Page 47 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“A mark? You mean a birthmark? That’s nonsense—it’s just happenstance. A random occurrence.”

“I know all this sounds foolish to you.” He should tell her the whole story—reveal everything he knew about the Eye and the men who wanted it, explain why she was in danger. She would be sure to stay away from him then; she would hate him for deceiving her. But his throat closed when he thought of it. He could not bring himself to admit what he had done. He could not bear to see the disgust on her face. It was hard enough to give her up without making himself a thorough villain in her eyes.

“Yes, because it is foolish,” Thisbe replied. “How can you claim to love me and then toss me aside?”

“Don’t you see? It’s because I love you. I cannot let anything hurt you.”

“You mean, anything other than you?” Thisbe’s eyes glittered.

Her words pierced him. “Thisbe, no...”

“I don’t care about your superstitions. I’ll brave it.”

“I know. You would brave anything. But the consequences are too great. I cannot gamble with your life.”

“I see.” Thisbe drew herself up to her fullest height. Her eyes were the brightest green he had ever seen, her lustrous black hair dotted with snowflakes, her cheeks high with color. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and he drank in the sight of her, storing it away for the future. “Well. Then...I shall go home.”

Desmond started forward, but she stopped him with a flash of her emerald eyes. “No. I don’t need an escort. I’m sure the coach is right outside the park. I am perfectly fine alone.”

There was nothing he could do but watch miserably as she walked away and trail along after her to make sure she reached her carriage safely. Thisbe climbed into the waiting vehicle without a backward glance, and it drove away. She was gone. He stood there a moment, staring bleakly into the rapidly increasing snow. Finally, he turned and made his way to the laboratory.

Only Professor Gordon was there. He raised his head as Desmond approached.

“I have a message for Mr. Wallace,” Desmond told him.

Professor Gordon’s eyebrows rose. “Mr. Wallace?”

“Yes. I’m not sure whether you know about the ultimatum his man delivered to me.”

Gordon shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But if you will, please give him my answer. His threats are useless now. I won’t be seeing Miss Moreland again, and I am no longer welcome at Broughton House.”

“What?” Gordon stared. “You mean—”

Desmond nodded. “I’m not risking jail for Wallace or anyone else. I have broken it off with Miss Moreland. There’s no longer any possibility that she will help me. Her grandmother already hates me and will do so even more now. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, much less the Eye.”

Desmond turned and walked back to his desk, maintaining his air of unconcern, though his insides were in a turmoil. He had done what was right, he told himself. What he’d had to do. He would simply have to get accustomed to this hole in his chest.

THISBE SHIVERED DESPITE the fur-lined lap rug she had thrown over her legs. It was, she knew, because the ice in her chest came from the inside, not the chill in the carriage. She wished she was home; the coach ride seemed endless. Whether news was good or ill, it was better in the encircling warmth of her family.

She ran into the house and up the stairs. Kyria, starting down the stairs, turned immediately and followed her. “Thisbe! What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Oh, Kyria...” Thisbe swung around. “He doesn’t want to see me anymore.” Then, to the astonishment of both women, Thisbe burst into tears.

Kyria put her arms around her sister. “What? Who? Surely you’re not talking about Desmond!”

“I am. I am.”

“No. You must be mistaken. The man’s mad for you.”

“He’s not.” Through her sobs, Thisbe poured out the story of their conversation.

Down the hall doorways opened and closed, and before long Olivia joined them, then the duchess and even the dowager duchess herself. Emmeline took charge, pulling Thisbe into a hug and rubbing her back soothingly, and said, “There, there, sweet girl.”

Thisbe leaned her head against the duchess’s shoulder as if she were a child again. Except this was no scraped knee or wounded feeling that could be banished by the awesome power of her mother. After a time, Thisbe quieted. She lifted her head and brushed away her tears. “I’m sorry. I never cry.”

“Everyone cries sometimes. Come, let’s sit down and straighten this out.” The duchess put her arm around Thisbe’s shoulders and steered her over to a bench against the wall. Pulling out a handkerchief, she handed it to Thisbe. “Now. What has happened?”