Touch Me

“Flowers,” she answered. “Especially roses.”

“Any particular color?”

“Pink is my favorite.”

He smiled into her eyes and her breath hitched. Dear God, he was beautiful when he was serious, but when he smiled…oh, my. “I’m delighted that I brought you not only your favorite flower, but in your favorite color. What else?”

It took her several seconds to recall what they were discussing. Then she cleared her throat. “Cats. Books. Artwork.”

He nodded and glanced around the room. “You’ve some lovely pieces.” He tilted his chin toward the painting hanging over the mantel. “That piece, in particular, is remarkable. It’s so vivid I can almost feel the sea spray hitting my face.”

Genevieve glanced at the painting she’d created, at the swirling waves crashing against the rocks, and recalled the first time she’d touched a paintbrush to canvas as a young girl, so filled with hope, her hands free of the arthritis that would strike her years later as an adult, stunting her talent and leading to heartbreak.

Her gaze strayed to the woman standing at the top of the cliffs amidst a profusion of swaying wildflowers. She faced the tumultuous waters, her features indistinguishable, yet Genevieve knew who she was. Or at least who she was supposed to be.

“Thank you. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”

He rose and moved to the mantel, leaning forward to more closely examine the painting. “The pattern of brushstrokes is very unusual,” he said.

Genevieve’s brows rose. He showed unexpected knowledge for a steward. “You are a student of art?”

He hesitated for several seconds, then turned to smile at her over his shoulder. “In so far as Mr. Jonas-Smythe enjoys adding to his collection, I therefore need to know something of the subject.” He returned to his seat. “The painting isn’t signed.”

“No.” She’d never signed any of her work, a matter of discretion as Richard had placed many of her pieces in his homes.

“Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.” To herself, which made the statement true, although not completely truthful. But then she had no intention of telling him the truth.

His attention shifted to the doorway and she followed his gaze. Sophia meandered into the room, tail high, every line of her proclaiming that this was her house and those within it were fortunate that she allowed them to be there.

“It appears your mention of a weakness for cats was overheard,” he said.

“That’s Sophia. I’m afraid she’s rather shy…”

Her words trailed off as her pet, who usually couldn’t be bothered with strangers unless they offered her food, trotted toward Mr. Cooper as if a rasher of kippers hung around his neck. To Genevieve’s surprise, Sophia jumped onto Mr. Cooper’s lap without hesitation. She batted his lapel with her front paw, twitched her fluffy tail under his nose, then settled herself across his thighs as if he were her own personal mattress. Looking across at Genevieve through squinty eyes, she kneaded her front paws against Mr. Cooper’s breeches and purred so loudly, it sounded as if three cats were in the room.

Mr. Cooper cleared his throat. “Um, yes, I can see she is extremely shy.” When he lightly scratched her pet’s head, Sophia closed her eyes and stretched her neck into his touch.

Genevieve stared in amazement. “She’s never behaved like that with a stranger before. It’s almost as if she knows you.”

He shrugged lightly. “Animals like me.”

Good Lord, the sight of his long, strong fingers stroking her cat caused flutters in Genevieve’s belly.

“Tell me more about your weaknesses,” he said.

She forced her gaze away from that stroking hand. More of her weaknesses? She dared not. Especially as it appeared she had one for him. “I’ve already confessed mine. It’s your turn.”

Petting the sleepy-eyed cat with one hand, he sipped from his tea with the other, his gaze never leaving hers. His unwavering regard flustered her in a way she refused to show. Yet for all her outward serenity, her insides quivered with something she’d thought long forgotten, but had felt enough times in the past to know without a doubt what it was.

Desire.

Desire she wouldn’t, couldn’t, refused to act upon, and therefore desperately didn’t want to feel. Which meant she needed to end this impromptu tea party as soon as possible and send her far-too- attractive guest on his way. Still, to send him off too abruptly would no doubt make him wonder why, question whether she might have any interest in him.

Ten minutes. She’d give him ten more minutes. That was enough time not to appear rude or raise questions. She could endure his company and keep her unexpected, unwanted desire hidden for ten more minutes.

“We share a weakness for books,” he said.

“Oh? What do you enjoy reading?”

“Anything. Everything. I recently read Frankenstein and found it fascinating. Shakespeare and Chaucer are favorites. As I’m not accustomed to all this quiet in the country, I fear I’ll run out of reading material before my stay in Little Longstone is over.”

“I’ve a good number of books. Before you leave, you’re welcome to borrow several from my collection.” The instant the words left her lips she regretted them. What was she thinking? Borrowing books would require another visit to return them.

“A very generous offer. Thank you. What do you like to read?”

“Like you, anything and everything. Sir Walter Scott. The poetry of Blake, Lord Byron and Wordsworth. The gothic novels of Mrs. Radcliffe. I recently finished reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

His brows rose. “Quite a departure from Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

“Indeed. However, I enjoy variety.”

“Variety’s the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor,’” he quoted softly.

Genevieve’s heart lurched. The husky timbre of his voice made it sound as if he were discussing something far more intimate than poetry.

“William Cowper,” she murmured.

“One of my favorite poets.”

“One of mine as well.”

“It appears we have quite a bit in common, Mrs. Ralston.”

Genevieve ignored the blatant interest she heard in his voice. Saw in his eyes. “Clearly you like cats.”

“I like animals of all sorts.”

“Do you have any pets?”

“Not at this time, but I have had in the past. I am considering getting myself a dog.”

“Then you should plan to attend the annual Autumn Festival in the village tomorrow. In addition to booths filled with food and trinkets and crafts, there are always several families with litters of puppies for sale.”

“An excellent idea. I’ll go-if you’ll accompany me.”

Genevieve firmly ignored the way her heart leapt. She opened her mouth to refuse, but before she could do so, he continued, “Choosing a dog is a serious decision, one that requires a second opinion.” His eyes glittered with deviltry. “You wouldn’t want me to pick out the wrong dog, would you?”

“There will be dozens of people at the festival who can help you choose.”

“Perhaps. But I’d much prefer your opinion.”

“And why is that?”

He finished the last sip of his tea, set the empty cup on the table, then, with a hand on Sophia’s back to keep her in place, he leaned forward. A mere three feet separated their faces and she could see the fine grain of his skin. The thickness of his eyelashes. The tiny scar in the center of his chin. “I could say it’s because you’re familiar with the village and its residents, including those with puppies. I could also claim it’s because you’re intelligent. And both of those would be perfectly true. But in the name of honesty, I must confess I also have a weakness for beautiful,