Page 58 of His Improper Lady

“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 been 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.