Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

Even more dismay filled her eyes and she shook her head. “That’s not true. I do. It’s just…” She stepped away and paced several times before turning to face him. She lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Simon. And if we’re to spend more time together…see each other again as we have today, then I’d prefer it to be without lies between us.”

His conscience slapped him for his own dishonesty, a blow he forced himself to ignore. “I’m listening.” When she hesitated, he said softly, “Genevieve, I give you my word that whatever you tell me will remain just between us.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed, then spoke, the words coming out in a rush. “My circumstances are not what I led you to believe. The truth is, I am not a widow. Indeed, I’ve never been married. For ten years I was the mistress of a nobleman, a man whose mistress I would still be if he hadn’t terminated our arrangement last year when he could no longer stand to have my less-than-perfect hands touch him. For the sake of propriety and discretion, I’ve presented myself as a widow.” She paused, moistened her lips, then lifted her chin another notch. “I realize you will probably now think ill of me-”

He stopped her words with a fingertip to her lips. “I don’t think ill of you at all, Genevieve.” Bloody hell, he wished he did, for surely that would be preferable to this unsettling, uncharacteristic possessiveness sweeping through him, one that filled him with the overwhelming urge to protect her from anyone or anything that might hurt her. “Your deception is completely understandable given the circumstances. I appreciate your honesty.” Yes, even though it lodged a tight ball of guilt in his gut.

Some of the tension drained from her expression. He moved his hand from her lips to lightly brush his fingers over her soft cheek. “How did you come to be his mistress?” He knew he had no right to ask, but damn it, he wanted to know just the same.

Long seconds passed and he could see she struggled with what and how much to reveal. Finally she said quietly, “My mother was a prostitute. She wanted more for me. Didn’t want me to suffer the sort of life she’d endured, and God knows I wanted more for myself. Unfortunately, women have very few choices.” Her lips tightened. “She saved every shilling she could so I wouldn’t have to become what she was. I had an aptitude for drawing and painting and she bought me supplies. When I was fifteen we came to London and she went to work in a brothel. I worked there as well-as the seamstress, cook and laundress. That’s where I met Baxter. I found him in the alley behind the brothel one winter morning. He’d been beaten and left for dead. I brought him to my room and by some miracle, he survived.”

Simon’s insides knotted. Bloody hell, at fifteen he’d enjoyed every privilege his family’s rank and wealth had afforded, while Genevieve and Baxter had been fighting to survive. He cleared his throat. “You saved his life. No wonder he is so protective of you.”

“And I of him. He returned the favor by becoming the brother I never had.” She drew a deep breath, then continued, “I continued my work, and painted in what little spare time I had. Claudia, the madam, liked my work and displayed my paintings in the house, which filled me with the foolish hope that someday I might become a real artist. Unfortunately, Claudia died, and under the new madam, the situation at the house, as well as the clientele, began to change. My mother was beaten several times by clients and I was desperate to get her-both of us-out.”

A bitter sound escaped her. “Sadly, there weren’t many places we could go, especially places where I could simply work in the kitchen and laundry and not render sexual favors. To make matters worse, the new madam claimed my mother owed her money for the wages she’d lost when she couldn’t work while recuperating from her beatings. She wouldn’t consider letting Mother go until the debt was paid and the interest she levied was exorbitant. Although I hated to leave my mother alone there, I sought a position as a governess, but it quickly became clear that the man of the house expected me to entertain him once his wife and the children were abed. I was desperate enough to do it, to do anything to earn enough of a wage to get my mother out of that house and not have her forced to lift her skirts in back alleys at the docks. I was prepared to give in, to do what was necessary, when my mother called upon me at the house where I was employed. She told me that during the several weeks I’d been gone, she’d met a man…a kind man, a wealthy man who was a regular of one of the other girls. A man who’d admired one of my paintings. When my mother told him her daughter had painted it, he said he wished to meet me.”

“And that was the nobleman.”

She nodded. “I found him handsome and agreeable, kind and, most importantly at that point, very generous. Being with him saved me from my repulsive employer and enabled me to remove my mother from her horrid situation.”

“So you saved her as well.”

Unmistakable sorrow shadowed her eyes and she shook her head. “She died less than a year later. But at least I have the solace of knowing her final months were as comfortable as possible.”

“Did you love him?” Another question he had no right to ask, but he wanted the answer just the same.

“Not at first. But over time…yes, I grew to love him. He was very good to me. Until…” Her voice trailed off and her gaze dropped to her hands. “Until he stopped caring.”

“Do you ever see him?”

Something flickered in her eyes then she shook her head. “No. Nor do I expect to. He made it perfectly clear that he wanted no more to do with me, that our arrangement was irrevocably severed.”

Yes. Until he’d sent her the puzzle box. “Do you still love him?”

She considered, then said, “No, he effectively snuffed out that flame, although I will always be grateful for the protection he gave me, and for making it possible to help my mother. It turned out that the man I loved did not really exist-if he had, he would not have cast me aside. Yet even as I say that, I do not blame him for doing so.”

Simon barely managed to tamp down his anger. “You should blame him. His reason for abandoning you was dishonorable and selfish in the extreme.”

A humorless sound passed her lips. “I’m flattered by your outrage on my behalf, but truly, what good is a mistress if she no longer brings pleasure?”

“Any man who didn’t find you immeasurably pleasurable is blind. And a complete arse.” Her words, her manner, all cemented what he’d already known in his heart-she didn’t know Ridgemoor was dead.

Her eyes went soft, like a summer sky blurred by a gentle rain, and she gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”

“What of your painting?”

“I enjoyed it for many years, but it would be too difficult now.” Her gaze flicked to her hands.

“Have you tried?”

“No. Not recently. I was afraid…”

“Afraid of what?”

“Failing. Of not being able to create anything beautiful again.” A frown creased her brow. “But now…you’ve given me hope that…” Her expression cleared and she gazed into his eyes. “Well, perhaps I’ll try it again.”

“I think you should. And I hope you do.” A memory flashed through his mind and realization hit him. “The painting in your sitting room, above the fireplace. That’s your work.”

She nodded. “Yes. It was always my favorite.”

“I can understand why. It’s extraordinary.” Just like you.

“Thank you. Simon, I want you to know…he was the only man I was ever with. Until now. Until you.”