His Improper Lady--A Historical Romance

by Candace Camp

  Desiree’s throat closed at the girls’ sweetness, and she had to blink away the moisture that suddenly threatened to fill her eyes. She took Tom’s arm and left the room, resisting the urge to look back to make sure it was really there. As the front door closed behind them, Desiree released his arm to spin around, arms upraised, in a joyous gesture.

  “Oh, Tom!” It was all she could do not to hug him in her exuberance. “They were so wonderful. And he has a name! Alistair. That’s a nice name, don’t you think? And the duchess!” She shook her head, unable to describe what she thought of the woman.

  “She’s one of a kind.” Tom watched her, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I told you they were different.”

  “Oh, but no one could describe how different they are!” She laughed. “I wouldn’t have believed you if you had tried.”

  She climbed into her carriage and turned to Tom, continuing to chatter. “Those little girls kissed my cheek! Did you see?”

  “They’re charmers,” he agreed.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she went on candidly. “I’ve never been around children...well, I mean since I was one. And I don’t think any of us were like them.”

  “You don’t really have do anything with those two. Though I’ve found giving them lemon drops strengthens their friendship.”

  “And Uncle Bellard was such a sweet little man, though I had no idea what he was talking about sometimes. What are Plantagenets?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Sound like flowers to me, but given Uncle Bellard, they’re likely some kind of historical thing. He sets ups little re-creations of different battles, with little tin soldiers and cavalry and all. Don’t worry. He doesn’t expect people to know what he’s talking about—no one else is as smart as him. Well, except maybe the duke, but the things the duke talks about are all two thousand years old and in foreign places.”

  Desiree settled back in the seat. “I never thought I’d find them. Not really. I used to make up all kinds of stories about my family, and I wondered about them, wished I knew who they were. But I didn’t really believe someday I’d meet them.”

  “Desiree...” Tom said carefully. “It seems like you might be related to them, but there’s no real proof.”

  The little sting of hurt that had pricked Desiree earlier now blossomed in her chest, and she turned in her seat to face him. “Why are you so unwilling to accept me? Why do you not want me to belong to them, to be one of them?” Tears sprang into her eyes, surprising her, and Desiree jerked her gaze away, staring out blindly at the street.

  “No, that’s all wrong,” Tom protested. “It’s not that I don’t want you to have a family or to be a Moreland. All I ever wanted in this was to keep the Morelands from being taken advantage of—worse, from being hurt if they discovered that you’d lied to them.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “I know. I believe you. It’s clear how much you want this to be true, how much you’d like to be connected to the Morelands, not for money but simply for your own happiness.”

  Surprised, Desiree looked at him. Tom was watching her with sympathy in his eyes, and the pain in her chest receded somewhat. “Then why—”

  “Because you’re building up a whole pile of hopes on what isn’t much evidence.”

  “Brock’s ring,” she protested. “And Alistair ran off to America the same year our mother did. And what about that carriage? That must be the carriage that man was driving yesterday. You heard what Lord Moreland said—a carriage from New York. That’s what Wells told us.”

  “There could be other carriages like that.”

  “Following me?” Desiree cocked an eyebrow. “That seems most unlikely.”

  “Yes, but why? Why would someone in Alistair’s old carriage be watching your house? Following you? What would it have to do with them running off years ago?”

  “I don’t know, but...what if it was Alistair himself? What if my parents have come back from the United States?”

  “Desiree...”

  She saw the pity in Tom’s eyes, and she flared. “Why not? It wouldn’t be impossible. They could have returned. They could want to see us.” Her throat closed up, and she stopped talking, not wanting him to hear the pain in her voice.

  Tom took her hand. “It’s not impossible...you’re right. But it seems more likely to me that it was this Pax fellow, whose cuff links were in the man’s pocket. It wouldn’t be too surprising if he bought his friend’s carriage, knowing that it was special to Alistair. I’m afraid you’re getting your hopes up about something that’s not real. I don’t want you to be disappointed if it turns out not to be true. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “I know it’s unlikely that it was my father in that carriage. I know I could be wrong and he isn’t even my father. And I will be disappointed if it turns out that way. I’ll be sad,” Desiree admitted. “But you can’t hold back from happiness just because it might change. What is the point in protecting yourself by limiting yourself?” She looked into his eyes. “Would you take back that kiss last night? Just because it might not be there again tomorrow?”

  “No.” His voice was husky, and he shifted his hand to interlace his fingers with hers. “I’d like to keep that.” Tom’s eyes gleamed, and the dimple flashed in his cheek. “And maybe add a few more.”

  “Well, you’re not doing a very good job of achieving that at the moment,” she teased.

  “I’m not going to trade the truth for kisses, even for an exceptional kiss like that.”

  “Was it exceptional?” She smiled at him, all thoughts of the Morelands or hurt melting away in the face of this topic.

  “You know it was.”

  Desiree could see the spark that lit his eyes, feel it in the surge of warmth in his hand.

  “Perfect, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I think we might do better yet.” He leaned closer.

