Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “Yes, Theo told me several years ago. That was why he got sent down from Oxford that time—he punched someone who called us that.”

  “Really? I always wondered what happened,” Kyria mused.

  “Theo was sent down?” Olivia asked. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “You were too young. It never happened again. I think no one else wanted to get knocked down.” Thisbe continued, “But none of that was the reason I said I was just plain Thisbe Moreland. I didn’t want... Oh, you don’t know how they act when they know who I am. They try to ingratiate themselves with me, wanting research money, or they think I’m only dabbling in science or that I’ve been favored by lecturers because my father is a duke.”

  “You thought he would do one of those things.”

  “I didn’t want to find out. I wanted him to see me as me. Besides, I didn’t want to frighten him away. I know he hasn’t any money—he said his father had been a laborer, and he has to work in a shop to support himself. It doesn’t matter to me, but I’m afraid it will to him.”

  “You’re right. He might feel intimidated,” Kyria told her. “But he’s bound to realize when he comes to call on you—Wait, how will he call on you if he doesn’t know who you are? How will you see him again?”

  “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...

  * * *

  THISBE SHOT UPRIGHT in her bed. Her muscles were clenched, her lungs burning; pain lit every inch of her body. For an instant she remained frozen, lost in the shadows between nightmare and fact. She panted, her senses gradually restoring her to reality. Everything was familiar; everything was known. She was in her own bed in her own room, surrounded by her family.

  If she cried out, if she was in danger or pain, any of them—indeed, all of them—would come to her rescue. She wondered if her father would come as he had when she was a child, and she smiled faintly, thinking of him rushing in, candle in hand, nightcap askew on his now-graying head. And somehow that vision, more than anything, calmed her.

  She relaxed her muscles and drew longer, steadier breaths. The pain seeped out of her. What a strange dream—the fog, that enclosed feeling, the fear of the murky unknown. That hand that grasped her leg, followed by that moment of agony.

  Thisbe slipped out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown against the chill of the room. She lit a candle and settled down in her chair. There was no hope of going back to sleep just yet. Besides, she wanted to think about this dream.

  It had been so peculiar, so unexpected. She would have thought her dreams would be pleasant tonight, given the sweetness of the day. Instead, she’d had a nightmare—and a peculiar one, at that. She’d dreamed before of being chased or of getting lost, but this wasn’t quite like either of those things. But that wasn’t the only oddity. It had been so clear, so vivid; even though the world around her had been gray and the threat unseen, there had been none of the vagueness usually found in dreams. It had been sharp and crystal clear. Nor had pieces of it immediately slipped from her memory; every detail, every moment, was stamped in her mind.

  Strangest of all, though, had been the end. In other nightmares, the dream ended before the bad thing, whatever it was, actually happened. She fell but did not hit the ground. She saw the knife, but didn’t feel it slice into her. She experienced the fear, but she didn’t feel the physical pain.

  Yet tonight, her whole body had been flooded with pain. She remembered the fingers grasping her legs, the nails sinking into her. She shivered at the memory and reached down to rub her calf. It was as if it had really happened. Which was, of course, ridiculous. She pulled up her gown as if to prove it to herself.

  On the pale skin of her calf were five small red marks—the size and crescent shape of fingernails.

  Thisbe froze, staring at the indentations. Her mind whirled with horrific thoughts. But only for a moment. The ideas were not only fear-invoking, but they were also impossible. There must be a logical explanation. There always was.

  A hand digging into her in a dream world couldn’t create an actual physical mark. There was no one else in the room when she awoke. Therefore...she had done it herself.

  Of course! In the throes of her vivid nightmare, she had clutched at something in desperation, and the only thing within reach was her
own limb. She had dug her fingers in with such fervor that they had left indentations on her flesh. And that explained the sensation of pain, as well—she had felt it because it was real. It all made sense now.

  Satisfied, Thisbe blew out the candle and climbed back into bed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Thisbe sat in front of the mirror while Kyria worked on her hair. Thisbe wondered if it had been a mistake to agree to her sister’s offer. The dress was lovely, and it did make her eyes even greener. All the fringe was gone, as Kyria had promised, and the skirt was narrower and slightly flatter in the front, so she wouldn’t be bumping into everything around her. It was just that...well, she was attractive, but she didn’t quite look like herself.

