Page 112 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

His eyebrows shot up, as did Carson’s. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to steal it.”

“Of course not. But I promised my grandmother I wouldn’t let it out of my possession.” It was a bit horrifying how easily lies seemed to be coming from her now, but she didn’t want to discuss the real reason for her anxiety in front of Carson. He had helped them immensely and she trusted him, more or less, but the fewer people who knew about Desmond’s heritage, the better.

With her face and hands washed and hair repinned, Thisbe felt much more herself, and Desmond managed to brush much of the dust from his clothes and finger-comb his hair into some degree of order. A few questions led them to a cart selling used clothes. Thisbe found that there was something quite intimate in helping Desmond choose what to wear—reaching up to try a hat on his head or holding a shirt up to his chest—and it sparked a heat in Desmond’s eyes that sent tingles all the way through her.

Once or twice Thisbe noticed Carson glancing at them speculatively. It was clear that he suspected their true relationship—how could he not when they had shared that kiss right in front of him? She could only hope Carson would keep his suspicions to himself. Much as she wanted Desmond, she didn’t want it to be because he believed he’d ruined her reputation.

In the end they managed to come up with a pair of trousers that were only a bit too short, as well as a shirt, stockings and an ascot. The coat would cover his lack of a waistcoat or jacket. They returned to their former source of information, a hack driver, for the name of an inn he termed “decent ’nuff for a lady.”

When the driver deposited them at the yard of the inn, Carson hung back as they started toward the door. “I’ve been thinking,” he told them. “I don’t believe I’ll stay here tonight.”

“What? But...what are you going to do?” Thisbe asked, startled.

“My family home isn’t far. I’m from the Lake District. It occurrs to me that I could hire a horse and ride there.” He glanced up at the sky. “Long as this day seemed, we started early, and there’s still daylight left. I can reach home—or at least close enough to find my way in the dark.”

“But...” Desmond trailed off.

“Are you certain?” Thisbe asked. She had the suspicion that Carson was giving them the opportunity to be alone tonight, and she couldn’t help but be grateful for his tact.

He nodded. “Of course. It’s all turned out rather well, hasn’t it?” Carson smiled and reached out to shake Desmond’s hand.

“Thank you,” Desmond replied. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distrusting.”

“Quite understandable.” Carson smiled, his gaze flickering over to Thisbe. He doffed his hat to her. “Miss Moreland. It’s been quite an experience.”

“Indeed. Thank you.”

Thisbe and Desmond gazed after Carson as he walked toward the stables. “Do you think he knows?” Desmond asked. “I mean, that you and I—”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It’s my opinion he’s being gentlemanly. Leaving us free to pretend to be husband and wife.”

“Thisbe...I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t you?” She smiled up into his eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Don’t. When you look at me like that, I can’t think straight.”

“You think too much.” She moved closer.

“Thisbe...” He leaned closer, his nostrils widening as if breathing in the scent of her. “How do you always manage to smell like lavender? Even now.”

She laughed lightly. “It’s on my handkerchief.” Thisbe had dampened it to wipe a smudge from her cheek earlier, then tucked it into her cleavage, and she reached in now to pull it out.

“Good God.” His voice turned husky; his eyes darkened. He curled his hand around the cloth—whether hiding it from himself or taking it, Thisbe wasn’t sure. “Thisbe...I have to talk to you.”

“Then let’s get a room and talk in private.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DESMOND NODDED, uncertain he could say anything intelligible at the moment. Desire slammed through him like a fist, adding to the already roiling mix of love and pain that had swirled in him since he’d looked into the Eye. He clenched his hand around her handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket. He would keep it forever.

It was foolish to give in to Thisbe’s suggestion. Reckless. Irresponsible. However determined he was to do what was right, being alone with Thisbe in a room with a bed was all too likely to end with him doing the opposite. But he wasn’t strong enough to deny himself this last chance to be with her.

Desmond didn’t speak, didn’t dare even look at Thisbe as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, afraid that merely the way he looked at her would tell the innkeeper how illicit their relationship was. Once inside the room, the sight of the bed was another blow to his control, as was the snick of the key turning in the lock.

Desmond went to the window, stalling. He couldn’t bear to do this. He had to. He swung around and blurted out, “We can’t—I have to—I lied before.”

Thisbe lifted her eyebrows. “When?”