Page 55 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

DESMOND APPROACHED THE party sunken in gloom. This was the last place he wanted to be. Neither food nor drink appealed to him. Sleep did. One would think he would sleep more now that he no longer rose early to go to the shop so he could spend time with Thisbe. Instead, it had been a struggle to fall asleep, and once he did, his rest was fitful. He was plagued with nightmares, many of them involving Thisbe in imminent danger and himself unable to reach her. In one particularly horrid dream, it had been he who had plunged the knife into her, thinking she was an attacker.

His was not a state in which to think clearly. He’d made a mistake on a telescope that required him to take the thing apart in order to correct it. His mind was blank and dull at the laboratory; he hadn’t the least desire to develop a spectroscope that would reveal a hidden world of spirits. Indeed, he had lost nearly all interest in that hidden world.

A gala given by Mr. Wallace had even less appeal. Wallace included Gordon and his workers, as well as other scientists, in one of his parties now and then. Desmond supposed the man sought to prove he was a true man of science, not just a dabbler—though it seemed unlikely to Desmond that such a status would impress any of Wallace’s peers. More likely, Wallace sought to impress the scientists with his importance. Not that there was any need to do that, either; Wallace’s checkbook had already done that.

Whatever the reason, Desmond could not understand why Professor Gordon had insisted on Desmond going to the bloody thing. Wallace wouldn’t want him there. Frankly, Desmond was surprised the man hadn’t cut him from the group. The drubbing from Thisbe’s twin must have convinced them that Desmond was no longer useful to them in the quest for the Eye.

Reflexively, Desmond touched his cheek. The bruises had largely faded, except for a faint blue-and-yellow spot beside his eye, but it was still a trifle sore. Lord, but that man had a punch—though it was not as strong a blow as seeing Thisbe rush in to save him. No, not to save him—to keep her brother from creating an even worse scene.

The sudden sight of her had rocked Desmond. She’d been so beautiful—green eyes flashing, cheeks high with color. She’d been...just so much herself. He’d almost gone to her. Almost pleaded with her to forgive him, to let him into her life again. He wanted to tell her he’d been miserable without her, wanted her arms around him. Wanted all sort of impossible things.

Fortunately, one of the things he’d learned growing up was not getting the things he wanted. He’d said none of it, just watched her walk away, arm in arm with her brother. He had done what he had to do, and she was safe from Wallace’s ruffian. Safe from Desmond himself.

Wallace’s house was grand and luxurious, but, having been inside Broughton House, Desmond was no longer awed by it. Wallace stood at the entrance to the ballroom, greeting guests. A familiar burst of fury rose inside Desmond at the sight of him, but he pushed it down. He would pay the requisite fealty to the man, find Gordon to prove that he had attended and then slip out.

Wallace greeted him coolly, and Desmond managed a polite, equally meaningless reply. Having passed that gauntlet, he headed into the ballroom, looking for Gordon. He caught sight of him standing amidst a cluster of scientists and students, but as Desmond started toward him, a voice to his right brought him to an abrupt halt. “—that’s a ridiculous notion, and I find it hard to believe that a man of learning doesn’t realize that.”

Thisbe. A ripple of nerves ran up his spine. No, it couldn’t be. It was. His eyes found her immediately, tall and slim and cool in a shimmering dress the color of amber. She was talking to a shocked-looking older man, and beside her, smothering a laugh, stood Carson Dunbridge.

Rage shot through Desmond and he strode over to them, grabbing Carson’s arm and yanking him aside. “What the devil is wrong with you! How could you bring her here?”

Carson said nothing, merely lifted his eyebrows in that supercilious expression that never failed to raise Desmond’s hackles. Thisbe, of course, strode over to them, leaving the other man staring after her in shock and indignation before he turned and hurried off.

“Desmond, just what do you think you’re doing?” Thisbe was devastating up close. The neckline of the golden ball gown swooped across the top of her breasts, setting up any number of unwelcome sensations in Desmond’s gut. He caught the barest scent of her perfume.

For a moment his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth before he managed to speak. “You should leave.”

“I beg your pardon.” Thisbe’s eyes, already stormy, took on a flash of fire. “Why should I leave? You leave.”

“I intend to, trust me.” Desmond thought he might explode from the conflicting emotions storming around inside him. He turned to Carson. “How could you do this? Bring her right into—”

“Mr. Dunbridge did not bring me anywhere.” Thisbe brought Desmond’s attention back to her with an ungentle rap of her fan on his arm. “I came here at the host’s invitation.”

“Wallace? You met Wallace? How? Why? Damn it, Carson, if you—” Desmond’s eyes narrowed. “What game are you playing? Do you plan to pursue her now? I swear—”

“Jealous, are we?” Carson’s lazy tone was insufferably amused.

“Desmond! Stop it! Stop it right now.” Thisbe stepped between the two men, scowling at Desmond. “I am growing tired of mediating your brawls.”

“I never asked you to.” Desmond didn’t need Carson’s poorly concealed laughter to know that he sounded childishly sullen. He wanted to kiss Thisbe. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to drag her from the room. Carry her to safety. To his bed.

Thisbe turned to the other man. “Carson.” So now it was Carson, not Mr. Dunbridge. “Would you excuse us, please? I need to talk to Desmond.”

“Are you certain?” Carson asked, slanting a sardonic look Desmond’s way. “He seems rather...unstable.”

“I’m certain,” Thisbe said firmly, and Carson sketched a bow and left. Thisbe turned back to Desmond.

“Thisbe, I swear to you—”

“We must talk.” She glanced around. “It’s too cold to go out to the garden. There’s bound to be an empty room around.”

“Thisbe, no, we can’t slip off together. It’ll be—”

“A scene?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Thank you, but I think you have already created one of those. I’m trying to keep it from growing.”

Desmond looked around to find several gazes discreetly, and not so discreetly, focused on them. He nodded and followed her out of the room. She walked quickly down the corridor, glancing in one room after another.

“Ah, the library. Perfect. No one will come in here.” The room was lit, though dimly, by gas sconces on the wall, leaving much of it shadowy.