The women curtsied, Anthony bowed. Cecelia approached the throne and kneeled before Princess Caroline, who grasped the sides of her head and kissed her brow. His sister rose, curtsied once more to the Princess of Wales, and they all four backed out of the room, never giving Her Highness their backs.
And so, inaugurated into formal society by the uncrowned queen, Cecelia was now an accepted member of the ton, and it was time for her to find a husband and for Anthony to find the palace door.
“Bloody hell, where is it?”
Anthony scrambled in search of his top hat. He was late. Ashley was going to peck out his eyes. She’d wring his neck, too, if she ever discovered he was tardy because he had dallied to make love to his gypsy one more time.
But he couldn’t seem to help himself of late. One look at Sabrina and he had an erection to tamp down. He could fight it off most of the time, but when the ache in his groin just grew too hard to bear, he sought out the comfort of her warm, wet, womanly passage. And she welcomed him into it with a desire that rivaled his own.
Ah, there it was! Anthony spotted the elusive top hat wedged under his bed. He gave it a firm yank and made a grimace at the crumpled rim.
Damnation, what he wouldn’t do for a valet at this point!
With grim determination, he proceeded to smooth out the crinkles in the hat with his thumb and forefinger, smoothing the edges as he had seen his servant do before.
Satisfied the accessory was presentable, he glanced up to find his nymph snuggled on the bed, staring down at him with apparent fascination.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked him quietly.
“I don’t know. These tedious affairs can go on for hours.” He propped his elbows on the edge of the bed and leaned into her. “Can I have a goodbye kiss?”
Without hesitation, she bowed her head and pressed her lips to his in a tender kiss. Anthony felt his heart tighten. God, how he…
What? Cared for the girl? That was apparent. Lusted after her? Without a doubt. So what else did he feel rumbling in his breast whenever he looked into her soulful blue eyes?
“Anthony?”
He stroked her mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Hmm?”
“What if I have a baby?”
The wood planks shuddered and gave way beneath his knees—or so it seemed. “You couldn’t possibly know so soon?”
“Well, no, but in time, I will.”
He sighed and moved his thumb to trace the regal outline of her jaw. “I’ll take care of you, no matter what happens.”
That vow didn’t seem to appease her. “And what will become of the child?”
“We don’t know that you’re going to have a child.”
“But if I do?”
“Then I will make sure the child wants for nothing.”
“Will you want the babe?”
The image struck him, cleaved to his heart with an unremitting hold. He saw the gardens of the family’s country estate in full summer bloom, the sun sinking beneath the thick crop of treetops, bathing the freshly reaped land in a warm and fiery glow. He heard the laughter of both Sabrina and the little boy, as she chased him through the hedges and the aisles of thorny pink roses. He heard the squeal of delight when mother finally snagged mischievous son, and then saw as she whirled him through the air in the protection of her loving arms. Anthony saw himself, too, standing not too far from the garden’s edge, gazing on in pride and devotion.
He closed his eyes briefly, willing the unfamiliar yearning into submission. He had never wanted anything resembling a family before. He’d always wanted, in the distant future, a docile wife to provide him with a necessary heir, nothing more.
But the vision of Sabrina and her son—their son—was an impression on his heart he couldn’t smooth away.
“I’ll make sure the child has everything he needs.”
She pulled away from him, glowering. “He or she might want a father. Will you give the child that?”
What could he say? It was impossible. Sabrina should realize that. The world held no sympathy for a social outcast, and a child born of gypsy and noble blood was destined to be just that—an anathema.
He would visit Sabrina and any child she might bear. He would offer both all earthly goods. But he could do little more. A babe of gypsy and noble blood would never be accepted into society. He couldn’t change that. And he couldn’t give Sabrina false hope to the contrary.
“Sabrina, I can’t be a father—”
“It’s all right.” She scooted off the bed, poised on the other side, a yawning rift between them. “I shouldn’t have asked. I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes glistened under the glowing candle flame. “I’m a gypsy—a disgrace. You have to hide me and our child from sight.”
“Damnation, woman, you are no disgrace!” He stalked around the bed to confront her. “Society is the disgrace…but I can’t change society. I can’t change how it will treat you or a babe.”
“I know.”
Words quick and toneless, she mustered up an appearance of cool composition, but he saw past her bravado. He reached for her to comfort her, but she retreated from his grasp.
“Go,” she said stiffly. “You’ll be late.”
