Touch Me

precipitated Ridgemoor’s swift ending of their relationship. As Simon well knew, women could be perfidious creatures. And he had no doubt there was more to this particular woman than her simple existence as a former mistress who’d retired to the country. At the minimum, she possessed a box that contained information vital to Simon and many other people-or at least, it had contained that information, until the box had come into her possession. What possible reason other than guilt of some sort could have driven her to remove the letter?

She laid her cloak over the back of a wing chair near the fireplace and he held his breath. For several tension- filled seconds, she stood so close to him he had but to reach out his hand to touch her arm.

“What are you doing in the corner, Sophia?” she murmured. “I hope you haven’t found a mouse.”

No, not a mouse.

Sophia unwrapped herself from Simon’s boots and trotted toward her mistress. After giving the cat an affectionate pat, Mrs. Ralston crossed to her dresser and removed a clean chemise from the drawer, while Sophia jumped onto the bed and settled herself in the center of the counterpane. Simon pulled in a slow, deep breath of relief, noting Mrs. Ralston had left behind a hint of her scent-the same soft rose fragrance that filled the crystal bottle on her dresser.

Standing with her back to him, she peeled the wet chemise down her body, giving a slow wriggle that had him clenching his hands. A fine layer of sweat misted his forehead and, although he continued to fight to control his body’s reaction to her, it was a battle well and truly lost when she bent over to pick up the garment, a move that hiked her shapely bottom in the air and afforded him an unimpeded view of her feminine charms-a heart-stopping, concentration-destroying vision that drove every thought from his mind, including the fact that the verdict of hanged by the neck until dead could figure prominently in his near future.

As he gritted his teeth and bit back a groan, she pulled the fresh chemise over her head, then walked to the wardrobe and, thank God, pulled out a satin robe which she donned. The soft material clung to her curves like a second skin, but at least they were covered. He hoped now she’d go to bed.

Instead, she returned to the dresser and massaged cream from one of the pots into her hands, wincing several times as if in pain. Then she donned a pair of gloves from the top drawer. The ritual struck him as odd. Did all women wear gloves to bed? Any time he’d spent the night with a woman, he kept her too busy and too sated to think about anything as mundane as hand cream and gloves.

His hope that Mrs. Ralston would now retire was dashed when she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, releasing a curtain of shimmering blond curls that fell to her hips. He immediately imagined running his hands through those spiral tresses, wrapping them around his fist. Pulling her closer-

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the unexpected, unwanted image. What the hell was wrong with him? Bad enough he should be entertaining fantasies while on a mission, but it was completely unacceptable that he do so when the subject of those fantasies was a woman who well might be implicated in a deadly plot.

She emitted a low groan and his eyes snapped open to find her tying off the end of the braid she’d made with a pale blue ribbon while he’d been lustfully daydreaming. Before he could decide why she’d made such a sound, she again walked toward him. His every muscle tensed. Had she detected his presence? Sensed she was being watched? Bloody hell, it seemed as if she were staring directly at him. If she discovered him, he’d have no choice but to subdue her. A mental picture instantly formed in his mind…yet the vision wasn’t of him subduing her, but rather of her tying him…with pale-blue ribbons. To her bed.

Damn it. That bloody Ladies’Guide had utterly corrupted his mind.

To his relief she settled herself on the dainty chair before her escritoire, but his ease quickly evaporated when she lit the single candle on the desk. Light flared and he shrank as far into the shadow cast by the marble statue as possible. What the bloody hell was she doing?

She silently answered his question when she withdrew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and reached for the quill pen. In spite of his wish that she’d retire so he could escape, Simon’s interest quickened. She was going to write a letter. One that might provide him with vital information? It seemed an odd time to compose a missive- unless one was being secretive.

Simon watched her write smoothly for several minutes, but then her movements began to slow. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed tightly together. She bent over the vellum with what he first assumed was concentration on her task, but then his gaze dropped to her hand that held the quill. She now gripped the instrument in an awkward manner. After writing several more words, she stopped then slowly flexed her gloved fingers as if she were in pain. Given her pinched expression, it was obvious something was amiss. Had she suffered some sort of accident that had damaged her hands?

She wrote with that same pained expression for another minute or two, then set the pen back in the holder and sanded the vellum. After slipping the paper into the drawer, she blew out the candle, rose and walked to her bed. He watched her remove her robe then extinguish the oil lamp. Bathed in a swathe of silver moonlight, she pulled back the counterpane and settled herself between the sheets. Sophia raised her head for several seconds, then resumed her curled-up position. Mrs. Ralston closed her eyes. She looked like an innocent angel-but Simon knew better than to accept outward appearances.

Soon he detected the sound of her slow, even breathing. He waited an additional few minutes, then, satisfied she was indeed asleep, he slipped from his hiding place and silently left the room. As he closed her front door behind him, he vowed that he would discover not only what Mrs. Genevieve Ralston had done with his letter and why, but what all her secrets were.

Especially whether those secrets included murder.

3

London is hectic and exciting, and married life is wonderful. The only thing missing is you, my dear friend. I wish you would come to town to visit…

THE WORDS of the letter blurred as tears flooded Genevieve Ralston’s eyes, tears she quickly brushed away when she heard heavy footfalls in the corridor. Seconds later her giant of a manservant, Baxter, entered the sitting room.

“Wanted to let ye know that-” His words cut off, and setting his beefy fists on his hips, he narrowed his eyes. “Yer upset. Wot’s wrong?” Before Genevieve could answer, his gaze dropped to the letter she held and understanding dawned in his dark eyes. “Yer sad from missin’ yer friend Lady Catherine.”

Genevieve swallowed the ball of misery tightening her throat and forced a light laugh. “A bit.”

“More than a bit,” Baxter said, his voice gruff. He studied her for several seconds with an expression that made her feel as transparent as glass. “Ye ain’t been the same since she got married and moved to London. Been three months. I hate seein’ ye so unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy,” Genevieve said, walking to the desk and slipping the letter into a drawer. It was true, she told herself. She was merely lonely. Before Catherine had moved to London, hardly a day had gone by when they hadn’t seen each other. But now…Catherine’s absence left Genevieve floundering. The days that used to be filled with laughter, conversation and confidences with her best friend now echoed with silence and loneliness and far too much introspection. She now had too much time to think about Richard and the pain of being cast aside after ten years. The arrival of the puzzle box had only made things worse. As had his cryptic note: “You’re the only one I can trust. Keep this safe and I will come for it as soon as I can.”

That brief missive had struck her like a hard slap, leaving her confused and angry. Why hadn’t he sent the box to the younger, exquisite mistress he’d replaced her with? She could still see the pity, and worse, disgust in his eyes when he’d looked at her imperfect hands the last time she’d seen him, when he’d rejected her touch and attempts to seduce him. Two days later, he’d abruptly ended their arrangement, without even the courage or the decency to tell her to her face. Instead he’d sent a curt note, along with a parting monetary gift. As if money could soothe the hurt and pain and humiliation.

Even now, a year after he’d discarded her, a part of her still couldn’t quite believe that he’d been so unfeeling. So unkind. He’d told her he loved her. And she’d loved him-perhaps not at first, but soon after they’d met. At the beginning of what had turned into a decade-long affair, she’d merely been pitifully grateful to have found a way out