Touch Me (17 page)

But she stood her ground, even when he reached out and clasped her hands. His gaze searched hers and she forced herself not to look away. Why shouldn’t she look her fill? It was the last time she would ever see him.

“It’s Simon, not ‘my lord,’” he said quietly. “I want you to know that this time I spent with you has been unforgettable.”

She offered him a small smile. “I won’t forget you, either…Simon.” As much as she wished otherwise.

There was no missing the relief that filled his gaze, then his eyes turned serious. “Genevieve. I want to see you again. I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes with longing—and profound regret. She slipped her hands from his and shook her head. “I’m afraid this cannot be anything other than goodbye. I’ve been a nobleman’s mistress, and it’s an arrangement I’ve no desire to repeat.” Indeed she’d vowed never to be another rich man’s plaything, to be tossed aside when he tired of her. And given Simon’s position in society, that’s all she could ever be to him. “Continuing our physical relationship might satisfy us both for a short time, but let’s not pretend it would last for long. My life is here, yours is in London and with your work. Eventually you’ll need to marry and produce an heir, and I’ve no desire to share my lover with another woman, even if that woman is his wife. So I’m afraid that this has to be goodbye.” She drew a deep breath and pressed on, praying her voice wouldn’t break. “I’ll always remember you fondly and hope you’ll think of me the same way. I hope the rest of your life is wonderfully happy.”

For several long seconds he said nothing, just looked at her with an unreadable expression. Finally he gave a
nod. “Rest assured I shall always remember you fondly. And I hope the rest of your life is…magical.” He reached for her hands and brought them to his mouth. “My darling Genevieve. Don’t ever think you are anything less than perfect.” His breath warmed her skin, as did the gentle kiss he pressed to the backs of her fingers. Without another word he released her, then turned and quit the room. The instant the door closed behind him, the tears she’d been fighting since she’d found him bleeding on her floor spilled from her eyes.

T
HE FIRST
two weeks after Simon’s departure passed in a slow parade of dreary days marked by crying jags and listless walks around the cottage. Genevieve now dreaded her daily jaunts to the springs—she couldn’t erase from her mind the torturous image of her and Simon together. If the heated water wasn’t necessary to relieve the pain in her hands, she’d never visit there again.

She tried to keep up her spirits in front of Baxter, but he wasn’t fooled, and she knew he wanted, in his words, to “break that damn viscount into tiny pieces.” She wished she could be angry with Simon, but she wasn’t. He’d offered to continue their relationship. Indeed, he’d offered her the only thing he could. She was simply going to have to set her feelings aside, put them away using the same tactics she’d employed when Richard was no longer part of her life. The problem was, while she’d found a place inside her to submerge her feelings for Richard, there simply wasn’t enough room for all the emotions, the wants and hopes and dreams Simon had inspired. Where could she possibly bury something so huge?

Fifteen days after Simon had left, a knock sounded on the door, and for several seconds Genevieve couldn’t breathe as anticipation tore through her. Had he returned? Her ridiculous hope died when Baxter
admitted an older gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Lester Evans, a solicitor from London.

“I’ve a letter for you, Mrs. Ralston,” Mr. Evans said, withdrawing an envelope from his waistcoat pocket. Genevieve froze at the sight of the maroon wax seal. It was Richard’s crest. “I represented Lord Ridgemoor’s interests for many years. He gave me this letter a year ago, instructing me to deliver it to you personally in the event of his death. I’m more sorry than I can say to be carrying out that wish. Should you have any questions or wish to contact me before I depart for London tomorrow morning, I’ll be staying in the village, at the Sheepshead Inn.”

Mystified, Genevieve watched him return to his elegant carriage, then she retired to her bedchamber. Sitting on the wing chair before the fire, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the single sheet of ivory vellum with hands that weren’t quite steady.

