Page 87 of His Improper Lady

As he’d fought, Tom had seen Desiree out of the corner of his eye only as a blur of movement, dodging, kicking, whirling, ducking under the other man’s wildly swinging fists. She was holding her own, but Tom knew he had to get to her and disable her opponent.

For the moment, the man he had been fighting first was out of the battle, rolling away and struggling to his feet. So Tom went after the second attacker, who had recovered his footing and was moving forward. Tom slammed the metal bar into the man’s arm, following up the blow with a hard kick to the side of his knee. The other man cried out and crashed to the ground, his hands grabbing his knee.

Tom whirled in time to see Desiree scramble halfway up a lamppost and swing her feet out to clip her opponent in the jaw. Tom ran to her side, shoving her would-be attacker into the wall of the building behind her. Desiree jumped down from the lamppost, and they ran back up the street. Behind them their foes staggered to their feet and began to pursue them.

At that moment, the two newcomers they had seen earlier turned onto the street ahead of them. Spotting Desiree and Tom, they started forward at a run. Tom let out a curse and pushed Desiree into the nearest doorway. It was set far enough into the stone wall to provide a bit of an alcove, and Tom placed himself in front of her, bar raised. Desiree gave him a push to the side and came up beside him in the doorway. She yanked the sharp-pronged hair ornament from her waistband and took up a fighting stance.

Her hair had long since come undone and tumbled riotously around her shoulders, and her eyes were blazing, her face fierce. She looked utterly wild. And utterly beautiful. Tom knew he would kill if he must in order to protect her.

Raising the iron bar, he roared at the trio of original enemies, who came to a halt a few feet away. One of them was limping badly, and they looked warily at the weapon in Tom’s hand. In the next instant the two newcomers arrived.

The two men launched themselves at Tom’s and Desiree’s enemies.

Tom and Desiree stared in astonishment at the melee. There were only two of the new arrivals and three of the others, but the attackers were fresh, and within only a few moments, the original three broke and ran. The two rescuers were hot on their heels.

“What in the world?” Desiree gazed uncomprehendingly after the fleeing men.

“I have no idea, but I suggest we take advantage of it.”

Tom took her hand, and they walked swiftly down the street. Tom kept the metal rod with him, but no one else popped up to confront them, and within a few minutes the area around them began to improve, and eventually they emerged to the Strand.

At first they walked, leery of hailing a hackney after their previous experience, but both of them were exhausted. Finally, Tom raised his hand to hail a passing cab. The driver looked askance at the iron rod in Tom’s hand and sped up.

“I think perhaps we look a mite disreputable,” Desiree said.

Tom turned to her. Desiree’s hair was down and thoroughly tangled, and her skirt was smeared with dirt and God knew what else. No doubt he looked substantially worse, with a cut beside his eye that had bled down his face, a large tear in his trousers, and a jacket pocket that had torn halfway off and hung flapping. The bar in his right hand probably hadn’t added anything trustworthy to his appearance.

He began to laugh, and after a second, so did Desiree, until they were roaring hysterically. As their riotous laughter slowed to a halt, Tom dropped the iron bar and pulled Desiree into his arms, wrapping his arms around her, and squeezed her tightly to him. He bent his head to kiss her hair.

“I was so scared you were going to get hurt,” he told her, his voice throbbing with emotion. “It makes me shake, just thinking about it.”

“I know.” Desiree buried her face in his chest, her arms locked around his waist. “I was, too. It’s easier when you only have to be afraid for yourself.”

They stood that way for a long time, unmoving, just holding on to each other. Finally, Tom stepped back and took out his handkerchief to wipe as much of the blood and dirt from his face as he could. Desiree managed to pull back her hair and wrap it in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with her hair ornament/weapon. They dusted off their clothes, and Tom simply tore off the hanging pocket on his jacket. He hailed the next hackney that passed.

This one stopped and they climbed in. Tom pulled Desiree onto his lap. All the frenzied energy of the chase had drained out of her, and she leaned against him, closing her eyes. Tom could feel her body begin to sag and knew she was drifting toward an exhausted sleep.

All Tom wanted to do was to take Desiree back to his flat, to care for her and cuddle her. To lie down with her and hold her as she slept. To know she was safe and secure.

But of course, that was impossible. Even though they had left the club early, it was now late, and Desiree’s brothers would be alarmed that she hadn’t come home. Tom could scarcely justify worrying them even more just because he didn’t want to leave her. He had no right, no standing, to protect and care for Desiree, however much he ached to.

Tom gave the driver Desiree’s address. When they pulled up in front of her house, Tom kissed Desiree on the forehead, murmuring, “We’re here. I started to carry you to the door, but I thought that might cause some consternation.”

Desiree smiled up at him tiredly. “Thank you. It would indeed. Though if I’m lucky, Brock won’t be home yet.”

They left the cab and walked into the house. Desiree’s luck held, for Brock was still closing the club, but Wells saw them from his chair in the parlor, and he got up and crossed the room quickly.

“Desiree? What happened?” Wells’s piercing blue eyes swept a comprehensive glance over the two of them. “You look as if you’ve been in a fight.”

“That’s only reasonable, since we have been.” Desiree attempted a light tone, but her voice betrayed her weariness.

“What in the—No, never mind.” Wells gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “You can tell me in the morning. You clearly need to go to sleep.” He turned to Tom. “I must say, you look just as dead on your feet. Come on.” Wells nodded toward the staircase. “You can sleep in the guest room. No need to haul yourself back home.”

Tom wavered only a moment before giving in and following Wells upstairs.

WHEN TOM AWOKE the next morning, he lay for a moment in confusion, uncertain why he was sleeping in a soft bed with luxurious sheets and a canopy over his head. Desiree. He was in Desiree’s house. He sat up, raking his hands back through his hair and trying to bring his disordered thoughts into focus.

It felt extremely odd to be here. He wasn’t entirely unaccustomed to being anywhere but his own bed—after all, he had to travel now and then on business and he’d even stayed in one of the Moreland houses on occasion—but this was where Desiree lived, and that made all the difference. It brought up a number of decidedly lustful thoughts, but at the same time there was something so natural, even familial about it that it was disconcerting.