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Genevieve’s stomach tightened at the mention of her “nom de plume.” “Do you?”

Baxter scratched his bald head. “Doesn’t seem likely. That matter was taken care of months ago with those newspaper articles. Everyone knows Charles Brightmore left England. No reason to look for him here.” Baxter’s expression collapsed into a fierce frown. “Course if this bloke is sniffin’ around for Charles Brightmore, ye can be sure I’ll be breakin’ his damn nose. I’ll let no harm come to ye, Gen.”

The tension tightening Genevieve’s shoulders relaxed. “I know. And you’re right-as far as anyone knows, Brightmore has left England with no plans to return.”

Baxter nodded. “Still, always pays to be careful. But I hafta say, this bloke don’t look like any sort of investigator type. Acts more like a damn lovesick suitor is what, movin’ in just this mornin’ and not wastin’ any time to call on ye. Says he’s come to introduce himself since ye’ll be neighbors for the next two weeks.” He flexed his sausage-sized fingers. “I were tempted to toss him out on his gift-bearing arse, but seein’ as how yer just a bit lonely, I suppose I could resist the temptation if some company might make ye smile.”

“It’s always best to avoid arse-tossing, unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Genevieve said in her most serious voice. Then she raised her brows. “Gift-bearing?”

“Brought a bouquet of flowers with him.” Baxter’s lip curled. “Bloke should know a woman like you is worth diamonds.”

Genevieve laughed. “And of course you wouldn’t be the least suspicious of a man I’ve never met who called upon me bearing diamonds.”

A sheepish expression momentarily softened Baxter’s rough-hewn features. “Suppose I would be, now that ye mention it.” Then his scowl returned. “But ye can’t trust anybody nowadays. Bloke musta gotten wind of the fact that a beautiful woman lived here, so wot’s the first thing he does? Comes callin’ with flowers, that’s wot.”

Genevieve barely squelched the incredulous sound that rose in her throat at what Baxter was implying. “There’s no need to worry about that.” Indeed, that part of her life was over. She glanced down at her gloved hands and pressed her lips together. The doctors called her affliction arthritis. She called it the curse that had robbed her of the man she’d loved. The man who couldn’t bear to have her less-than-perfect hands touch him. Why would another man look upon her affliction differently? The answer was, they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter if Mr. Simon Cooper, or anyone else, called upon her. She had no intention of ever allowing herself to be hurt again.

When she looked up she saw that Baxter’s gaze had followed hers. There was no missing the flash of sympathy in his eyes as he looked at her gloves. She quickly clasped her hands behind her back. While she appreciated Baxter’s concern, she damn well didn’t want his pity.

“What does this Mr. Cooper look like?” she asked.

He raised his gaze back to hers and frowned. “Like a flower-carryin’ bloke who should be tossed out on his arse.”

“I see. What sort of flowers?”

“Roses.”

Her favorite. Of course Mr. Cooper would have no way of knowing that.

Under normal circumstances, she would have told Baxter to inform Mr. Cooper she wasn’t in. She didn’t care much for socializing outside her small circle of friends, and except for occasional visits to the village, she kept to herself. With Catherine gone, however, circumstances were no longer normal. A visit with a bloke bearing roses might not be ideal, but at least it broke up what had turned into a monotony of dull, dreary, solitary days.

“You may show Mr. Cooper in,” she told Baxter.

After Baxter quit the room, she rose and crossed to the window. Nostalgia and loneliness stabbed her at the sight of the golden leaves floating past the glass panes. Normally at this time of year, she’d be strolling through her beloved garden with Catherine, discussing which plants needed to be pruned back and what should be added in the spring. And she should be looking forward to Little Longstone’s annual autumn festival tomorrow instead of wallowing in loneliness.

She heaved a sigh that fogged the glass. Leaning back, she wiped away the condensation and forced aside the unwanted envy that welled inside her. She was happy for Catherine, truly she was. This desperate, aching emptiness would subside. When her inner voice whispered that she was fooling herself, she lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Nonsense. She wasn’t alone. She had Baxter. And Sophia. And today, she had Mr. Cooper. And that would simply have to be enough. She’d learned-very painfully-the price of wanting too much.

Of course, Mr. Cooper was most likely decrepit and in his dotage, letting a cottage in Little Longstone for the same reason many others did-the medicinal benefits of the hot springs. Like Genevieve’s property, Dr. Oliver’s had its own private spring which was undoubtedly the main attraction for Mr. Cooper. He probably sported a host of ailments about which he’d want to wax poetic. She gave a philosophical shrug. At least he was someone to talk to. Sophia was a good listener, but sadly not much of a conversationalist.

“Mr. Cooper to see ye” came Baxter’s voice from the doorway. She turned then stilled at the sight of the very undecrepit Mr. Simon Cooper who was under no circumstances in his dotage. Indeed, she’d be astonished if he’d reached his thirtieth year. Rendered uncharacteristically mute by surprise, she simply stared at him, and he appeared just as nonplussed as she. Intense green eyes pierced her, spearing a heated tingle through her, and for several seconds she couldn’t move, forgot how to breathe. The way he was looking at her…it was as if he knew her. But that was ridiculous. They’d never met. She would not have forgotten this man.

The strange spell she’d fallen under was broken when he walked toward her with an easy grace that made it abundantly clear he didn’t suffer from any ailments. Indeed, this tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man was the healthiest-looking specimen she’d seen in a very long time, a fact that once again aroused her suspicions. Why would he lease a cottage in an obscure village like Little Longstone rather than in the much more fashionable Brighton or Bath?

He stopped in front of her and made her a formal bow. “Mrs. Ralston,” he said, in a deep, slightly husky voice. “Simon Cooper. Your new neighbor, at least for the next fortnight. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Genevieve found herself staring into those compelling green eyes that held a hint of something she couldn’t decipher…something that inexplicably rushed fire through her body, heating places that hadn’t been warm for ages. Surely the flush she felt was only because he’d caught her off guard and not from any real attraction on her part-or his. She glanced down at her gloved hands. She was past all of that.

Regaining her aplomb, she inclined her head. “Likewise, Mr. Cooper.”

He offered her the bouquet of pink roses he held. “For you.” He smiled, drawing her attention to his mouth. His very lovely mouth. The sort of mouth that managed to look firm and soft, serious and sensual, all at the same time. His perfectly formed lips looked as if they knew how to kiss. Extremely well.

After a brief hesitation, she reached for the flowers, taking care, as she did with everyone, to avoid touching him. He moved his hand, however, and her fingers brushed against his, stilling her. Warmth penetrated the thin layer of her gloves, shooting a tingle up her arm, one that surprised and unsettled her. She hadn’t felt that sort of flutter in a very long time. Pulling her hand away, she stepped back several paces. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m very fond of roses.”

Needing several seconds to collect herself, she crossed the Turkish carpet and tugged the bell cord for Baxter. When he appeared in the doorway almost instantly, Genevieve buried her nose in the flowers to hide her smile. Clearly he’d been standing in the corridor, most likely waiting to see if he’d need to toss their gentleman caller into the privet hedges.