G
ENEVIEVE
stared down at words through eyes blurred with tears. He’d loved her. He’d always loved her. And he’d only wanted to keep her safe. A sense of relief—that she hadn’t misjudged him, hadn’t been the fool she’d believed herself to be for the past year—suffused her, mixing with grief for Richard’s death, and sadness that he was irrevocably gone from her life, a brew of emotions that overwhelmed her. Setting the letter aside, she buried her face in her hands and cried. She wasn’t certain how long she sat there, but when her tears finally ran out, the tightness and bitterness that had squeezed her heart for the past year was gone, replaced with a sense of peace and gratitude for having known and loved Richard. She’d let him go a year ago and although she’d been hurt, she’d moved on with her life—started again.

Fallen in love again.

With yet another man she couldn’t have.

She could only pray her heart would heal a second time. But given the continued depth of her misery over the loss of Simon, she didn’t think her prayers would be answered.

The next two weeks didn’t pass any quicker than the
first two, nor were they any easier. Yet as the frequency of Baxter’s pitying looks lessened, she assumed she became a better actress.

Exactly one month and two days after Simon had left, she decided she’d mourned long enough. The day dawned sunny and crisp, and she resolved this was the day she was going to smile again. Laugh again. And mean it. She’d start off with a long soak in the springs to loosen her sore joints, then spend some time writing. But first she’d reread all her pearls of wisdom to Today’s Modern Woman. Hadn’t she written that Today’s Modern Woman didn’t mope after a man? Yes, she had. And it was about time she took her own advice.

After a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham and Baxter’s blueberry scones slathered with butter and jam, she bade her giant friend a cheery goodbye and headed toward the foyer.

“’Tis good to see ye smile, Gen,” Baxter said. His own grin was tinged with such obvious relief she felt ashamed and annoyed at herself for not better hiding her misery from him.

“It feels good to do so. I’ll be out for at least an hour. Why don’t you walk to the village?” She adopted an innocent air as she donned her pelisse. “Isn’t today the day Miss Winslow normally visits the butcher shop?”

A red flush crept all the way to the top of Baxter’s bald head and he scowled. “Don’t know. But seems we could use a bit o’ bacon around here.”

“Excellent idea.” Satisfied that she’d done what she could to toss her friend in the path of the woman she hoped he’d soon realize he loved, she headed for the springs at a brisk pace. “Today I will be happy. Today I will be happy,” she murmured. If she said it enough
times, surely it would become fact. Indeed, she was smiling when she rounded the curve that brought her to the springs—a smile that froze along with her footsteps when she saw that her sanctuary was occupied.

Simon stood next to the bubbling water. Her stupefied gaze took in his dark-blue great coat, unfastened to reveal a jacket of the same color, a snowy white shirt and cravat, and buff breeches. His black boots gleamed, although the toe of the left one bore several unmistakable rows of teeth marks. In one hand he held Beauty’s lead—no easy task as the dog had turned into a tail-wagging, tongue-lolling, barking bundle of canine energy that strained for freedom the instant she saw Genevieve. In Simon’s other hand he held an enormous bouquet of pale-pink roses.

Their gazes met and every emotion, every feeling she’d struggled to bury for the past month ripped from its shallow grave to inundate her: the longing, the desire, the love. Before she could think of something to say, something that didn’t include the phrases
I love you, I miss you, I’m miserable without you,
he let go of Beauty’s lead.

The puppy raced toward her, and with a laugh Genevieve crouched down. Beauty greeted her with a plethora of wriggling doggie adoration. Genevieve ruffled her furry ears, scratched her scruff, then obediently rubbed Beauty’s belly when the dog flopped on her back.

“She missed you.”

Genevieve looked up. Simon stood less than six feet away, staring down at her with an indecipherable expression. After giving the dog another fond pat, she rose, refusing to acknowledge the unsteadiness in her knees. “I missed her, too. I cannot believe how much she’s grown.”

“Believe it. She eats me out of house and home. And unfortunately boots.” He looked down at Beauty and said, “Heel.” The dog immediately trotted to his side. “Sit.” Beauty’s rump instantly hit the ground. “Stay.” He returned his attention to Genevieve. “
Stay
presents the biggest challenge, but she’s getting better.”