  Of course, right now she looked like a witch—albeit a well-dressed one—for Kyria had separated her hair and pulled it into big hanks in several different places, each tied with a bow. “Are you sure you know how to do this?”

  “Don’t worry,” Kyria reassured her as she twisted one of the sections of hair into a neat knot on the crown of Thisbe’s head. “Joan taught me.”

  “And she practiced it on me,” Olivia said from her perch on the end of the bed. “It looked splendid...at least, it did until I started playing with Alex and Con.”

  Thisbe snorted. “I can imagine.”

  “Alex had to take it apart to see how it was made, and he was most disappointed, I can tell you, that I couldn’t put it back together.”

  “Which can also be said for the grandfather clock in Papa’s study,” Kyria added.

  “Thisbe!” a deep, masculine voice said from the open doorway. “Good Lord. What’s Kyria roped you into now?”

  “Hello, Theo.” Well, that put the cap on it. Now here was her twin; much as she loved him, he was sure to tease her. Or, even worse, adopt his protective big-brother pose. And, by the way, he was not her big brother, having arrived in the world four minutes after Thisbe.

  “What’s going on?” Reed stuck his head around the door curiously.

  “Why are you here?” Kyria asked in annoyance. “It’s Boxing Day. Don’t you have presents to give?”

  “Already did,” Theo answered.

  “Well, then, chums to visit? Wassail to drink?”

  “Bit early for that.” Reed grinned. “Besides, what could be more enjoyable than spending time with our sweet-tempered sisters?”

  “Go away. Both of you.”

  “Why? What are you up to?” Theo asked. Tall, with the same black hair and green eyes as his twin sister, he leaned casually against the doorjamb, arms crossed, and grinned at them.

  “Why are you doing that to Thisbe? Are you angry at her?” Reed slid into the room. He was a slightly younger, less powerfully built version of his older brother. His hair was dark brown rather than black and his eyes were gray, but there was no mistaking the Moreland jaw or the lively intelligence in his eyes, which was a hallmark of the whole clan.

  “No, I’m not angry at Thisbe. But I’ll be angry at you if you don’t stop bothering us.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” Theo pointed out.

  “Kyria is dressing Thisbe’s hair,” Olivia told them.

  “But why? And why like that?”

  “Because it’s pretty.” Kyria swung around to face the two young men, hands on her hips and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

  “I see,” Theo said dubiously.

  “Well, it will be once I’m done, which would be much easier without your presence.” Kyria swung back to continue her braiding and pinning.

  “But why?” Theo and Reed glanced at one another, their suspicion aroused, and Thisbe braced herself for more questions.

  She sent a pleading glance to Kyria in the mirror. But it was Olivia who saved the day. “Thisbe lost a bet. She said if Kyria won, she’d let Kyria choose her dress and do her hair for the Christmas lecture.”

  “Ah.” A challenge was something their brothers understood.

  “Thisbe said I was uneducated and couldn’t name all the English monarchs from William the Conqueror on, and I said I could do it backward,” Kyria said, enlarging the fabrication. “And I did.” Deftly, she wound the braids and pinned them, tucking the last visible end under the knot. “There! You see? It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re right. It is. You look stunning, Thiz,” Theo told her.

  “You needn’t sound so shocked,” Thisbe retorted crisply, taking the hand mirror Kyria gave her and turning her head to look at her image from all angles.

  Her hair was wound into an intricate array of thick braids, all of them twisted and tucked into an arrangement that seemed to have no beginning and no end, and so smooth and sleek that it drew the eye without seeming to call for attention. There were no ribbons, no ornaments, no fussy curls—just a thick, lustrous frame for her face.

  “It’s lovely, Kyria. I look so—so...”

  “Gorgeous?” Kyria suggested.

  “Different.” She turned back to the mirror, tilting her head.

  “Don’t be silly. Theo, tell her she doesn’t look different.”

  “But she does,” Theo responded. At Kyria’s glare, he went on hastily, “Not in a bad way. You look really pretty.” He stopped. “Not that you don’t always look pretty. I mean...”

