Page 6 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Yes, my brother. My twin, actually.”

“Ah.” His face relaxed. “You have a twin. Twins are fascinating—though it’s better if they’re identical, of course.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry—naturally I didn’t mean better. It’s just, well, in terms of studying... That is to say...” He trailed off, his face reddening again.

Thisbe began to laugh. “It’s all right. I know what you mean. I have two younger brothers who are identical twins—one can hardly tell one from the other. They are certainly...interesting.”

“You must have several siblings.” His voice sounded faintly wistful.

“I have four brothers and two sisters. Do you have siblings?” She wondered about the odd tone in his voice.

He shook his head. “I had a sister. Sally. She died several years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. She was older than I by several years, but I was close to her. She helped my aunt raise me. Mother died, you see, right after I was born.”

“How awful.” Thisbe laid her hand on his arm. “I am so sorry. Is your father...?”

He hesitated, then said, “No, he is gone, as well.”

“What about Christmas? Do you have other family here? You could come to our house.” She’d have to reveal her family situation, of course, which wasn’t ideal, but it pierced her heart to think of him alone on the holiday.

He smiled at her. “You’re very kind, but you needn’t worry about it. I spend Christmas with Mr. Gordon.”

“I’m glad.” Thisbe realized that she still had her hand on his arm and reluctantly pulled it back. “You’re shivering. You must be freezing. There’s really no need for you to walk me home. I’ve done it many times alone, and it’s perfectly safe.”

“I’m fine. I frequently lose track of my coat or cap or...well, any number of things.” He gave her a rueful smile. “So I often find myself in such a situation.”

She couldn’t let him walk her home. Eventually, of course, she would have to let him know about her family, but not just yet. One look at Broughton House would be enough to frighten anyone away.

“It’s a long way,” she began. Ahead of her, she saw the answer to her dilemma. “I have to take the omnibus, you see.” She pointed to a cluster of people waiting for the public vehicle. “If you walk me to the stop, I’ll be fine from there.”

He agreed to that, though he insisted on lingering until the vehicle actually arrived and she had boarded before he left. Thisbe watched him through the window of the omnibus as he jogged out of sight. Unfortunately, she was trapped for however long it took to reach the next stop. She had no idea where she was headed. She would have to get off at the first opportunity and walk back to her coach, which, she saw, was trundling along after them. She began to chuckle. No doubt this would make another excellent story about the Moreland madness for the driver to regale the other servants with at their meal tonight.

She didn’t care. This evening had been worth far more than an embarrassing story about her making the rounds of the servants. She felt something tonight that she had never known before. For the first time, she had met a man who could make her forget all about science.

CHAPTER TWO

DESMOND RAN MOST of the way home—he was cold, but also bursting with energy. Thisbe—it was a delightful name. Unique and lovely, just like her. He had noticed her the moment he had walked into the hall simply because she was the only woman in the room. She had intrigued him. That was why he had chosen that chair instead one of the other empty ones.

Then he had seen her up close, and his entire chest had seized up. She was beautiful. Not the china-doll beauty of blond hair, blue eyes and a simpering smile. Her hair beneath her bonnet was jet-black, darker even than his own, and her eyes were a startling shade of bright green. She was so tall that he had not had to lean down to talk to her, and she was slender as a reed. Her willowy form was not the hourglass ideal achieved by cinching one’s waist until it cut off her air, but it was more appealing to him. She moved with grace and ease, unlike the stiff posture of a corseted woman. And her face... Well, there was no adequate way to describe her face—even featured and feminine yet strong, with a squarish shape and a determined chin, all softened by her curving mouth, with its plump lower lip. Heavens, that lip; it was almost shocking how much he longed to feel it beneath his own mouth.

But it wasn’t merely her looks that had turned him into a tongue-tied, clumsy wretch. She was just so—so...utterly different. There were her clothes—a small hat with no more than a plain ribbon to decorate it, a small-hooped skirt unadorned by even one ruffle and half boots that were more sturdy than fashionable. More than that, there was the way she talked—directly, even bluntly; the way she walked—with long, quick, purposeful strides; the way she looked at someone—straight on and confident. There were no demurely downcast gazes with her, no giggles or fluttering lashes or flirtatious glances. Thisbe was simply...herself.

He, of course, had acted like a dolt, sneaking glances at her as he wrote—he hated to think of the state of the notes he’d taken—then dropping his pad and pencil when he stood up. He couldn’t pick it up with it touching her skirt; that seemed too forward to do without asking. Yet he’d also been too embarrassed to ask her. He was a trifle shy usually, but not that paralytically shy. He’d been so gripped by fear that he would bungle it all that he had been unable to talk at all.

Another man, someone like his friend Carson Dunbridge, say, would have talked to her and smoothly made a jest about dropping his pen. Desmond had seen Carson talk to women—he was relaxed and assured, and charmed them with a smile. But then Carson was a gentleman’s son, trained from infancy in correct behavior and social ease. He was accustomed to dealing with ladies.

And it was clear Thisbe was a lady, though her plain clothes and bonnet suggested that she was not a wealthy one. Proper English could be taught—after all, hadn’t Desmond himself learned to use proper grammar and speak with only a trace of a Dorset accent? But Thisbe had that unteachable, indefinable air of gentility. The manager of the Covington Institute had obviously recognized it, given the respect with which he spoke to her.

Desmond, however, was very much not one of the genteel class. He had not lied exactly about his father—the man was gone—but his answer had been an equivocation at best. His father had been a laborer and sometime thief whenever he couldn’t find honest work; he’d ended up being shipped off to the penal colony in Australia.

Desmond’s education had been largely self-taught, with the generous aid of the village vicar, who had recognized the intelligence and thirst for knowledge in him. It had been lack of funds as much as lack of scientific classes that had cut short his career at London University. Unlike Carson and the others in Gordon’s laboratory, he had no stipend from parents and therefore had to work in a shop to support himself.

He would never have dreamed that a woman like Thisbe might start a conversation with him. Yet she had. It was then that he had discovered how truly fascinating Thisbe was. Once they began talking, it had been easy. Desmond had always had trouble talking to women, as they found deadly dull most of the things he was interested in. To be fair, most men found them deadly dull, as well.

But it had been entirely different with Thisbe. Even when she disagreed with him, it was friendly and enjoyable, even invigorating, to discuss the matter. She hadn’t even seemed to find it peculiar that Desmond could be so absentminded as to forget his coat or lose his gloves, which, perplexingly, seemed to happen often.

He had been worried when she brought up Theo. It seemed unlikely that a woman as special as she would not already have a beau—he had already checked her hand to see that she wore no wedding ring. It had been a relief to find out the man was her brother. Because, as unlikely and impossible as it would be to win her, Desmond wanted this woman.