by Candace Camp
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.
She took his hand to lead him into the room and closed the door behind them. He should have objected to both, but he didn’t. It felt too good to have her hand in his once more.
Thisbe turned to face him, letting go of his hand. Desmond’s heart raced. He struggled to push aside the warring sensations within him. “Please, you have to understand. This is dangerous for you. You can’t—”
“Be with you?” She cut him off, then rendered him utterly speechless by stepping forward, taking his face in her hands and looking into his eyes. “Desmond...do you want me?”
Desmond let out a strangled noise.
“Do you want to be with me?” She stretched up to place a soft kiss on his lips. “To kiss me?”
His head whirled, her perfume filling his nostrils, her lips as soft, as delectable, as he remembered. He put his hands on her waist. To hold her away, he thought. “Of course,” he said. “That’s not the point.”
“I think it is.” She moved closer, so that her body was now only a centimeter away from his, almost touching him all the way up and down.
“Thisbe...” He spread out his fingers against her sides, his thumbs brushing tantalizingly close to the swell of her breasts. “You can’t.”
“I can.” She brushed her mouth against his again, her fingers sliding back into his hair, and a tremor ran through him. “I want to be with you.” Her voice was only a whisper; her breath caressed his cheek. “I miss you. I think about you until I think it will drive me mad.”
“Thisbe.” He closed his eyes. “I do, too.”
“Then it’s silly to be apart, isn’t it?”
He kissed her cheek; her skin was soft as velvet, and the little intake of her breath made his own catch in his throat. He bent to kiss her neck, then the white shoulder so temptingly close. His fingers pressed into her waist, carrying her that last little sliver closer so that her body was flush with his. His mind was a blank; he seemed incapable of saying anything except her name.
Slowly, his fingers slid up, his thumbs finding the curve of her breasts and following it. Thisbe made an odd soft sound, and he felt her body turn hotter beneath his hands. He lost all sanity then and kissed her. His mouth was hard and hungry, and his arms wrapped around her, crushing her into him.
He wanted to brush everything from the library table and lay her down on it, wanted to cover her body with his, feel her soft and welcoming beneath him. One arm still tightly around her, his other hand came up to cup her breast. He moved higher, his fingertips touching the lace trim o
f her neckline and then the amazingly soft skin of her breast. His thumb teased at the edge of the material, then slid beneath, moved under the cotton of her chemise. And there it was, the bud of her nipple, prickling beneath his touch. His mouth trailed down her neck and onto the expanse of her chest, her collarbone hard beneath her skin, moving downward. He barely suppressed a moan.
The door opened behind them, and Desmond jerked. He whipped around, pressing Thisbe against the wall, covering her from sight with his body. A slice of brighter light fell on the floor, and a disappointed voice said, “Just the library.” The door closed again.
Desmond let out a curse and swung away. “God.” He heaved in a breath, thrusting his hand back through his already disordered hair. What was he doing? “I’m sorry, Thisbe.”
“I’m not.” Thisbe’s voice was unsteady, but it throbbed with intensity. He could feel it all through him.
“You don’t understand. We cannot—”
“Why not?” There was a lash of anger in her voice now. “I don’t care about the danger. I don’t even believe in it.”
“You should.” He turned around to face her, hoping this four or five feet was a safe enough distance away. Clearly, his control when it came to Thisbe was almost nonexistent. His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat, struggling to pull himself into order.
“I don’t believe in curses, Desmond. Neither should you. It’s foolish, archaic.”
“It’s not just that.” He searched desperately for a way to convince her that wouldn’t make her despise him.
“Then what else is it?” she demanded, fists planted on her hips.
“You cannot trust Carson.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“He is. He was. But where you’re concerned, it’s different. You cannot trust Wallace, either.”
Thisbe gaped at him. “You realize, don’t you, that you sound a little mad?”
“Think. Why would he invite you to this party?”
“He had to have an ulterior motive?” Thisbe’s eyes flashed. “He couldn’t have thought I deserved an invitation just as male scientists did? I noticed there were a number of them here tonight, including you.”
“It’s not that! You know I respect you as a scientist as well as a person. It’s just—” He clenched his jaw.
“Go on. It’s just what?” Thisbe demanded. When he said nothing, staring at her in frustration, she let out a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl, then swung around, heading for the door.
“Wait! Thisbe! Oh, the devil. They want the bloody Eye!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THISBE STOPPED AND turned around, her anger vanishing in the face of real concern about Desmond’s mental state. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of sanity—his hands clenched in his hair as if he would pull it out by the roots, his eyes wild, his entire body rigid with tension. Carefully, she said, “They want a bloody eye?”
“Noooo.” He elongated the word, almost a moan, but at least he relaxed, his hands dropping to his side. He still looked comical, with his hair sticking out in every direction from his treatment of it, but Thisbe had no inclination to laugh. Despair was written all over his face. “Not a bloody eye. The Eye. The Eye of Annie Blue.”
“Desmond...you aren’t making sense. Who is Annie Blue? And why would any of these people want her eye?”
“Because they think your grandmother uses it to see the dead.” Thisbe’s jaw dropped, but he went on in a leaden voice, “Wallace has a letter... Arbuthnot something had the Eye in his possession.”
“Arbuthnot Gray? My great-great-whatever-grandfather Arbuthnot? Desmond, is this a jest?”
