Page 53 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“I’m afraid my parents don’t socialize much,” Thisbe disclosed.

“And the dowager duchess, of course. Is she here tonight? I would love to meet her, as well.”

“Um, yes, she’s here somewhere.” Thisbe made a show of glancing about the room. “I don’t see her right now.” Thisbe could imagine all too well how her grandmother would react to this too-friendly man. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

“Of course. Excuse me, sir, I must escort Miss Moreland.” Carson bowed and offered her his arm.

As they walked away, Thisbe said drily, “I didn’t really need an escort to cross the ballroom.”

“I know.” Carson grinned. “But it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. I apologize for our patron. He can be...very enthusiastic.”

“Mmm.”

“But I do hope you will allow to me escort you to his party. They are rather extravagant affairs—he invites all of us.”

It was, she suspected, a not-so-subtle hint that Desmond would be there. It wasn’t Desmond’s idea of fun any more than it was hers, but if the man who paid the laboratory’s bill asked, he would attend. Desmond’s presence was a very good reason not to go. She said, “Yes, I should like to, thank you.”

The party turned out not to be endless, despite Thisbe’s grim conviction to the contrary halfway through it. After they got back to the house, she went straight to her room, grateful to rid herself of the elegant ball gown and all the accoutrements Kyria and her grandmother deemed necessary to attend a dance—bracelet, pendant, hair ornaments, elbow-length gloves, fan, even a minuscule card and pencil.

Later, hair down and her headache easing, clad in her nightgown and heavy robe, she sank into her chair with a sigh and began to brush out her hair. It was warm and comforting here in front of the low fire, and the smooth sweep of the brush through her hair was soothing.

That was the last time she would follow Kyria’s advice on recovering from a broken heart—as if Kyria had ever suffered from that malady herself. It hadn’t helped a whit; the only difference was that now her feet hurt as well as her heart.

Thisbe rose and went to the mantel, where she had placed the kaleidoscope Desmond had given her. She had thought of putting it away in a drawer, where it wouldn’t tug at her heart each time she glanced at the fire, but that would have made it too easy for the twins, who were fascinated by the instrument. More than that, though, she knew she kept it there because it was all she had of Desmond.

She picked up the instrument, then looked into the light of the fire, turning the front of it so that the flames tumbled into a myriad of designs. She thought of the moment Desmond gave it to her. The look in his deep, dark eyes. The kiss that followed.

She shouldn’t have agreed to go to Mr. Wallace’s party. It had been a relief when Wallace joined them, for she was almost certain Carson was about to ask permission to call on her. But then she had committed herself to his party and in doing so gave Carson permission to call on her, anyway.

It wasn’t that Mr. Wallace was a terrible person. He just...made her uncomfortable. He’d been too eager to have her attend his party, too desirous of meeting her parents and grandmother. She couldn’t help but feel that he wanted something from her—in all likelihood, the entrée into the upper echelon of aristocratic society that friendship with the dowager duchess could provide.

She didn’t want to have to fend off Wallace’s attempts to ingratiate himself. And she didn’t like parties, anyway. She would be as bored and out of place as she had been this evening. There would be a crush of people, and she would know no one there but Carson. And Desmond.

Of course, that was the sole reason she had agreed. She wanted to see Desmond, even if it was across the room. That was another foolish thing. Seeing him wouldn’t fill the emptiness within her, wouldn’t vanquish the longing for his touch. It was bound to make it all worse. Yet somehow she could not quell the desire to see him.

Kyria, of course, was elated that Thisbe was being squired to another party. Kyria was certain that her plan had worked, and Thisbe didn’t want to burst her bubble. It was irritating, though, that her grandmother was also pleased with the idea: “Dunbridge has little name to speak of, but his family is old and there’s never been a scandal. You’ll find better, but at least you’re on the right path.”

It didn’t help Thisbe’s mood that she continued to have that strange dream. It was always the same—the fire, the helplessness, the woman with her insistent appeal for help. It always jarred Thisbe awake, sweating and scared, and even though she was now familiar with the dream, it took a long time to go back to sleep.

Lack of sleep left Thisbe with eyes that were shadowed enough that even her father noticed. Coming upon her in the library one evening, he paused in the midst of searching for the book he wanted and asked, “Thisbe, dear. Are you all right?”

“Of course, Papa.” Thisbe smiled and set aside the tome—she’d read the same page three times now, anyway. Rising, she went over to kiss him on the cheek. “You needn’t worry about me. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

“That boy—what is his name?”

“Desmond,” she said evenly. “But it’s nothing to do with him. I keep having a nightmare.”

The duke’s mild face wrinkled in concern, and he put his arm around her, steering her toward the sofa to sit. “Tell me all about it, as you used to.”

“I’d forgotten that.” Thisbe smiled faintly at the memory of her father sitting down on her bed and holding her after a nightmare. It had felt so safe and warm in his arms. “I would tell you about my scary dream, and you’d chase it away with a tale of Greek heroes.”

“Ah, yes. Heroes’ tales always have to do with fear.”

“This one wasn’t about monsters or being lost or any of the usual things.” She related her dream in detail, and added, “It doesn’t seem very big in the telling, does it?”

“It doesn’t matter how long or how threatening dreams are—it’s the emotion they bring up in one that makes them frightening. Let’s see...” He adjusted his glasses, gazing thoughtfully down at the carpet. “Fire. I would imagine that’s common—everyone is scared of fire.”

“It’s not really the fire that frightens me. I feel so helpless. I can’t move. It’s as if I’m paralyzed or bound. And her panic washes through me, but I haven’t the least idea what it is she wants. I can’t do anything.”