Page 13 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“I’ll see him again the day after Christmas,” Thisbe replied, a trifle smugly. “He’s going to the Christmas lectures, and so am I. There are several of them between Christmas and Twelfth Night.”

“By then he’ll be so captivated that it won’t matter who you are,” Olivia assured her.

“I don’t know about that.” Thisbe laughed.

“I want to see him,” Kyria announced. “We could come with you to the Christmas lectures. I’m sure it will be deadly dull, but—”

“No!” Thisbe said in alarm. “If you’re with me, we’ll be swarmed by every young single man in the place—and likely some of the old married ones, too. It will disrupt everything. I’ll hardly have a chance to talk to him.”

“We can sit somewhere else in the hall,” Olivia offered.

Thisbe fixed them with a stony glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“Oh, very well.” Kyria gave in. “We won’t spy on you.” She brightened. “But I can help you dress for it. You can wear one of my frocks. We’re much the same size. I’ll do your hair.”

Thisbe looked wary. “I don’t know. He’s already seen how I look.”

“But he hasn’t seen how you look in something attractive.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” She looked down at her dress. “This is perfectly acceptable.”

“It’s perfectly plain.”

“So am I. I don’t want to be...sparkly.”

“Please, Thisbe?” Kyria begged. “It will be such fun, and I promise I won’t make you look ‘sparkly.’”

The idea was tempting. Thisbe had never been concerned with the way she looked, but now she couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to see Desmond look at her with the same sort of admiration with which other men gazed at Kyria.

“I won’t make you look like a princess,” Kyria bargained. “It won’t make him suspect you’re an aristocrat.”

“No ruffles?”

“No ruffles. Well, maybe just one.”

“No huge hoop and petticoats.”

“No huge hoop. That’s going out of style, anyway.”

“No feathers or bangles. Or beading.”

“None of those.” Kyria nodded firmly.

“No flowers in my hair.”

“Nary a one.”

“Very well,” Thisbe agreed. “I’ll do it.”

“Hoorah!” Kyria rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Your Desmond doesn’t stand a chance.”

THISBE STOOD IN DARKNESS; walls of stone surrounded her. It was too small, too close. Her breathing hastened, her heart pounded. The stones began to dissolve into a thick gray fog. Her stomach turned; her head swam. The blanketing fog was more frightening than the prison of stone—a sightless, unending nothingness.

Something lurked out there. Someone. She could not see it or hear it; she was helpless against it. But she was certain it lay in wait. Tendrils of mist curled around her, brushing over her skin like a breath. A sound vibrated through the fog, low and indistinct—a moan? A sob?—and the very air seemed filled with yearning.

It wanted her. It sought her, reached for her. She sucked in a breath sharply, fear racing through her nerves like a bolt of lightning. She tried to run, to turn away, but she could not. The fog boiled, thick and pressing, encompassing her like a shroud. She would smother. The air would stop in her lungs, and she would be trapped in this endless nothingness, caught forever...

And still it reached for her, reached for her. A hand clamped around her leg, fingernails digging into her flesh. And pain—horrific, incredible pain—slammed through her...