  “Then perhaps we ought to try again.” Desiree twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DESIREE HAD THOUGHT it might be different in the day, that moonlight and darkness might have woven a sheen of magic into their kisses. But it was that same hot flood of sensation, the same breathless need rising in her. No, perhaps Tom was right, and it was even better.

  Tom pulled her closer to him, his lips sinking into hers. Her hand drifted over the bare skin of his neck, and she felt the answering surge of heat in him. Her fingers moved up into his hair, fingertips pressing against his scalp. He made a noise deep in his throat and dragged her over onto his lap, his arm supporting her back as he continued to explore her mouth. One of his hands went to her waist, his fingers digging in a little.

  Desiree touched his cheek, his neck, his ear, her hand gliding over him. She wanted to hold him tighter and slide her hands over his chest and back. She wanted...oh, God, she wanted. Tom’s hand went up into her hair, knocking her hat askew, and his lips moved from her mouth across her face to take the lobe of her ear gently between his teeth and worry at it. Desiree pressed her legs together at the quiver that ran through her, bursting into heat low in her abdomen.

  Tom’s mouth moved down onto her neck, and she tilted her head to give his lips more access. His hand smoothed across her stomach, stroking her, then upward until he cupped her breast. Pleasure rocketed through her.

  The sway of the carriage stopped as the horses came to a halt. Tom’s body tensed, and he lifted his head. The coachman’s voice floated in through the window. “Miss Malone? We’re here.”

  Tom muttered an oath and set Desiree aside. He raked his hands through his hair as Desiree tried to gather her scattered thoughts. She started to speak, but her voice came out a croak. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes, thank you, Merriwell.”

  Desiree had been so lost she had forgotten they were in a carriage, forgotten the driver, forgotte
n everything. Hastily she tried to straighten her hat and tuck a stray curl back into place beneath it. Desiree was sure her face was flushed, and she must look as if...well, as if she had been doing what she’d just been doing for the last few minutes.

  Tom had enough presence of mind to tell the driver to continue to the end of the block to let them out. Desiree turned to him, and his gaze went immediately to her mouth. Then he pulled his eyes upward. He settled her hat a bit differently on her head, his fingertips brushing the side of her face as he pulled them back, and the touch of them made her shiver.

  Tom took a breath and turned to look out the narrow rear window. The last few minutes, they could have had half a dozen men following them, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  When the carriage stopped again, Tom sprang out as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. He gazed up and down the street so thoroughly he didn’t glance at her once. Desiree stepped down from the carriage. She rather missed him lifting a hand to help her. It was, she decided, a very pleasant courtesy.

  Her spirits remained high even though they found no more success this afternoon than they had the day before. There were still other possibilities to visit, and, frankly, Desiree found herself looking forward to spending more days in Tom’s company. Besides, her visit with the Morelands overwhelmed any failure in their search.

  She was brimming with her news when she reached home, but to her disappointment she found that both her brothers were out. Brock was at work and would return late this evening, but Wells had apparently left the city and would not return until the following day. Such sudden departures without explanations were nothing new with Wells. She hoped he would come back when he said he would—which was not always the case—because she wanted to talk to both her brothers about the Moreland family at the same time.

  Desiree had told Tom she wasn’t going to the club this evening. She was too restless to settle down and concentrate as she needed to during a game; her thoughts were occupied with the Morelands and her search for her father. Her mind was equally busy thinking about Tom Quick.

  She wasn’t sure what Tom felt for her. Indeed, she wasn’t all that certain what she felt for him, either. They’d been antagonists from the beginning, but their relationship had changed to a wary partnership as they worked together, then became...well, whatever their relationship was today.

  Desiree was drawn to him, had been from the first moment she saw him, before she knew who he was or what he wanted. She had felt as if a light had sprung to life inside her. She had wanted him in an immediate, visceral way that she had never felt with any other man. If he had not come over to her, she would have gone to him.

  It wasn’t just the light gleaming on his blond hair or those compelling blue eyes or the long dimple that popped into his cheek when he smiled. It wasn’t simply the way he walked across the room or the lean, tensile strength in him or the sound of his voice, though admittedly all those things made her want to touch him, to feel his lips on her.

  Desiree liked him. She couldn’t help but like him. More than that, she trusted him—and Desiree was not one to give her trust easily. There was a sense of understanding between them, a mutual knowledge and way of thinking that sprang, she supposed, from their common pasts. Though she had known him for only a short amount of time, Desiree knew his life because it had been her life, too.

  Tom felt that connection, too. However rude and antagonistic he had been when he’d said it, he had said truthfully that he knew her. Nor was he immune to the physical attraction between them. Desiree wasn’t mistaken about the way he had looked at her that night in the club; the heat between them had not been all on her side. And this afternoon in the carriage! Desiree’s lips curved up. Tom was anything but indifferent to her.

  She had no idea what would happen tomorrow, what Tom would say or do. Whether he would pull back or come closer. But Desiree looked forward to finding out.

  * * *

  TOM LEFT THE office early the next morning. He’d spent much of the night tossing and turning, thinking about Desiree, and he was glad when the sun came up and he could start doing something. Anything. He was tired of thinking. Tired of feeling, as well.

