Page 45 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

She knew. The duchess had seen into the depths of him and found what his aunt had always known. Those whom Desmond loved died.

Desmond remembered sitting at the hearth in their cottage, the heat of the fire at his back. Its flames flickered red and gold across Aunt Tildy’s face, a sight as mesmerizing as her low voice as his aunt repeated the tale of Annie Blue. “You’re her heir. You bear her mark—it’s the bargain she made with the devil. She was seduced by his promises of knowledge and power, and when she agreed to his wicked offer, the devil touched her. Right there.”

His aunt tapped his back, where the red sickle-shaped mark lay beneath his shirt. “Annie gave him herself and her offspring, whichever ones he chooses. It don’t happen to all. I have no gift nor curse. Nor did your mam. But our grandma did. Aye, and she was blighted. Only one of her children lived. The Wicked One would come in the night and take away their breath. ’Twas she who told me about the curse.”

His father had known it, too. He didn’t say it in the light of day, but at night, when he was deep in his cups, his words were always the same: “You killed her. I cannot look at you without seeing her lying there, pale as a corpse and holding you, making me promise to take care of you. Well, I did—I have. But I can’t love you.”

Desmond had denied it all these years, shrugged it off as one of his aunt’s ludicrous tales, merely the expression of his father’s bitterness. He told himself that the birthmark on his back was only a birthmark, not some harbinger of doom. He reminded himself that women often died in childbirth.

But he could not escape the memory of standing at the foot of his sister’s bed as she breathed her last, her husband on his knees beside her, grieving. Aunt Tildy had looked across at Desmond and nodded. She knew it, and deep in his soul Desmond felt the awful canker of truth, the truth that twisted through him now.

Whoever he loved died.

THISBE GLANCED OVER at Desmond. He was craning his head, looking behind them. She had managed to escape her grandmother’s presence on the pretext of visiting the apothecary. Instead, she had met Desmond as they’d prearranged, but the pleasant time she had envisioned had been marred by Desmond’s strange behavior.

He had been behaving oddly for days now. There was the day of the lecture, when he had been so stiff and silent and reluctant for her to see his laboratory. She had managed to dismiss that as jealousy of Mr. Dunbridge, and perhaps Gordon really had issued an edict against visitors. He wouldn’t be the first to guard his experiments closely.

But Desmond had not been his usual self. He was quieter than usual—though that could be explained by the dampening presence of her grandmother—and Thisbe caught him gazing at her with a peculiar, almost wistful expression. Yesterday, when she walked him to the door, their only moment alone, and whispered her plan to meet him at the apothecary, he looked as alarmed as he did pleased, and he made her swear to take the carriage to the shop even though it was only blocks away.

Today he was distracted, continually glancing around, his arm beneath her hand hard with tension. He was assiduous about walking between her and the street in a way that seemed far beyond the demands of courtesy.

“Desmond, is there something wrong?” she asked at last.

He glanced at her, startled. “No. No.”

“You’ve been acting...differently.”

“Oh. Beg pardon. I’ve, uh... I was thinking about some changes I could make in order to produce a spectrogram.” He launched into a discussion of prisms and angles and mirrors that left even Thisbe confused.

“I don’t understand. You’re trying to see in a different dimension? How is that possible?”

“Well, there’s the problem,” he admitted. “We are so limited in what we can perceive. What we can see or touch or hear or smell. But there’s so much else in the world besides that. Think of the discovery of chemicals in the sun. They were unseen, but one could figure them out through computation. So if I could figure out the right computation—”

Desmond was so caught up in his argument that he scarcely noticed as Thisbe crossed over to a vendor’s cart to buy roasted chestnuts. The sidewalk was crowded, and Thisbe was edged toward the curb. Suddenly something hit her in the back, knocking her out into the street.

“Thisbe!” Desmond jumped to grab her, but a man behind her caught her before she landed on the cobblestones.

The stranger lifted her up and said, “Blasted street urchin.”

She looked up at the man. “Thank you.”

Desmond clamped his hand around her other arm, staring at the man.

“Something should be done about those little ruffians,” her rescuer went on and turned to look at Desmond. “The lady could have been thrown into the street right in front of a carriage.” With a smile, he doffed his hat and walked away.

Thisbe turned to Desmond. He was gazing after the man, a stricken expression on his face. “I’m all right. You needn’t worry. Desmond...you’re hurting my arm.”

“What? Oh.” He relaxed his hold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Oh, God, Thisbe.” He pulled her into his arms, heedless of the people all around them. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

“I’m fine.” Thisbe smiled up at him. “It’s not your fault. It was a child running by. Nothing was hurt but my dignity.”

Desmond became aware of the interested stares all around them, and he released her. “Sorry. I thought I could protect you, but clearly not.” He glanced around. “Where is your driver? He should take you home.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not made of glass. I shan’t shatter. Come, I want that walk in the park you promised me.”

With an almost agonized look, Desmond agreed. He was quiet all the way to Hyde Park. It had begun to snow, white flakes drifting lazily down and settling on them. Thisbe was glad, for it meant fewer people in the park. There was no one in sight right now, and she was bold enough to take Desmond’s hand. Her even bolder thought was that she would very much like to kiss him. It had felt so good to be in his embrace for those few moments after she’d fallen.

She steered a path toward a large fir tree that offered shelter beneath its branches. Desmond was in a brown study, hardly noticing where they walked. He hadn’t told her the truth before; she was sure of it. There was something wrong with him today. Thisbe leaned against him, wishing he would share his burden with her.