Page 66 of His Improper Lady

His shirt, though not clinging like her own bodice, showed more of his form than the multiple garments men usually wore. And his was a very nice form. Tom was not as tall as Brock or as wide shouldered, but he had a muscular build. His hands, which she had admired from the first, were long fingered and supple, and his forearms were equally attractive, firmly muscled and lightly dusted with blond hairs. Even the knobby bones of his wrists somehow stirred her. Desiree did her best not to stare—or, at least, not to let him see her stare.

She cleared her throat. “It’s best to stretch before one starts.”

Desiree began to demonstrate, and Tom watched her. She could feel the blood pulsing through her veins, her abdomen turning molten under his gaze. “Come, do this with me.”

“I can’t do that.” His voice was slightly rougher and lower than usual.

“Not as far as I,” she agreed. “But you can do it a little.”

He joined her, and Desiree soon understood why he enjoyed watching her. It made her heart beat faster, her breath turn unsteady as she watched his shirt stretch across his back and the muscles of his forearms clench and loosen.

Desiree went through a few of her warming-up exercises before they started climbing the wall. The next hour passed quickly, full of laughter and quips and the satisfaction of physical motion. They climbed the wall and the rope, swung from ring to ring—though Tom refused to try a turn on the trapeze—and she even persuaded him to walk the low beam.

She reached out to steady him once, her fingers curling around the firm muscle of his forearm, and a shiver shot straight down to her abdomen. It was all she could do not to let her hand slide up and down his arm. Tom’s shirt began to cling to his chest and back, and his forearms glistened. Her gaze was again drawn to that V of skin at the top of his shirt, her mouth going dry as she watched a drop of sweat trickle down to nestle in the hollow of his throat.

Desiree thought of their kisses last night, of the heat and hunger. Was she being foolish not to grab at that pleasure? Their search would come to an end before long; she could think of nothing to do after they had visited Aunt Wilhemina. She’d have no reason to see Tom anymore.

Her heart contracted at the thought, but she had to be realistic. It never helped to pretend. They would go back to their lives. Even if they established that Alistair Moreland was her father, it wouldn’t really change anything. She would know and be satisfied; hopefully the anxiety that nagged at her would go away. But beyond that, she would still live here and go to the club in the evenings. She would flirt with ineligible men, but her heart would stay whole and apart.

What were the odds that she would ever meet a man like Tom again? A man who knew her past and wasn’t appalled by it? Who lived, as she did, in some shadow world between gentility and the slums? Who admired her skill and understood her? Perhaps this was her one chance, and she was letting her pride stand in the way.

Desiree pondered these things as she took to the trapeze while Tom lay back on one of the mats, recovering his breath and watching her. But she came to no decision, still torn between hunger and her lifelong determination not to fall into the trap her mother had.

Her concentration fractured, Desiree climbed down from the high bar and sat down with Tom, then lay back on the mat beside him. Even this, she thought, was fraught, lying only a foot or two apart, their bodies still heated and tingling.

“You came to tell me something,” Desiree said, turning her face toward him.

Tom nodded and rolled onto his side, going up on one forearm. “Gregory Moreland visited the office today.”

“Gre—Alistair’s son?” Desiree’s eyes widened. “What did he want?”

“He’s looking for an envelope from a man named Blackstock, who was Alistair Moreland’s lawyer.”

“No! He’s the one who wants it? What’s in it?”

“That’s the thing. No one knows exactly. It seems the lawyer is dying, and all Gregory knows is that Blackstock sent some legal papers to our office.”

“Why would he have done that? Why send it to you and Con?”

Tom shrugged. “That’s the question. One can only think that whatever is in that envelope is something the lawyer wanted to keep away from Alistair’s heir.”

“That’s...very intriguing. Is Gregory the one who hired Falk? Is that why Falk knew who my father was?”

“Possibly, though Gregory seemed genuinely confused when Con asked him about it. He wasn’t the man who followed us. I would have recognized him. But Gregory could have hired the man.”

“But what about the cuff links you took from him? They said Pax.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s stretching belief to think that there might be two different parties after it. A third seems ludicrous.”

“Perhaps Alistair’s friend is helping Gregory?” Desiree suggested.

“That’s possible.”

After a moment Desiree asked softly, “What was he like? Alistair’s son.”

“He dresses well.”

Desiree laughed. “That’s all you can say about him?”