  He was no longer sure what he thought or felt. Yesterday, watching Desiree with the Morelands, with a curiously hollow feeling, he had seen clearly how well she fit with the family. It wasn’t just that they easily accepted her, which had been his worry all along, but that it was so easy to believe she was one of them.

  Her manner and accent weren’t as aristocratic as theirs—for no matter how egalitarian the Morelands were, their heritage and upbringing always shone through—and she didn’t resemble them in coloring, but her spirit, her boldness, her confidence and lack of concern for the opinions of others were so like theirs that he imagined any stranger entering the room would have thought that she was a member of the family. What was it Megan liked to say the Morelands had? Joie de vivre, that was it. And despite all the hard knocks in her past, Desiree had that.

  In more practical terms, the way Desiree had reacted to them, the happiness and eagerness with which she gazed at the Morelands, simply did not look like someone scheming to hurt them. She had not pressed her claims; it had been the Morelands who had provided the fact that the duke’s cousin matched Desiree’s story.

  Her brother’s possession of the ring and the timing of Alistair Moreland’s disappearance were not, as Tom had pointed out, actual proof that Alistair was Desiree’s father. It wouldn’t satisfy a court of law. But in pragmatic terms, those things certainly hinted strongly at it.

  Tom thought of the way Desiree had spun around, arms thrown up in glee, and her face glowing with such joy that it made his heart hurt. Try as he might to hold on to his skepticism, he could not. He had told her the truth when he said he believed her. He did believe she wanted only her father’s identity. And he believed Desiree thought Alistair was her father.

  But the fact that she believed it didn’t mean that it was fact. Tom wanted it to be true for her sake. He didn’t want her to be hurt or disappointed. His search was becoming a quest to prove she was right, and that was the worst way to conduct an investigation. Looking at something with a desired end in mind was a sure way to go astray.

  He must not let himself tilt the evidence to please Desiree. That was the danger in getting involved with a client, and Tom had never had that problem before. He might like or dislike a person for whom he worked, but he had never desired one.

  And he desired Desiree. Her name was all too apt. Yesterday, caught up in her beauty and excitement, he’d ignored everything from propriety to ethics to safety and kissed her. In a carriage, curtains not drawn, only a few feet from her coachmen. And paying absolutely no attention to whether they were being followed. Followed, hell—the man who’d been after them could have come up and peered in the window and Tom wouldn’t have noticed.

  The woman was absolutely devastating to his senses. Far less of his thinking last night had been about the foolishness of what they’d done than about how pleasurable it had been. How much he would have liked to continue. How he could maneuver it so that they were again somewhere private and alone.

  Any way one looked at it, it was a foolish infatuation. Desiree was a client. Good Lord, she might very well be a Moreland! And even if she was not, Desiree wasn’t the sort to live a quiet life in a modest house, the wife of an ordinary working man.

  Not, of course, that he actually wanted to marry someone like Desiree, who would be a constant source of worry and aggravation. Tom had enough excitement in his life from his investigations without having to worry about a wife scampering across rooftops.

  What he wanted was to sleep with her. He wanted that a great deal. Ordinarily he would have thought an affair might be something they could indulge in. She was a woman of the world, someone who’d grown up in the stews of the East End and lived a sophisticated life, not a sheltered flower of a la
dy.

  But an affair with Desiree was all too likely to turn into something bigger. To make him hunger for more. And affairs were all too easily broken off. What would happen to him if Desiree grew bored or realized she wanted someone else, needed something more than Tom could give her?

  His thoughts made him too restless to get any work done. All his focus was on Desiree’s case, anyway. They had planned for Desiree to once again come to the office and go to Marylebone from there, but, unwilling to sit still any longer, Tom took a hackney to Desiree’s house.

  She looked up and smiled when the butler ushered him into the dining room, and Tom’s breath caught in his throat. What would it be like to be greeted by that smile at breakfast every day? To see the light in her eyes, the luscious curve of her lips?

  “Tom! Sit down. Have breakfast with me.” She gestured at the empty table. “As you can see, my meal is solitary. My brothers are always late to bed and to rise.”

  Tom couldn’t resist the invitation since it was exactly what he’d been envisioning. Sitting down, he watched as Desiree poured him a cup of tea, and that was almost as nice as seeing her smile.

  “I am surprised to see you here,” Desiree went on, ringing for a servant. “I thought I was going to fetch you from your office.”

  “You were, but I wanted to change our plans. Instead of the other location in Marylebone, let’s try the Pimlico area.”

  “Very well. Why?”

  “Because last night I researched Alistair Moreland’s wife and learned where she lives. I assume it is the same address, as it’s been in his name since before you were born. He lived in Belgravia.”

  “Not a long drive to Pimlico.” Desiree clearly understood the import of his words immediately.

  “Exactly.”

  “Megan Moreland wrote me. Apparently the twins—what did you call them?”

  “The Greats.”

  “Well, their wives think it will be a lovely idea to visit Aunt Wilhemina, so day after tomorrow we will be going to see her. You’ll come with us, won’t you?” An unaccustomed look of uncertainty flitted over her features. “I’d rather not be alone with so many aristocratic ladies.”