His Improper Lady--A Historical Romance

by Candace Camp

  Desiree’s eyes went to the other end of room and the neatly made bed, and despite her cool words a moment earlier, her breath hitched a little and she quickly turned away. “You like to read?”

  “Yes.” Tom glanced over at her, pausing in the midst of pouring whiskey into two glasses. “Surprised?”

  “You said you liked the books at the orphanage, but still, you seem more a man of action.”

  “I’m not sure I’d ever seen a book before the orphanage. I certainly couldn’t read one. But once I learned how, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to know...well, everything outside the world I’d lived in, which was a great deal. Fortunately, Reed let me borrow books from the Moreland library. Which is about three times larger than this entire flat.”

  “They seem a very generous family.”

  “They are. And they have a love for learning. All you have to do is want to read a book, and Uncle Bellard is your friend for life. He stumbled across me down in the kitchen reading one time, and he gave me three books.” Tom crossed the room to hand her the drink. He took a sip from his own glass and reached out to stroke his forefinger down the spine of a gilt-edged, leather-bound book, a fond smile on his face. “Vanity Fair. Great Expectations. Last of the Mohicans. Those are the three he gave me.”

  “I never heard of that last one.”

  “James Fenimore Cooper. He’s an American. Derring-do in the wilderness—very exciting stuff for me.”

  “Why were you reading in the kitchen?”

  “I went there to read whenever I borrowed books from the Morelands. For one thing, Cook would give me tea and biscuits. And I felt...more comfortable there. The library at Broughton House is a trifle imposing.”

  Desiree smiled. “I can imagine.”

  He turned back toward the small table and the two stools beside it. “Shall we open your prize? Or would you like me to make a spot of tea, as well? I can heat up a kettle.”

  “This is fine.” Desiree pulled in a shaky breath and held the box out to him. As he examined the lock, she pulled a hairpin from her hair and handed that to him, as well. Tom put the box on the table and sat down in front of it, working the hairpin delicately into keyhole.

  Desiree took a sip of her drink and watched him, too restless to sit down. The whiskey burned like fire down her throat, reminding her why she didn’t care for it, but in a moment she felt a smooth warmth stealing through her. Finishing it off as if it were medicine, she went to the table and sat down across from Tom.

  “Ha!” Tom said and looked up at her triumphantly. He swiveled the box around so that it faced Desiree. “Care to open it?”

  “I would.” But she hesitated, her hand hovering over the lid.

  “Want me to do it?”

  “No. I will. It’s just...a bit frightening.” Taking a breath, she ran a finger along the scratch, then lifted the lid.

  The box was lined with dark maroon satin. In it sat a velvet pouch, a stack of folded papers tied with a narrow satin ribbon, and a large lump of something wrapped in velvet. Desiree pulled out the velvet pouch and opened it, pouring its contents onto the table. Small pieces of jewelry fell out: a pair of sparkling diamond earrings, a ring mounted with rubies in the shape of a flower, a heart-shaped brooch of pavé diamonds, another ring set with an emerald, a ruby and a sapphire in a row, and several narrow bangle bracelets of pavé diamonds, emeralds and rubies.

  “Look at all this!” Desiree picked up one of the rings and examined it. “These look like real gems. I’d have nabbed them in an instant.”

  “Yes. I’d have a jeweler appraise them, but they look real enough.”

  “To think of this sitting behind those bricks all these years...” Desiree turned to the object wrapped in velvet and lifted it, realizing that it wasn’t a single object. “Sapphires,” Desiree breathed when she folded back the velvet. She set it down on the table and separated the pieces of jewelry. “Earrings, necklace, bracelet, a tiara.” Desiree picked up the narrow tiara and settled it onto her head.

  “Beautiful,” Tom said, his eyes on her face, not the jewels.

  She felt her cheeks flush, and she turned her attention back to the jewelry on the table. “They’re a set. See how they match?”

