Deborah Hale - Wanted - Mail-Order Mistress

She had five whole months in Singapore to find out what had become of her missing brother. Bethan could have kissed Simon for providing that precious assurance! But would she wed him for it? Her feelings on that question were sharply divided.

On one hand, he had paid her passage and she’d made an agreement with Mr Northmore on his behalf. If he still wanted to marry her, how could she refuse? But what if she discovered her brother had gone somewhere else? Marriage to Simon would leave her trapped in Singapore, unable to follow Hugh’s trail.

Aside from those practical matters there were other things to consider—such as her intense but confused response to Simon Grimshaw. His nearness, his touch and even his gaze stirred her senses in ways no other man’s ever had. Finally there was his young daughter. The child seemed starved for lively company and the affection of someone other than her father’s servants.

“Your daughter’s a dear wee thing,” said Bethan, as Ah-Ming brought the pudding. “A bit quiet at first, but I think she enjoyed our romp in the garden.”

“It sounded that way. I can’t recall the last time I heard her laugh like that.” Simon did not seem as pleased as she’d hoped.

For the first time since they’d agreed to begin their acquaintance afresh, Bethan sensed that stern Mr Grimshaw was still lurking beneath Simon’s amiable surface. “I suppose she misses her mother, poor thing. How long is it since your wife died?”

Simon’s fingers clenched tightly around his spoon and he stared down at his pudding as if it might be poisoned. His answer came out stiff and halting. “I’ve been widowed for more than three years. I doubt Rosalia has any recollection of her mother.”

“I’m so sorry for you both.” Bethan longed to reach across the table and give his hand a squeeze. She pitied his young daughter more than ever. “Rosalia must take after her mother, does she? She doesn’t look like you at all.”

Simon raised his eyes to hers and spoke with quiet but ominous insistence. “Rosalia is the very image of her mother. Now, if you please, I would rather talk about something else. As I mentioned earlier, I prefer not to dwell on the past.”

“Of course,” Bethan murmured, though she was fairly bursting with questions about his late wife.

How had she died? Did it have anything to do with how Simon had injured his leg? Perhaps that was why he hadn’t wanted to talk about it earlier.

But there were other things she was curious about that should not stir up any painful memories for him. “You never did tell me how many ships come to Singapore in a year. I’m sure it must be a great many.”

“It is, indeed, and more come every season.” He sounded grateful for her change of subject. “The Bugis arrive in their prahus on the north-west monsoon. They bring spices from the South Seas. Then there’s the junk fleet from China. They bring silks and tea. Ships from India and Europe come on the south-east monsoon, like yours did. They trade cotton, iron, glassware and such for goods from China and the South Seas.”

As they ate delectable mango pudding and drank rich Java coffee, Bethan plied Simon with many more questions about Singapore and his business, gleaning pieces of information that she hoped might help her track down Hugh. Simon answered readily, impressing her with his masterful grasp of everything that affected his business.

It was clear he enjoyed telling her about it, too. She sensed he was becoming less tense and guarded. The beguiling hint of a smile seemed to hover on his lips, ready to blaze forth in full potency at any second. Bethan drank in the sound of his voice, noting every confident gesture and subtle change in his features.

A faint stab of disappointment struck her when Simon laid down his napkin at last and rose from his chair, for it meant their pleasant evening was coming to an end. “Before we burst at the seams, shall we step out on to the veranda to enjoy the night air?”

“That sounds lovely.”

A few moments later they stood on the deep, roofed veranda that looked out over the garden where she had played with Rosalia. Beyond the garden lay a road and on the other side of the road stretched the beach. A tangy ocean breeze rustled through the leaves of several tall trees near the house. From the sea came the constant, soothing pulse of the breaking waves.

Bethan inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” Simon’s hand covered hers as it rested upon the veranda railing. “I’ve become so used to it all, I don’t notice any more.”

It took a moment to muster her reply. Simon’s touch seemed to reach beyond her fingers, sending an inviting sensation to whisper under her skin. But where was it inviting her? She was too inexperienced to know.

She sniffed again. “It’s very sweet, but I don’t think it’s flowers. Something cooking, maybe?”

While she tried to describe the strange, appetising aroma, she drank in his scent too. It had a briny tang with a faintly bitter edge that was strangely appealing—like strong, dark coffee or rich chocolate.

“It might be coconut oil.” Simon edged nearer until his arm rested against hers. “We use it in lanterns to light the streets at night.”

“Singapore is full of nice new things.” Bethan gave a sigh of pleasure, intensely aware of Simon’s nearness. “I can hardly wait to see, hear and smell them all.”

“Don’t forget touch ,” he reminded her in a deep rustling whisper as he turned towards her and raised his hand to skim her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

It was such a different sensation from the way he’d clutched her arm on the quay. It intrigued her that a man who could command such protective force could also be so gentle.

“You’re not at all what I expected, Bethan.” When he’d said that during their disastrous first meeting, she’d been certain he was expressing displeasure. Now he seemed to be telling her something quite different. “How on earth did Hadrian ever find you?”

Uncertain of the proper response to Simon’s touch, she made none, though she was powerless to stifle the blush that flared in her cheek beneath his fingers.

“He put a notice in the newspaper,” she replied in a breathless voice, “and I answered it.”

“He did what ?” Simon drew back abruptly, as if her innocent blush scorched his hand. “What in blazes was he thinking?”

“Does it matter how he found me?” Bethan shrank from the harshness of his indignation. Was he worried people would laugh at him for getting a bride out of the newspaper? “I’m here. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

To her relief, Simon’s voice softened. “I suppose so.” He reached for her hand, twining his fingers through hers. “I’m surprised, that’s all, by Hadrian’s unconventional methods. And more surprised that a woman like you would answer that kind of notice in a newspaper. There must have been plenty of men in Newcastle who wanted you.”

Bethan sensed a different question lurking beneath his words, but could not think what it might be. Anyway, she wasn’t comfortable with this whole subject. What if her tongue ran away with her, as it so often did, and she told him her true reason for coming to Singapore? She wanted to be certain she could trust him before she mentioned her brother.

“I didn’t meet many men working in the Bainbridges’ nursery. And I didn’t care much for Newcastle. So when I heard about Mr Northmore’s notice, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. I never expected him to pick me, but when he did, I felt as if I’d been offered a lucky chance. I couldn’t refuse it.”