Free Touch Me by Jacquie D'Alessandro Page A

buried would prove very challenging indeed.

7
    “S O TELL ME , Mrs. Ralston, what else do you enjoying doing aside from reading and indulging your weakness for artwork?”
    The instant they were seated on the wooden bench, Simon tossed out the question as a matter of self-preservation. He’d suggested they sit because the sensual waters their conversation had drifted into had made it difficult for him to walk without limping. The image that had haunted him since watching her in her bedchamber, of her tying his hands with her satin hair ribbons, had roared into his mind, resulting in yet another Genevieve Ralston-inspired arousal. Bloody hell, he hadn’t suffered so many unwanted erections since he was a green lad.
    No doubt part of the problem was the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman for several months, a situation that confounded him, since he’d had ample opportunity to end his celibacy at a number of soirées. However, none of the ladies, in spite of their willingness and beauty, had lit more than a superficial spark within him. He wasn’t quite certain when his liking for purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaisons had waned, but there was no denying that over the past year or so it had. Until, it seems, he’d set eyes on Genevieve Ralston.One look at her in that damn soaked chemise, and a purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaison was all he could think about.
    He shifted his sleeping puppy more comfortably into the crook of his arm, and in spite of himself his lips twitched. He hadn’t really been looking to purchase a dog, but as it had provided a perfect pretext to entice Mrs. Ralston into meeting him at the festival, he’d seized the opportunity. Otherwise, he feared, she might have refused his invitation, even though he sensed she found him attractive. Or perhaps she didn’t. Unlike most women, he found her frustratingly difficult to read.
    “I enjoy spending time in my garden,” she answered.
    Relief rushed through him. The garden. Excellent. Nothing sensual about that. “I saw something of it when I walked to your home yesterday. The grounds are lovely.”
    “Thank you. I find it very peaceful.”
    “And so well-tended. Perhaps you’d share the name of your gardener so I could pass it along to Dr. Oliver? I’m afraid his shrubs have become overgrown since he left Little Longstone.”
    “I’m actually in need of a new gardener myself. My dear friend Catherine used to help me—we’d spend hours together in the garden, but she recently married and now lives in London. Baxter’s taken care of things since she left, but I’m afraid he has trouble telling the difference between what is and isn’t a weed. And given his tendency to stomp about…” She chuckled. “I think he’s scared several plants to death.”
    Simon nodded. “Gardening requires a delicate touch.”
    Her eyes took on a wistful expression. “Yes. I used to do it all myself…” Her gaze drifted down to her gloved hands which she’d hidden among the folds of herpelisse. “But as the garden grew, it became more than I could handle alone.”
    He followed her gaze. He noted she kept her hands out of sight as much possible, even though she wore gloves. She’d even worn them in her house during his visit yesterday, an oddity to be sure. He recalled how pained she’d looked when she’d been writing, the cream she’d rubbed into her hands in her bedchamber before donning her gloves to sleep, and her mention of the therapeutic springs. Clearly she’d suffered some sort of accident or injury. Curiosity jabbed him, but he pushed it away. If he pushed for too much information too soon, he feared scaring her off, and he couldn’t risk that before he had his letter. Still, he needed to know more about her, needed to establish a connection between them. A connection of trust.
    Before he could proceed, however, a young boy Simon judged to be perhaps eight, approached him, his round-eyed gaze fixed on