their footsteps, knowing that very soon Baxter would be returning from Genevieve’s home and their day together would be over. And he wasn’t ready for it to end.
For the past quarter-hour, as they’d strolled along the wooded path from the springs after Genevieve had soaked her hands, he’d tried his damnedest to recall the last time he’d spent such an enjoyable day, only to finally conclude that he never had.
How was that possible? How could it be that in nearly thirty years of living-a life filled with privilege, friendships, lovers, parties, passion and adventure-that this day, with this woman, out of all the days he could recall from a lifetime of days, was his favorite? He didn’t know, but there was no denying it.
They’d spent hours in sensual exploration, their bouts of lovemaking interspersed with laughter, conversation and a picnic of biscuits, jam and honey on the hearth rug in his bedchamber-a meal that led to an even more delicious pastime of painting honey on each others’ bodies. After licking off the sweetness, they’d made love again, their skins warmed by the fire and bathed in flickering golden light. Genevieve was not only beautiful, she was witty and intelligent and an exciting, adventurous and generous lover. He’d found himself unable to stop touching her, and was consumed with the unprecedented desire to wrap his arms around her and never let go, to meld their bodies so tightly together they couldn’t be separated.
There were women he’d known for years with whom he didn’t feel so comfortable, with whom he didn’t share such an easy rapport. And never had there been one who set his blood on fire as Genevieve did. Every minute spent in her company only served to further convince him that she hadn’t been, in any way, involved in Ridgemoor’s death. Indeed, he was convinced she didn’t even know her former lover was dead. Surely a woman who’d trusted him enough to remove those gloves, to show him, share with him that which she considered her greatest shame, was trustworthy. He’d asked her to trust him, and although she had no real reason to, she had.
And damn it, that kicked at his conscience-a fact that both unsettled and alarmed him. It had never bothered him in the past to coax confidences from people while feeding them a sack of lies. It was all part of his work. After all, he could hardly announce to suspects, “Good afternoon, I’m a spy for the British Crown, come to unearth all your secrets. But if you’d simply tell them to me, it would save me a great deal of time and trouble.”
Yet because he was not telling her who he was, why he was here, each lie was beginning to taste like a dose of bitter medicine. Which could only mean that the stirrings of discontent he’d experienced over the past months were more pressing than he’d believed. If he couldn’t stomach telling lies, then his days as a spy were truly numbered. Indeed more than once today he’d considered telling her the truth, but his mind warned him to be cautious, that he didn’t really know her, that while she’d shared one secret with him, she had others-the fact that she’d been a mistress, and her secret identity as Charles Brightmore. But his heart…his heart which had never before been so engaged told him her secrets regarding her past were only to protect herself and her reputation in Little Longstone. They were not for any nefarious reasons.
This day in her company had also convinced him that Ridgemoor had been a bloody, blind fool. He knew that when Genevieve claimed her husband had rejected her, she had really meant that it had been Ridgemoor who had done so. He frowned at the earl’s idiocy, and anger pumped through him for the way Ridgemoor had hurt her. He’d never forget the trepidation in her eyes, the vulnerability when she’d removed her gloves, so brave, yet so fearful that he’d reject her. That any man could do something like that simply stunned him. These hours in her company had left him with a deep hunger for more. More days like this.
“Heavens, what a frown you’re sporting,” Genevieve said, her voice pulling him from his brown study. “That scowl doesn’t bode well for whomever you’re contemplating.”
Simon relaxed his features and offered her a smile. “Actually I was thinking about you.”
“Oh, dear. It couldn’t have been good.”
“On the contrary, it was very good.”
“Your forbidding expression says otherwise.”
“It was due to my inability to come up with the correct word. I was thinking how enjoyable this day has been, only to realize that
“So much better than merely enjoyable?” she suggested with a half smile.
“Yes.” He lifted her hand-her ungloved hand-to his lips and pressed a kiss against her fingers. “It’s been the sort of day I’d like very much to repeat.”
His hope that she’d echo the sentiment withered and died when her warm amusement faded, replaced by unmistakable chagrin. Everything inside him froze with disappointment. Damn. Clearly she hadn’t found the day as special as he had, although this was the first indication of that.
It was only with the greatest effort that he managed to keep his expression neutral. When she said nothing, simply continued to stare at him with those dismay-filled eyes, he finally spoke the obvious truth that hovered between them like a dark cloud. “You don’t want the same thing.” The words came out flatly, which was fitting as flattened was precisely how he felt.
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
