooper. And that would simply have to be enough. She’d learned—very painfully—the price of wanting too much.

Of course, Mr. Cooper was most likely decrepit and in his dotage, letting a cottage in Little Longstone for the same reason many others did—the medicinal benefits of the hot springs. Like Genevieve’s property, Dr. Oliver’s had its own private spring which was undoubtedly the main attraction for Mr. Cooper. He probably sported a host of ailments about which he’d want to wax poetic. She gave a philosophical shrug. At least he was someone to talk to. Sophia was a good listener, but sadly not much of a conversationalist.

“Mr. Cooper to see ye” came Baxter’s voice from the doorway. She turned then stilled at the sight of the very
un
decrepit Mr. Simon Cooper who was under no circumstances in his dotage. Indeed, she’d be astonished if he’d reached his thirtieth year. Rendered uncharacteristically mute by surprise, she simply stared at him, and he appeared just as nonplussed as she. Intense green eyes pierced her, spearing a heated tingle through her, and for several seconds she couldn’t move, forgot how to breathe. The way he was looking at her…it was as if he knew her. But that was ridiculous. They’d never met. She would not have forgotten this man.

The strange spell she’d fallen under was broken when he walked toward her with an easy grace that made it abundantly clear he didn’t suffer from any ailments. Indeed, this tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man was the healthiest-looking specimen she’d seen in a very long time, a fact that once again aroused her suspicions. Why would he lease a cottage in an obscure village like
Little Longstone rather than in the much more fashionable Brighton or Bath?