Page 29 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

But mingling with that joy, with the wild pleasure of his kiss, was nervousness. She was now afraid that all the things she had feared would come true or that he’d be angry at her for deceiving him. He had every right to think her deceptive and secretive. She was stabbed with guilt. That faintly wounded look that had flashed in his eyes when he asked her why she had done it made her want to cry.

“I’m sorry, Desmond.” She turned to him, their knees touching, and took his hands between hers. “I know I was wrong, and you probably think I’m a liar, but I didn’t lie to you.”

“You said your name was Moreland.”

“It is! That is my last name. Broughton is just Papa’s title. I’m Thisbe Moreland. All the things I told you were true. I am a chemist. My family is exactly as I described. My father is a scholar and my mother champions causes. My brothers and sisters are what I told you they were. Come to call on me, and I’ll introduce you to all of them, and you’ll see.”

“Call on you?” His voice vaulted upward. “Me? But I’m not... I can’t just call at a duke’s house.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Your butler wouldn’t let me in the door. Thisbe...” He leaned back against the wall, despair blossoming on his face. “You and I... You’re a duke’s daughter.”

“I’m also myself!” Thisbe proclaimed and jumped to her feet. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you I was Lady Thisbe Moreland. I was afraid you would pull away from me, as you just did. That you would no longer think of me as the person I am, and see only the title. If I had told you, you wouldn’t have asked me to walk in the park or invited me to your shop. You wouldn’t have kissed me!” When he didn’t answer, she demanded, “Would you?”

“No, I suppose not,” he said miserably. “But, Thisbe...how could we ever be anything to each other? I wouldn’t fit in your world.”

“Stop it! Just stop it. Your world, my world. It’s nonsense. We live in the same world. It’s just that some people like to put others in tidy boxes and tell you how you must be because you happened to be born to this family instead of the other.”

“Thisbe, I don’t—”

“You—” She jabbed her forefinger at him, her eyes snapping. “You call yourself an egalitarian. I have heard you talk about equality and the rights of man and all that.” She waved her hand in a circle. “Yet there you sit, judging me by my birth. Condemning me to a lifetime of boredom and good manners.”

“I’m not judging you,” he protested, rising to his feet.

“Yes, you are,” Thisbe retorted, her whole jumble of emotions tumbling out in anger. “You’re saying I have to be a certain way, consort with certain people, do certain things because my father has a title. In other words, you’re saying that I have no freedom at all. And—” as he opened his mouth to speak, she plowed right over his words “—and you’re insulting me. You’re insulting me and my entire family. You’re saying everything I’ve told you is a lie. You’re saying we Morelands are deceiving people about what we’re really like. According to you, we’re actually terrible snobs underneath our nice words. According to you, I’m an entirely different person than I appear to be. But I’m not. I am the same woman I was the other day in the park, the same person who went to those lectures and discussed all kinds of things with you, the same person who told you about her hopes and dreams. I am the same girl, and I have the same thoughts and feelings that I did yesterday when you didn’t know my father has a title!”

“Thisbe, please.” Desmond held his hands out toward her. “I think you’re—you’re the most wonderful girl, and I’m not—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re not good enough for me, or I swear I shall hit you!” Thisbe stomped up the stairs. “Good night, Desmond. I am going to bed.” She turned around, fixing him with a fierce stare. “If you want to—” her voice caught, but she went on “—to be with me, if you care for me at all, then you may call on me tomorrow at my house instead of meeting me in secret at the museum. And if not, then... Well, then, goodbye.” She whirled around to hide the glimmer of tears in her eyes and ran up the staircase.

BY THE TIME Thisbe reached the top of the stairs, she regretted her ultimatum and swung around to go back down to Desmond, but she heard the sound of the door closing. Well, he’d certainly seized the opportunity to leave. She ran to her room and peered out between the draperies. He was walking away, hands in pockets, head down. She watched as his long slender form passed the streetlamp and was swallowed by shadows.

She sat down in the chair, a welter of emotions boiling inside her. So much had just happened, so many emotions, so many thoughts struggling to be heard, that she couldn’t sort any of it out. She had been so happy to see Desmond, and then that kiss... Just the memory of it sent heat surging up in her again. But when she told him about herself and he started to pull away, it pierced her heart. She pictured herself losing him, and suddenly her fear turned to anger.

It wasn’t just that her earlier fears had proved correct. It was that Desmond didn’t really understand her, didn’t really know her. After all their conversations, their closeness, those dizzying kisses, he immediately looked at her differently. She was no longer Thisbe to him, but the daughter of a duke. If her name could so easily put him off, then she hadn’t really known him, either. If he cared more for his archaic notions of class distinctions and what was “proper,” she didn’t want to be around him anymore.

Except, of course, she did.

Thisbe wiped the tears from her cheeks. It wasn’t like her to be so emotional. If there was one thing she was, it was reasonable. She liked to deal with facts. What she needed to do what sort this out and look at it logically. What did she know? What were the provable facts of the situation?

First, she was at fault by not telling him the truth from the beginning. Second, the news had exploded on him, with no preparation at all. Desmond was shocked by her revelation, which was only rational and to be expected. He was dismayed at the prospect of calling at a duke’s house. Most people would be. He barely had time to absorb the news, let alone examine the idea and adjust his thoughts. Wasn’t it unfair of her to expect him to immediately accept the things she’d told him?

None of that should have angered her so. It was the way he leaned away from her, the look of sorrow in his eyes. He looked at her as if he’d already lost her. That was what hurt, not his mouthing antiquated notions of class distinctions. He was already giving her up.

Thisbe sighed and climbed into bed. Perhaps she should just accept it. If she wasn’t worth knocking down the barriers for, then perhaps she should let him go, too.

CHAPTER NINE

THISBE SPENT THE next day in suspense. She told Smeggars that he was to let in anyone who asked for her, no matter his misgivings. But would Desmond call on her? Was this the right dress to wear? Was her hair too plain? Too intricate?

She joined Kyria and their mother in the drawing room, which earned her a surprised look from both of them. Thisbe usually disappeared to her lab in the afternoon and didn’t appear again until the evening meal, lest she get dragooned into chaperoning Kyria.

The duchess made an effort to sit through the calls of Kyria’s visitors, even though it went against her opinion of chaperonage, which she considered prison guards for young girls. Kyria enjoyed the social whirl, and for her sake, Emmeline adhered to the rules. She was perhaps not the best of chaperones, as she often left the room, but for the most part, she endured the insipidity of the afternoon visits. When Reed was home, he sometimes relieved his mother of the duties, but at other times, it was Olivia who was called upon to sit in the drawing room, and now and then even Thisbe had to play the part.

Thisbe found this afternoon as stultifying as ever, made even worse by her anxiety over Desmond. One of her mother’s friends called on them, which fortunately cut short a visit by a society matron and her daughter, and young men came and went all afternoon. Kyria kept shooting speculative glances at her sister, but the constant presence of her beaux kept her from questioning Thisbe.

Two of Kyria’s most tiresome admirers were there and Thisbe was considering giving up for the afternoon when Smeggars came in, looking faintly pained, and announced, “Mr. Desmond Harrison, ma’am.”