“I’m impressed. You’ve made a great deal of progress.”

“Yes, although I think she only obeys me in those regards because she’s so very bad when it comes to the boots.” His gaze seemed to devour Genevieve, and it required all her fortitude to keep her expression bland. Even then, she wasn’t certain she succeeded.

He cleared his throat and held out the flowers. “For you. I hope they’re still your favorite.”

She accepted the bouquet, ignoring the tingle that raced up her arms when her gloved fingers brushed his. “Yes, they are.” She sank her face in the gorgeous blooms and took her time breathing in their heady fragrance in order to compose herself. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. They reminded me of you.”

A long moment of silence swelled, one she waited for him to break. When it appeared he wasn’t going to, she finally asked, “What are you doing here, Simon?”

“I wanted to speak with you and thought it best to do so here. I suspected that if I called at the cottage, my innards would be in Baxter’s bare hands before I had the opportunity to open my mouth.”

He was most likely correct. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

“I thought you’d want to know that when the note Ridgemoor hid in the box was decoded, it named Waverly as the man who’d tried to kill him. It also
provided irrefutable proof that Waverly was guilty of theft and treason.”

“Was anyone else involved?”

“No. Waverly acted alone. Ridgemoor did England a great service by documenting Waverly’s treachery in that letter. You should know that the earl died a hero.”

Genevieve nodded slowly, then said, “Thank you for telling me, although it wasn’t necessary for you to come all this way. You could have simply sent a note.”

“No, as there’s something I wish to give you. Return to you, actually, as it is yours.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a folded square of paper which he held out to her.

“What is that?” she asked, mystified, taking the proffered square.

“Unfold it.”

She did so and stared at her own cramped handwriting. The smear of ink on the bottom. Her eyes passed over the words
Today’s Modern Woman
, and a flush engulfed her entire body. She hadn’t once considered that he would have found her writings in her desk, most likely because she hadn’t had the heart to set pen to paper since he’d left.

“That piece of paper saved my life.”

She pulled her gaze from the words to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I found that in the wastebasket by your desk that last night I searched your cottage. I couldn’t bring myself to let it be thrown away, so I folded it up and slipped it in my pocket. When Waverly demanded to know where the letter was, I claimed I had it and produced that. Dropping it on the floor between us offered me the split second of distraction I needed to dispatch him.”

Genevieve swallowed. “I…I don’t know what to say, other than that if it helped you in any way, I’m very glad you took it.”

“As am I.” His gaze probed hers, and she had the impression he could see directly into her soul. “You’re Charles Brightmore.”

She’d known what was coming, but hearing him say the words out loud still jolted her. “Would there be any point in denying it?”

The ghost of a smile whispered across his face. “No.” He paused, then said, “You’re immensely talented.”

She hadn’t expected that. “Th-thank you.”

“And very insightful. I hope the second book is even more successful than the first one. You can be sure I’ll be purchasing a copy.”

“You’re not…shocked?”

“No. I’m proud of you. And I wish you the very best in all your literary endeavors, especially this next one since, as I said, it saved my life. As for your Brightmore identity, you may rest assured your secret is safe with me.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now, as to what I wanted to discuss with you—I’ve been thinking a great deal since I left Little Longstone, about many things. You, mostly. The time we spent together. And all those thoughts boiled down to one thing you said to me.”

“And what was that?” she asked, trying not to sound as bemused as she felt.

“You said, ‘I hope the rest of your life is wonderfully happy.’” His gaze searched hers. “Did you mean it?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Something that looked like relief flashed in his eyes.
He smiled. “Excellent. I was hoping you’d say that. Well, I’ve decided that’s what I hope for as well—for the rest of my life to be wonderfully happy. Once I concluded that, all I had to do was determine what would make it so. It didn’t take me very long to figure that out. Indeed, it was very easy.” He stepped toward her, and took her hand—the one that wasn’t clutching the piece of paper and her flowers. “The answer is you, Genevieve.
You
are what I need to be wonderfully happy.”