  “It’s called a parure, I think.” When Desiree looked up at him with a quizzical expression, he explained. “I had to find one that was missing a couple of years ago. Turned out her husband gave them to his mistress.”

  Desiree’s eyes widened. “You don’t suppose that this...” She looked down at the pile of jewelry as if it were a snake.

  Tom shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so. The Morelands don’t pinch pennies. I suspect these were all things he bought specifically for her.”

  “Why would she leave them behind?” Desiree wondered.

  “I suppose it’s possible they aren’t jewels he gave her. Maybe they were from Brock’s father instead, and they would have made him jealous.”

  Desiree rubbed a dangling earring between her fingers. “I can’t help but think how much we could have used the money these would have brought.”

  “I don’t want to speak ill of your mother, but she could have left you better provided for, even without your father’s support.”

  “Yes. It’s always haunted Brock, the way she tossed us away.” Carefully, she wrapped up the set of jewels again and laid them aside.

  She had put off looking at the item she was most curious about, her eagerness threaded with a fear that the stack of what looked to be saved letters would turn out to dash her budding hopes. Taking a quick breath, she picked up the bundle and untied the ribbon. She unfolded the top one.

  Beloved,

  Words cannot express how much I miss the sight of your face, the sound of your voice. I wish that I could be with you this very moment. It is a source of constant sorrow to me that I am bound by honor and duty to remain in this charade.

  I bitterly regret the prison to which I committed myself long ago, and even more I regret the pain that it has cost you. Please believe that if I could change what I have done, I would. Every day of emptiness is an atonement for the wrong I did you.

  The moments of joy we steal are precious to me, jewels of time that I hold to comfort myself in the days we are apart.

  I remain yours always,

  A

  Desiree lifted her head, her eyes brimming with tears as she handed the letter over to Tom. “It’s from him. And he truly loved her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TOM TOOK THE LETTER. The fellow sounded exceptionally dramatic to him. And the scrawled A scarcely provided actual proof that it was Alistair Moreland who had written it. But Tom wasn’t about to say either of those things to Desiree, who was opening the letters and scanning them. Not just because he wasn’t about to pop the bubble of her excitement, but also because he thought the letters were a strong indication that Desiree’s father was Alistair Moreland. It sounded just like the sort of letter a “poetical sort”—as the duke had described him—would write, and really, how many As were involved in this case?

  He knew logically that the whole thing could be an elaborate setup, the letters planted there by the Malones to be discovered and provide proof of their story. But that intricate a plot sounded far more unlikely than the story of a feckless aristocrat running away with his mistress, leaving his children behind like so much unnecessary baggage.

  Picking up another one or two of the letters Desiree discarded, he found that they contained much the same sort of thing: avowals of undying love, regrets and descriptions of his loneliness. One talked of his desire to be with his “little family.” It seemed to him that the chap could have left his wife without taking off to another continent. Or, if he had to flee, at least he could have taken that “little family” with them.

  It didn’t seem at all the sort of thing a Moreland would do. But then, the man hadn’t b
een one of “Tom’s” Morelands. And Tom remembered meeting the dowager, Cornelia, who had badgered Alistair into an unwanted marriage; she’d been enough to turn any man’s knees to water.

  “Oh, Tom!” Desiree jumped to her feet, the letters scattered across the table, and Tom rose to face her. Her voice was tight with tears. “He was so in love with her, and...this proves it, doesn’t it? Alistair really is our father!”

  Tom nodded. “It seems the likeliest explanation.” He reached out to take her hands, but Desiree threw her arms around his neck instead, hugging him tightly.

  “Thank you! Thank you! I’m so happy!”

  “I didn’t really—” He didn’t finish his sentence, for she took his face between her hands and kissed him.

