Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

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.

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.

Searching Mrs. Ralston’s bedchamber again, he’d hated himself for the way his hands lingered over her clothing, her perfume bottle. Never in his life had he been so overwhelmed with lust, and definitely never during an investigation. The fact that he felt such staggering desire for a woman whose innocence was suspect truly grated on him. Bloody hell, he’d stolen one look at her in that wet chemise and taken leave of his senses. Throughout his search he’d had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand, on finding the letter-the letter that would save his life.

Still, while he hadn’t found the missive, he had discovered something very unexpected. Curiosity regarding what she’d been writing the night he’d hidden in her bedchamber had propelled him to her escritoire. Snatches of words written on the stack of vellum sheets he’d found in the top drawer of her desk drifted through his mind.

Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to seduce her man…Today’s Modern Woman must master the art of removing her gentleman’s clothing-and her own…Today’s Modern Woman will greatly benefit from discreetly brushing her body against her gentleman’s in a crowded ballroom, then “accidentally” stroking her hand over the front of his breeches…

The handwriting had started smoothly, but had degenerated into an increasingly cramped jumble of letters. Last night he’d read A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore and although the writing style and mention of Today’s Modern Woman were identical to the pages he’d found in Mrs. Ralston’s desk, nothing in the published book matched what she’d written on those pieces of vellum. Therefore, Mrs. Ralston was either very closely connected to Charles Brightmore-or Brightmore was merely a “nom de plume,” and she was the author of the book. And working on a second volume.

His instincts told him the latter was the case. He recalled that several months ago there had been a great deal of interest in the mysterious Charles Brightmore. The author had never shown himself in society or at any literary gatherings. Simon vaguely remembered talk of threats against the man whose Ladies’ Guide had incensed the gentlemen of the ton for its radical ideas on women’s independence. The last he’d heard, Brightmore had left the country.

But Simon would wager everything he owned that Brightmore hadn’t left the country at all. That the reason he’d never shown himself was because he was a she. And that she was Genevieve Ralston.

Very interesting.

As was the information contained in the explicit book. Frankly, he’d never read anything like it. Under the guise of an innocent guide for ladies, Genevieve Ralston had provided an arsenal of detailed information on carnal relations that only a very sexually experienced woman could provide. He’d found the information fascinating. Stimulating. And damned arousing-even more so now that he suspected his beautiful and mysterious neighbor had secretly written it.