Why had Mr. Cooper borrowed A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore?
The suspicions she’d pushed away earlier came back with a sickening crash, knotting her stomach with dread, a sensation she’d learned not to ignore. Especially considering that only a few months ago, someone had wanted Brightmore dead over the furor that had erupted over his scandalous writings promoting sexual independence for women. Was it possible that Charles Brightmore’s rumored departure for America hadn’t ended the threats against him?
She could only pray it wasn’t so, because Charles Brightmore lived right here in Little Longstone. Indeed, she saw the fictional man every morning when she looked in the mirror. Was her secret identity as the author of the scandalous tome that had shocked society in jeopardy of being uncovered?
She pressed her hands to her midriff and drew a deep breath. Dear God, was it possible there was more to Mr. Cooper’s visit to Little Longstone, to her cottage, than he’d admitted? Was it possible he knew, or suspected who she was? Had he been hired to locate Charles Brightmore? Or worse-harm Brightmore?
She didn’t know, but she was determined to find out.
5
THE NEXT afternoon, after checking to make certain he was unobserved, Simon departed Mrs. Ralston’s cottage and headed swiftly down the path toward the village. Pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket, he glanced at the time. Nearly one o’clock, almost an hour past the time he’d agreed to meet her. He slipped the timepiece back in his pocket and quickened his pace.
After watching her and Baxter leave the cottage at a quarter ’til noon, he’d slipped inside and continued his search for the letter. Unfortunately he’d been no more successful than he had during his last hunting expedition. He’d wanted to remain longer, but he dared not lest she return home and catch him where he wasn’t supposed to be.
Bloody hell, what had she done with that damn letter?
If only her cat Sophia could talk. The animal had followed him from room to room, rubbing against him and purring loudly. When he’d scratched behind her ears and asked where his letter might be hidden, Sophia had merely leaned into his hand and purred louder. And Simon had asked himself the question he most didn’t want to-What if Mrs. Ralston had destroyed the letter?
With grim determination, he’d headed toward her bedchamber, telling himself that if that were the case, then he’d just have to return to London, continue his investigation, and convince Waverly, along with Miller and Albury, of his innocence and that he needed their help to prove it. Surely, on a gut level, his mentor and two closest friends knew Simon wasn’t guilty. Someone, somewhere, knew something, knew the truth, and by God if the letter was lost to him, Simon would find that something.
Searching Mrs. Ralston’s bedchamber again, he’d hated himself for the way his hands lingered over her clothing, her perfume bottle. Never in his life had he been so overwhelmed with lust, and definitely never during an investigation. The fact that he felt such staggering desire for a woman whose innocence was suspect truly grated on him. Bloody hell, he’d stolen one look at her in that wet chemise and taken leave of his senses. Throughout his search he’d had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand, on finding the letter-the letter that would save his life.
Still, while he hadn’t found the missive, he had discovered something very unexpected. Curiosity regarding what she’d been writing the night he’d hidden in her bedchamber had propelled him to her escritoire. Snatches of words written on the stack of vellum sheets he’d found in the top drawer of her desk drifted through his mind.
Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to seduce her man…Today’s Modern Woman must master the art of removing her gentleman’s clothing-and her own…Today’s Modern Woman will greatly benefit from discreetly brushing her body against her gentleman’s in a crowded ballroom, then “accidentally” stroking her hand over the front of his breeches…
The handwriting had started smoothly, but had degenerated into an increasingly cramped jumble of letters. Last night he’d read A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore and although the writing style and mention of Today’s Modern Woman were identical to the pages he’d found in Mrs. Ralston’s desk, nothing in the published book matched what she’d written on those pieces of vellum. Therefore, Mrs. Ralston was either very closely connected to Charles Brightmore-or Brightmore was merely a “nom de plume,” and she was the author of the book. And working on a second volume.
His instincts told him the latter was the case. He recalled that several months ago there had been a great deal of interest in the mysterious Charles Brightmore. The author had never shown himself in society or at any literary gatherings. Simon vaguely remembered talk of threats against the man whose Ladies’ Guide had incensed the gentlemen of the ton for its radical ideas on women’s independence. The last he’d heard, Brightmore had left the country.
But Simon would wager everything he owned that Brightmore hadn’t left the country at all. That the reason he’d never shown himself was because he was a she. And that she was Genevieve Ralston.
Very interesting.
As was the information contained in the explicit book. Frankly, he’d never read anything like it. Under the guise of an innocent guide for ladies, Genevieve Ralston had provided an arsenal of detailed information on carnal relations that only a very sexually experienced woman could provide. He’d found the information fascinating. Stimulating. And damned arousing-even more so now that he suspected his beautiful and mysterious neighbor had secretly written it.
Certainly that information would prove useful. All he wanted was his damn letter, so he could return to London and clear his name, regain his reputation with Waverly, Miller and Albury. He’d do whatever was necessary to get the letter, and now he had the ammunition to do so. He wasn’t above resorting to blackmail. Not that he had any desire actually to tell anyone her secret, but she didn’t know that. Yet, given her obvious experience in the bedchamber, it would be much more civilized-and pleasurable-for him to simply seduce the information from her.
Yes, that was an excellent plan-seduce her, then get her to confide the whereabouts of the letter. He’d begin by flirting today, then coaxing her into his bed as soon as possible.
The same image that had haunted him since the night he’d read that tantalizing snippet of the Ladies’ Guide in her bedchamber…of her, wet and naked, tying him to her bed, flashed through his mind. Of her beautiful, lush body brushing against his. His tongue exploring all the places his bound hands couldn’t touch…
His rapid footsteps faltered on the path to the village and he halted. Damn it, his skin felt hot and tight and his lungs pumped like a bellows-and not because of any physical exertions. He glanced down and glared at the erection pressing against his snug breeches. Bloody hell. Every time he thought of the woman his damn cock swelled. And he’d thought of her more times than he cared to count since seeing her in that damn wet, transparent chemise. Clearly seducing her wouldn’t present any hardship-his body could hardly wait.
Which thoroughly vexed and confused him. Even the knowledge that she’d removed the letter that, according to Ridgemoor’s last words, would name his murderer and thereby clear Simon’s name didn’t cool his ardor. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?