  After that, he was lost, fire spreading through him like a spark to kindling, invading every part of him and sweeping away all reason or thought. There was nothing but heat and feeling, his skin suddenly so sensitive he felt the rub of his shirt against his skin, his senses wide-open to the taste and scent of Desiree, the sound of her little moan deep in her throat.

  Tom murmured her name, laying feather-soft kisses across her face and jaw and down onto the tender skin of her throat. Desiree tilted her head, exposing her bare throat to his kisses, and he took what she offered, tasting her with lips and tongue.

  Desiree’s body was pliant beneath his hand, her simple dress not underpinned by the armor of a corset. Her flesh was firm and lithe, making the pillowy softness of her breast a delight of contrasts. His thumb dragged across her nipple, teasing it into hardness, then his hand glided down over her ribs and waist onto the swell of her hips.

  Desiree sank her hands into his hair, the little tug against his scalp accenting the pleasure of her fingers upon him. She slid her hand down to curl around the back of his neck, sending a frisson along his spine. Her fingers stroked his neck, and desire stabbed straight through him. Tom let out a groan, and his mouth returned to hers, his fingers grasping her hips and pressing her body into his. She moved against him, turning him even harder.

  He thought of his bed, so temptingly close. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her there, to undress her with slow care, caressing every inch of her body. He was stiff as a board, throbbing, and he ached to sink into her. Desiree pulled her mouth from his and was on tiptoe, kissing his neck and cheek. The feel of her soft, plump lips against his evening stubble made him shudder.

  His hands groped across her back—how the devil did this thing fasten? He tugged on the bow of her sash and discovered exactly how simple her dress was. The front wrapped around her and tied in the back, so that now it loosened and sagged open, allowing him to slide his hand inside onto her stomach, covered only by the cotton of her chemise.

  It was heavenly, and the way her fingers dug into his shoulders told him that Desiree felt the same. He kissed her, caressing her through the thin cloth that was more an enticement than an impediment. Then his fingertips were beneath the ruffled top of the chemise, dipping down to take her breast in his hand. It filled his palm perfectly, the nipple pressing into his skin. He ached to feel it in his mouth, to tease and stroke and arouse them both to a peak of passion.

  Desiree’s fingers went to his waistcoat, unbuttoning it to slide her hands inside it. Tom shuddered under her caress, imagining her hands on his skin. Her mouth on his skin. Then, letting out a noise of frustration, Desiree jerked away. “No.”

  Her voice was low, her breath coming in pants. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with desire, as Tom knew his were. Her lips were full and softened by passion, swollen from their kisses. It was all he could do not to drag her back to him and kiss her again. He curled his fingers into his palms and waited, struggling to control his breathing, to dampen the fire surging through him. He ought to say something, but he could not, his mind too inflamed, too dazed to form a coherent thought.

  “We can’t—I’m not my mother.” Desiree drew a shaky breath, dragging her dress around her and retying the sash. “I won’t let myself be.” She cast him a regretful look.

  “Of course.” Tom found his tongue at last. He nodded, sweeping his hands back through his hair to restore some sort of order to it...and to his thoughts. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I should have thought.”

  He turned away, going to the table to carry the glasses and bottle of whiskey over to the cabinet. He shouldn’t have given her whiskey, either. “I hope you know I didn’t intend this.” He turned back to her. “I didn’t bring you here with the idea of seducing you. I didn’t mean to ply you with liquor or—I know it must look as if I had ulterior motives, but I swear I did not.”

  “I believe you.” She smiled at him. “I didn’t think you did. I was the one who threw myself at you, after all.” She took a step closer to him, saying earnestly, “I won’t deny that I would like to go on. I enjoyed kissing you. I wanted to do more than that.”

  Tom ran his sweating palms down his jacket. “You’re not helping here.”

  Desiree gave a rueful chuckle. “I know. But I want you to know that I don’t think ill of you or blame you. It was...” She let out a little shuddery sigh. “It was quite lovely. But I made a vow long ago that I wouldn’t do what my mother did. I won’t fall into any man’s hands like a ripe fruit or give my life over to him.”