  Kyria rolled her eyes, and Reed chuckled, then said, “Better stop before you dig yourself any deeper.”

  “You look dressed up,” Theo concluded lamely.

  “Elegant,” Reed declared. “Stunning.”

  “Much better.” Kyria gave him an approving nod.

  Theo hesitated, then said, “Should I, um...? Do you want me to escort you to the lecture?”

  “No!” Thisbe yelped, then turned to her twin and, seeing his expression, began to laugh. “No need to look like you’re about to climb the scaffold, Theo. I appreciate your offer, but I wouldn’t ask you to make such a sacrifice.” Her brother was as intent on discovery as Thisbe herself, but his explorations were aimed at the wonders of the physical world, not those of scientific research.

  “Thanks.” Theo grinned at her. “Come on, Reed, let’s talk to Coffey about the expedition. You might decide to join us.”

  Reed followed his brother into the corridor, then looked back at his sisters, shook his head and said, “I won’t.”

  “Reed’s thinking of going to the Amazon with Theo?” Olivia asked.

  “No,” Kyria said decisively. She was the closest in the family to Reed, barely two years younger than he, and, like him, had the reputation of being the most “normal” of the Morelands. “Theo probably had to drag Reed away from working on that problem about Papa’s factory.”

  “The one he keeps because he met Mother there?”

  “Yes. Only Papa would find it romantic that she invaded his office and threatened to chain herself to the door,” Kyria giggled.

  “What amazes me is that Papa was actually in his office.”

  “He was young. I suppose he was trying to assume his duties as the new duke. Now—” Kyria firmly turned Thisbe back to face the mirror “—back to business.” Kyria tilted her head. “You must wear one of my hats. Yours will hide all my work. I brought just the one.”

  The “one” turned out to be a small piece of felt little larger than a saucer, with a green ribbon and a sprig perched on the front. Thisbe laughed. “That is the most impractical hat I’ve ever seen. It couldn’t possibly keep the sun from your eyes or warm your head.”

  “Of course not. Philippina’s hats are works of art.”

  “How will it even stay on?”

  “Hat pins, my dear.” Kyria held up two long, lethal-looking pins.

  “At least I’ll have a weapon if I run afoul of any of Olivia’s footpads.”

  Kyria positioned the hat at the front of Thisbe’s head so that it tilted up in the back to touch the e
laborate coil of hair at the crown of her head and dipped to her forehead in front. Then she plunged hat pins on either side, deep into the mass of braided and coiled hair. “Charming.”

  “It is!” Olivia agreed, jumping off her seat on the bed to admire her sister more closely. “Your Mr. Harrison will be overcome.”

  “It’s lovely, Kyria. Thank you.” Thisbe’s words were heartfelt. The silly, minuscule hat was adorable, and the dress and hairstyle were flattering. But she could not help but worry all the way over to the lecture hall.

  What if she looked too different? Too rich? Too aristocratic? She wasn’t sure how one looked aristocratic, but perhaps others could recognize it. Or maybe Desmond would assume she was trying to ensnare him. Would he think she liked him? Was attracted to him?

  But she did like him, and she was attracted to him, so there was no rational point in concealing that, was there? It seemed the reasonable thing to do. Yet she was also certain that Kyria never wanted the men who courted her to know if she preferred one or another.

  It was all most confusing. Thisbe didn’t know enough about feminine wiles. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Miss Crabtree’s lessons in deportment instead of reading books. Kyria seemed to know these things without having to learn them.

  By the time she reached the lecture hall, Thisbe’s stomach was in knots. She had the coachman set her down a block away from the Royal Institution and walked the rest of the way. After all her machinations to conceal the carriage last time, it would be silly to give it away now.

  Of course, it was unlikely that Desmond would walk up at that precise moment or be loitering outside, especially this early. Thisbe had arranged to get there a good thirty minutes early so that she would be seated before he arrived. It was important that Desmond be able to choose whether or not to sit beside her. She also wanted to find just the right place so that it would be easy for him to reach, and she must save a seat for him in a way that wasn’t obvious. Perhaps it was all unnecessary, but Thisbe didn’t like to have variables.