“Sabrina—”
“I said I understand, Anthony.” Their eyes met, both stormy and passionate and full of regret. “I’m no fool. The world is cold and cruel…I know firsthand.” Her voice softened. She inclined her head toward the door. “Go on.”
There was a sudden scratching at the door.
“It’s Vincent,” she said. “He’ll watch over me.”
Anthony withdrew, his heart anchored somewhere near his ankles. Collecting his top hat, he headed for the door, giving Sabrina one last look.
She smiled. A tender smile. A plaintive smile. A smile that made him want to tear the world apart and build it back up again—so he and Sabrina could be together.
Chapter 25
T he room was still, except for the infrequent snorts and coughs from a tipsy Vincent, dozing on the chestnut brown sofa. There would be no game tonight. Sabrina didn’t feel like playing a game. Resigned to spending her evening in quiet contemplation, she sat curled in an armchair, legs pressed up against her chest, chin resting on her knees, eyes gazing past the sheer white drapes to the murky shadows shuffling in the street below.
Her heart was heavy. Heavy with a mix of emotions. It seemed every passionate response she had ever known was now gurgling around in her chest, and each of those passionate responses was at odds with another.
Leading the wild herd of emotions was fury. Fury that Anthony wanted to hide any child they might have in shame. Then came sorrow. Deep, soul-wringing sorrow. Sorrow at the injustice of their predicament. If she cared anything for Anthony—and she did, perhaps more than she should—then she couldn’t impose upon him the very wretched state of exile. A state she was all too familiar with herself. He might also be banished from his family, his friends, if he ever made any sort of respectable life with her. And losing one’s family and friends—one’s life, in essence—gouged a wound so deep in the soul, one might never recover. She couldn’t put Anthony through that, not when she knew how truly horrific it was.
And then she felt the fear. Fear of what was going to become of her. Not fear of losing the cottage Anthony had promised her, but the fear of emptiness she was destined to endure when she moved into that cottage all alone. If Anthony came to visit her once in a while, how much more desolate would she feel when the time came for him to leave again? She would feel happy and safe while he was with her, and miserable and frightened when he was gone. And she would feel that swing of emotion over and over again: each time he came to call on her and then each time he trotted off to rejoin his old life.
An image of her standing on the threshold of an isolated cabin, watching in tears as Anthony’s wiry figure grew more distant, jabbed in her mind. A child would offset the lonelin
ess. An adorable, bouncing child, with a spirited laugh and the same captivating green eyes of its father. But what if she wasn’t going to have a babe?
Sabrina couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t spend her nights with Anthony, growing closer to him, wanting him, all the while knowing she could never be with him. When the time came for them to part, her heart would shatter. She had already lost everyone else in her life, and to lose Anthony too would be an affliction she could not bear.
She should go. Yes, that’s what she should do. Go away. Now. Before she wholly lost her heart to the viscount. If she left now, the pain would still be there, chewing on her heart, leaving wounds and marks and scars, but those scars would heal in time. A long time. But they would heal. If she waited to go, she might never regain her bearing or her hope or her happiness. As it was, her future was bleak and dreary. Imagine it dark and full of despair?
She could make her own way in the city. She wasn’t sure of it, but she could try. She had her fortune-telling skills. Ladies always wanted to know who they would marry, how much wealth they would have, what position in society they would attain. She could offer her services for a price.
Sabrina slipped soundlessly out of her seat before she had a chance to think too greatly on the matter. Her plan was sound, for now. She would work out any chinks as they crossed her path. All she knew was that she had to get away from Anthony. Far from him. Somewhere where the memory of him could fade away. Without him tugging on her heart, she had a chance for a new life. Maybe she could make the crossing to the mainland and become part of another gypsy caravan. It wasn’t unthinkable.
Heedful not to disturb Vincent’s napping, she crept through the room, gathering her belongings. Once she had everything in her bag, she brushed her gaze over the spacious bedchamber, taking in one last detailed look.
How could she say goodbye to Anthony? A double meaning in that. How could she pen a note of farewell when she didn’t know how to write? And how could she leave him when she cared and…loved him?
The realization gripped her, choked her, squeezed the breath from her lungs. It was too late. She had already lost her heart to the viscount.
It didn’t matter. She still had to go. She had no future with Anthony even if he possessed her heart.
In the end, Sabrina stepped closer to the bed. She fiddled with the beaded pouch secured at her waistband and spread it open. Inside, she reached for the gnarled cluster of vines. The very vines she had found on her travels with Anthony. The very vines the faeries had tied.