  “I know. I would not ask you to.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “But perhaps it is time I went home.”

  “Of course.” He watched as she gathered up the letters and tied them together, putting everything back into the box. He understood her. But he needed a bit of time to shove all his own hunger back.

  They left the building a few minutes later and once again had difficulty finding a hackney. It was almost three when they pulled up in front of Desiree’s house, and Tom was surprised to see that there were lights shining in several windows downstairs. As he walked with Desiree to the front door, it opened, and Brock limped out.

  “Oh, dear,” Desiree said under her breath. “And his leg’s hurting him tonight.”

  Right behind Brock came the other brother, and even his normally indolent expression was now creased into a frown. Tom had intended to leave as soon as Desiree went in, but he thought perhaps he ought to stay beside her.

  “Brock! Wells! I have something so exciting to tell you.” Desiree had obviously decided to take the offensive.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Brock was just as clearly not led away by her diversion. “Templeton says you left the house late this evening.”

  “Templeton is certainly turning into quite the spy for you,” Desiree shot back. “I thought we’d reached an agreement on this.”

  “In normal circumstances, of course,” Brock replied, and eyed Tom with disfavor. “But you have been absent from the club two evenings in a row, and you’ve been running all over with this fellow.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going,” Wells added mildly.

  “That’s because I didn’t want a bunch of nosy parkers knowing what I was doing.” Desiree took Tom’s arm and pulled him with her past the other two men and into the house. Desiree went into the parlor and turned around to face her brothers.

  Brock followed, saying, “I’m not trying to find out your secrets. I was worried because you’re stirring things up. You could be putting yourself in danger.”

  “I’m not in danger.”

  “You told me you were followed the other day,” Wells pointed out.

  She shot Wells a glare as Brock thundered, “Followed! You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I would have, but I’ve been busy. Besides, it wasn’t dangerous. He merely followed us around and we got rid of him.”

  Wells eyed the box in her hand. “You’ve been out pilfering things again, haven’t you?”

  Desiree snorted. “You should talk.”

  All three looked ready to embark on another round
of arguments, so Tom said in a moderate tone, “Why don’t we all sit down, and Desiree can catch you up on what we’ve found out the past few days?”

  The siblings glowered at Tom in unison, but Desiree sat down, followed by Brock after he heaved a sigh, and Wells went to stand by a bookcase, hooking his elbow on one of the shelves. Tom seated himself in a chair some distance from Brock and Desiree. The less he inserted himself into this, the better; it was clear that neither of Desiree’s brothers trusted him.

  “I’ve found our relatives,” Desiree said.

  “What?” Brock’s eyebrows shot up, and even Wells straightened.

  “We are Morelands, and our father was named Alistair. I met them, Brock.” Desiree’s eyes shone, her voice reclaiming its former excitement. “I talked to them, and they’re very nice.”

  “Nice?” Brock looked skeptical.

  Desiree launched into the tale of talking to Alex and Con, then going to Broughton House and meeting the others. Her brothers said nothing, just listened, somewhat slack jawed, as Desiree described the Morelands and the conversation they’d had. When she finished, there was a long moment of deafening silence.

  Finally, Brock said, “They gave you that box?”

  “No. We found the house, Brock. The one you described. That’s where we got the box. We went in tonight and found the hiding place you told us about, and it was in there.”

  “You broke in? Desiree, you promised you were going to stop thieving.”

  “I wasn’t thieving,” she answered indignantly. “It belongs to us.”

  “I’m not sure the people who live there now would take such a sanguine view of it,” Brock retorted, but he spoke without heat and his eyes strayed back to the box.

  “Do you recognize it, Brock?” Desiree asked.

  “I’m not sure.” It was the first glimpse of uncertainty Tom had seen on the man’s face. Brock picked up the box and set it on his lap. He smoothed a hand across the top.