Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

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.”

Genevieve went completely still. Then her heart, which had stuttered at his words, raced and tripped over itself. He wanted to continue their liaison. She’d vowed never to allow herself to be vulnerable again, never to risk her heart, never to be any man’s mistress, but, dear God, she loved him. How could she even contemplate walking away from him now that he was here? Here, clearly wanting her to be his mistress. It was, of course, all a man in his position could offer her. She’d loved Richard and been his mistress, but Simon…she not only loved him, he owned her heart. How could she give him any less? For an answer, the vows she’d once made to herself crumbled like dust at her feet.

Before she could tell him, he said, “This last month has been the most miserable, lonely four weeks-plus two days-of my life and it is an experience I never want to repeat.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Dare I hope that you’ve been as miserable?”