in their brief trysts. Certainly his heart hadn’t been. “Not that I’m aware of. Why do think that?”
Her brows rose. “On the basis of your looks alone, I’m certain you don’t lack for attention.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I’m not looking for attention.”
“You think I am?”
“Aren’t all men?”
He laughed. “So…you think me handsome?” he asked in a teasing tone.
She laughed. “Heavens, I’ve never known anyone to fish for compliments with less subtlety.”
“I was merely making certain I understood your meaning.”
“You understood perfectly.”
“In that case, thank you. And allow me to return the compliment. You are-” his gaze wandered over her and all the relaxation he’d briefly achieved vanished in what felt like an engulfment of steam; he raised his gaze back to hers and once again he felt himself drowning in those eyes “-exquisite.”
His words, or perhaps his obvious desire, or perhaps both, clearly flustered her. Instead of acknowledging either, she said, “I can only conclude that the reason you don’t have a wife is because you haven’t wanted one.”
Which was absolutely true. Yet, hearing her say it unreasonably irked him. “Perhaps it’s because I haven’t fallen in love.” That was certainly true-he never had. And even though he’d never allowed himself to become emotionally entangled due to the secretive nature of his spy work for the Crown, he suddenly realized he hadn’t had to put forth much effort to avoid it. He’d yet to meet a woman who affected him in more than a superficial, fleeting way.
She studied him for several seconds, her clear blue eyes searching his, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. Finally she asked, “You’ve never been in love?”
“No. Have you?”
Her expression turned cool. “You ask this of a woman who was married?”
“I meant no offense. But you cannot deny that not all marriages are based on love.”
“No, I suppose they’re not.”
“What was your husband’s name?”
She hesitated, then said softly, “Richard.”
Her answer was precisely what he had suspected she’d say. Richard was Lord Ridgemoor’s Christian name. Simon was beginning to believe that there never had been a Mr. Ralston. Only her lover, Ridgemoor, whom she had clearly loved. And who, based on her reactions, had cast her aside. Did she have any idea that her former lover was dead? Certainly she would know if she was in any way involved in his death.
“You loved him very much.” It wasn’t a question.
She pulled her gaze from his and looked down at her lap, but not before he detected the sheen of tears in her eyes. Tears of sorrow for losing the man she loved-or tears of guilt, for complicity in his death?
“Yes,” she whispered. “I loved him.”
The heartfelt sincerity in her words, her tone, unexpectedly touched Simon in a way he didn’t quite understand. Reaching out, he gently laid one of his hands on her tightly clasped ones. “I’m sorry.”
She went perfectly still for several seconds. Then a shudder seemed to rack her entire body. She snatched her hands from beneath his and abruptly stood. “I must go,” she said, her voice agitated.
Simon rose. “Are you all right?” he asked. Ridiculous question. It was obvious something was amiss, yet he didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m fine. I simply recalled a previous engagement, one to which I’m already late. Thank you for the outing. Good day, Mr. Cooper.” With that she turned and strode quickly away from him.
Simon’s first impulse was to go after her, but he forced himself not to. Instead he watched her melt into the crowd.
He didn’t believe for a minute that there was a previous engagement, so what had sent her fleeing from him? Grief? Or perhaps guilt over her lost love? Or was it his touch that had sent her away? His guess was the latter, which then begged the question why. That gentle touch couldn’t have hurt her, yet she’d fled as if he’d burned her. Had that brief connection affected her the same way it had him-filling him with a deep hunger for more? Or was it aversion that had her running away? She clearly shied away from touching, no doubt because of whatever the problem was with her hands.
Simon blew out a sigh and slowly sat back down to await Benjamin’s return with Beauty. Genevieve Ralston inspired far too many questions-questions that would be damned difficult to answer under the best of circumstances. To make matters worse, the lady wasn’t being honest with him. Certainly she hadn’t been forthcoming about her past, although he couldn’t blame her for not telling him she’d spent ten years as a nobleman’s mistress. Or that she’d authored the most scandalous book of the decade.
Nor could he throw any stones, given the glass house in which he dwelled. He certainly hadn’t been honest with her about who he was or why he was in Little Longstone. Given his suspicions regarding her and the number of lies he’d been forced to tell over the years, this shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
He heaved a weary sigh. He needed to bury his conscience and concentrate on finding that damn letter, getting it back to London and into Waverly’s hands, so that together they could clear Simon’s name.
Still…how would it feel to tell someone the unvarnished truth? A humorless sound escaped him. It had been so long since he’d done so, he couldn’t recall. But he imagined it would be…liberating.
Of course he couldn’t, wouldn’t consider saying or doing anything that could jeopardize his mission. Still, he idly wondered what her reaction would be if he were honest with her. What if he told her he was a spy for the Crown? That his true surname was Cooperstone? And that he wasn’t a steward but a viscount? The spy revelation would no doubt shock her, as it would his acquaintances, friends and family. Very few people knew about his secret life. As for his exalted title-would he see the same flicker of greed he observed in so many other women’s eyes? That glimmer of assessment as they calculated how much they could get from him? A bracelet? A necklace? A proposal?
Before he could ponder the question further, an odd chill stole over him-a sensation he well recognized after spending eight years in the spy game.
He was being watched.
He scanned the crowd, but saw nothing amiss. No one’s attention appeared fixed on him. Keeping his movements casual, he rose and glanced around. Hundreds of people milled about, none of whom he recognized, none of whom seemed the least interested in him. Yet he felt the weight of someone’s eyes on him. And he sensed danger.
No one except his butler knew he was here, and he’d sworn Ramsey to secrecy. He looked around again, but the feeling of danger faded, convincing him that whoever had been watching him was no longer nearby. Every instinct screamed that whoever it was had to be connected to the letter he sought, which made Simon’s mission even more urgent. He needed to find that letter-before someone else did.
8
GENEVIEVE paced the length of her bedchamber, pausing at the window to stare down at her garden. Moonlight bathed the gravel paths winding between the hedges and plants. Usually the sight calmed her, but not tonight. Her thoughts had been in turmoil ever since she’d walked away from Mr. Cooper this afternoon after they’d chatted and laughed together, after he’d flirted with her, and she’d flirted back.
After he’d touched her.
Genevieve closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass, recalling the unforgettable sensation of his fingertips brushing over her shoulder. So light a caress to inspire such heat within her. She should have left then. But she’d been enjoying his company and the admiration and want in his eyes. It had been so long since she’d been desired, felt desirable. It had been so long since she’d experienced the longing tug, the yearning of sensual need. So, instead of listening to her better judgment, she’d simply shifted away from his touch and stayed, basking in his attention.
But then he’d laid his hand over hers, and she’d frozen, shocked by the unexpected touch. No one had touched
