No Proper Lady by Isabel Cooper Page B

Also, I wasn’t there to see her possessed—I mean, hell, I’d be jumpy around anyone who saw me that helpless. And, I wasn’t some kind of father figure to her.”
    Some of Simon’s black mood lifted. I should have said something before , he realized. Joan wouldn’t shy away from a subject because it was personal or improper, and neither would she lie to spare his feelings. Of course, she could be wrong, but he felt as if he’d put out an unsteady hand to catch himself and found a rock underneath it.
    “A bit hard for you to manage, yes,” he said, his voice light with relief.
    “I could always fake it.”
    He turned and looked at her. The skirt and blouse did little to hide her body: slim, yes, and strong but gracefully curved now. “You’d have to deal with a blind man for that,” he said.
    “Thank you,” she said, startled and amused, but not only that. Her breasts rose and fell a little more quickly now, pushing gently at the white cloth of her shirt.
    If he cupped them in his hands, Simon thought, probably only that cloth would be in the way.
    And cloth ripped so easily.
    Arousal was so quick that it left Simon no time for thought. One step brought him close enough to reach out, to raise his hand to Joan’s cheek. Her skin was like warm silk beneath his fingers. “Thank you .”
    “For what?” Her eyes were dark now, full of heat.
    She wants me , Simon thought, and knew it to be more than vanity. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Many things.”
    Joan’s laughter was low and sensual. “Things that already happened? Or are you thanking me in advance?”
    Slowly he slid his fingers down her cheek and then across to trace the curve of her lower lip. “Which would you prefer?”
    A knock at the door made them both jump. Joan’s right hand, Simon noticed in a sort of delirium, still went to her waist when she was startled. “Yes?” he called out, and hoped that he sounded at all like himself.
    “The carriage is ready, sir.”
    “I’ll be out directly,” he replied, and only then turned to face Joan. He could still feel her skin against his fingertips, warm and smooth. If he’d ever known what to say in such a situation, he’d forgotten. “Ah. Well.”
    She smiled easily enough—with a shade less warmth, and the smile could almost have been mocking—but her face was flushed, and she too was breathless when she spoke. “You’d better go.”
    “It seems I’d better,” he said, and fought back the urge to step toward her again. Instead, he dropped his hand back to his side and bowed formally. “Be well.”
    Joan met his eyes, serious now and with all the playful sensuality gone from her face. “Be careful.”
    ***
    London was as Simon always found it in the summer—hot, noisy, and crowded. He’d given no notice of his arrival. Fortunately, he’d given no notice of his departure either, so the servants had not shut up the town house completely. He lived out of a very few rooms, but that was no great hardship for he spent very little time at home.
    Discreet inquiries among his more occult acquaintances turned up Gillespie’s address, a flat a fair distance from the fashionable part of town and a much shorter distance from several booksellers. The good doctor was known to deal, on occasion, in rare books. He was not known to deal with people, or at least not particularly well.
    Simon wrote and sent a brief letter, communicating his connection with Sangupta, the recommendation of Gillespie by the same, and the urgency of the matter in question. I beg for your discretion and aid, sir, he finished. I fear that more than one life may hinge upon my business.
    The rest of the day fell under the broad heading of “reconnaissance”—dinner at his club, followed by the theatre. Many of his friends asked about Eleanor, and Simon found their concern unexpectedly touching. It was good to be reminded that the world was bigger than him and his problems, and to be reminded, perhaps, of what he