“No! No, I swear to you. Anne Ballew was an alchemist. My aunt Tildy believed I am descended from her, which, of course, is nonsense.”
“I think I’d better sit down.” Thisbe took a seat in one of the chairs by the library table, her mind whirling.
Desmond didn’t sit, though he clutched the top of a chair as if it would keep him in place. “People nicknamed her Annie Blue. She was very famous—she was burned as a witch. She claimed—people believed, anyway—that she could see the dead. Communicate with spirits. And she had this instrument.”
“Called the Eye.” Thisbe relaxed in relief. Desmond wasn’t out of his mind. He was talking nonsense, but at least it wasn’t gibberish.
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Wallace believes my grandmother inherited this thing?”
“Yes. You know the subject of Professor Gordon’s project. An instrument that—”
“An instrument that could reveal ghosts to humans.” Thisbe rose slowly to her feet as all the warmth drained out of her. “Some optical instrument, say, something along the lines of a kaleidoscope. That’s it, isn’t it? That is why you—you—”
“No! Thisbe, no, that’s not why—I didn’t know you.”
“But you made sure you got to know me, didn’t you?” Thisbe felt sick at her stomach, but her mind raced on. “That’s why you came to that lecture, isn’t it? That’s why you chose that seat. You thought you could get to Grandmother through me. That I could persuade her to give it to you.”
“No. I swear to you.”
“I have a little trouble believing anything you swear,” Thisbe retorted hotly.
“I didn’t know who you were when I met you. I didn’t know the Duchess of Broughton was your grandmother. I didn’t know that was where you lived until you came out the door.”
Thisbe drew in a sharp breath. A shard of ice speared her chest. “You didn’t come to see me that night. You were there to—to what? Steal it?”
“No. I mean... I wasn’t going to take it.”
“Then what? You came merely to locate it? Get the lay of the land so someone else could steal it?”
He looked at her helplessly. “Thisbe, please... Professor Gordon was desperate. I owe him so much.”
“Whereas you owe me nothing. I understand.”
“It’s not a matter of owing. I love you.”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” A saving rush of anger expelled the chill. “Why in the world didn’t you just ask me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to think exactly what you’re thinking,” Desmond snapped back. “Blast it! I didn’t try to steal it. I didn’t want to use you.”
“Stop.” She made a sharp gesture. “Come with me.” She turned and strode from the room, her steps sharp and fast against the tile of the corridor.
“Where? Thisbe, what are you going to do?”
“We’re going to visit my grandmother.”
With a sigh of resignation, he followed her. Desmond didn’t try to speak as she marched down the stairs, though as they waited for their coats from the butler, he said tentatively, “Um, shouldn’t we tell Carson you’re leaving?”
“I’m sure he will figure it out.” Thisbe wasn’t pleased with Carson, either, though it was nothing compared to the roiling feelings she held for Desmond at the moment.
It was an inconvenience that her carriage was not there since she had come with Carson, but it wasn’t far from Wallace’s house to her own. And a brisk walk in the cold night air made awkward conversation less likely. Desmond didn’t try to talk to her, and she was glad, though her own mind was occupied with all the things she would say to him if he should once more try to persuade her that he had done nothing wrong.
He didn’t know. He didn’t mean. He didn’t intend. Well, what he had done was lie to her. Deceive her. Pretend feelings he didn’t have. Once he met the dowager duchess, he must have realized that using Thisbe to get to her was a lost cause. But at least the dowager duchess’s premonition had given him a handy excuse to remove himself from Thisbe’s life after that.
It gave Thisbe some small sense of satisfaction to see the expression of uneasiness on Desmond’s face when they r
eached the house. The dowager duchess, they were told, had already retired, but Thisbe didn’t hesitate to head up the stairs to her grandmother’s rooms.
She knocked on the door. “Grandmother, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
A moment later, the duchess’s maid opened the door and curtsied to Thisbe before slipping out the door. Her grandmother stalked into her sitting room. She had taken off her usual load of jewelry and changed her clothes, but she was no less formidable in her heavy brocade dressing gown and the turban she often wore as a nightcap.
“What is it, Thisbe?” The duchess narrowed her eyes at Desmond. “What is he doing here? This is scarcely the time for visitors.”
“Desmond has come to ask you something. Rather, I have come to ask you something for him. He felt it too forward to do it himself.” Thisbe caught the surprised look on Desmond’s face at her words. No doubt he had expected her to lay out all his sins for the dowager duchess. It was probably the sort of thing he would do. “As you know, he is a scientist, and he is conducting an experiment that I think would interest you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“He and his colleagues are trying to prove the existence of spirits in the world around us.”
“Well, of course they exist. Sounds like a waste of time to me.”
“I agree, but they think the matter worth studying. His professor believes that you are in possession of an artifact that would help them in this study. It’s called ‘Annie Blue’s Eye,’ I believe.”
“The Eye. Of course!” Cornelia turned to Desmond, her voice dropping into the low, dramatic voice that usually accompanied her mystical ramblings. “I should have known you would want my Eye. With that miasma of death that surrounds you, it’s clear you would be drawn to it...and to my granddaughter.”
Thisbe ignored her grandmother’s theatrics. “The important thing, Grandmother, is that his group would like to study the Eye.”