She laid the charm on his pillow. Before her doubts and fears could stop her, she quickly and quietly slinked out of the room.
Anthony was in fairyland. It was the first of May. Vauxhall Gardens were open for the season. He strolled down the graveled walk, making his way back to one of the amphitheaters where his family supped. A majestic avenue stretched before him, nine hundred feet long, lined with soaring elms festooned with thousands of sparkling lamps. The gardens glowed under the brilliance of the dappled lamps: an imposed starry sky over a miniature Eden.
He doffed his hat to a passing couple, a matter of reflex rather than deference, for he scarcely observed any of the faces he saluted. Indeed, he didn’t see a distinction between aristocrat, commoner, or masked prostitute, nodding to each figure in turn. Rather he heard his surroundings, heeding the whispers that trailed after him. Whispers of “scandal” and an “unseemly ragamuffin.” As soon as he caught wind of such comments, though, he blotted them out. It was becoming a bloody encumbrance, listening to the chortles and remarks, trying to smother the impulse to bark out that Sabrina was no unseemly wench, ragamuffin or any other such nonsensical term, and that it was none of their infernal business what he did with his time and with whom.
Of course, he hadn’t lost all his wits to make such a blasted reproof, but by God, he was sorely tempted. No one actually thought anything less of him for the scandal. “It was just Viscount Hastings being his usual rogue self,” they would all say in some form or another. What had everyone so nonplussed was his lack of “sexual” restraint during his sister’s début ball, and with a peasant no less! That had the mouths of the gossip mongrels watering with delight and his clenching in deep-rooted frustration. A sham of a tale had never bothered him before, truly nothing his addlepated contemporaries spoke of concerned him in the least. But this was different. Sabrina was being abused. And the fury billowing inside him was growing harder to maintain.
Anthony reached the end of the walk and entered the grove: a quadrangle, enclosed by a colonnade and tight shrubby thoroughfares. There the orchestra, an assortment of some fifty musicians, were perched in their Gothic box, their music sheets aglow from the brilliant lamps that bedecked their musical pit. Scattered across the quadrangle were the supper boxes, seating anywhere from six to eight diners, all of whom gaily partook of the roasted sweetmeats, biscuits, cheesecakes and arrack punch.
Anthony lingered around the colonnade, not quite ready to rejoin his family. His mother, Ashley, Daniel, and Cecelia were ensconced in their box, conversing over some triviality he assumed, as it was only the countess and her youngest offspring who found the discourse engaging. Ashley listened patiently, nodding her head as a filial daughter should, while her husband slapped his milk-white gloves over his knee, more content to examine the freshly hewn lawn than his in-laws.
No, Anthony definitely wasn’t prepared to link up with kin just yet.
Lulled by the harmony of clashing instruments, he settled his gaze on the spinning dancers and mused. A ghostly figure began to take shape on the dance floor. Two figures: he and Sabrina. A vague shadow at first, arms and legs soon sprouted, followed by the color of their dress. He saw his gypsy, as regal as any princess, smiling up at him, her body snug in his guarded embrace. It was a subtle seduction, their dance. An idle caress here. A tantalizing brush there. Their limbs lilted to the music, their bodies more aware, more aroused, with each lambent twirl.
But the gardens would clear out at such a spectacle. A gypsy and viscount dancing together would be an unpardonable offense…then again, waltzing with Sabrina in his arms, the two of them the only souls in all of Vauxhall, sounded strangely wonderful.
“Well, well, Lord Hastings.”
The seductive purr gnarled Anthony’s insides, shattering his warm vision. He silently cursed his blasted misfortune before turning a brittle smile to the Marchioness Livingston.
Cassandra returned his smile, just as brittle—but also smug. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening. Tired of the peasant girl already?”
His expression steely, he knotted his fingers behind his back to keep them from springing to the woman’s incendiary throat. “I believe you have sharpened your claws on my backside long enough, Lady Livingston. Surely there is another, more worthy, object of your affection here tonight.”
Please God, let there be another, he prayed. If he had to endure this woman’s company for the rest of the evening, he was going to cause an even greater scandal than the one he’d stirred on the night of his sister’s début.
“My affections are secure, I assure you,” she said with terse confidence, and brought the rim of her flute to her lips. But before she partook of the sparkling spirit, she arched a cinnamon brow. “And you, Lord Hastings? Who is the object of your affection?”
He wasn’t daft enough to play her little game. His voice was flat, hollow, quite a feat, considering the sinister brood of emotions she was roiling. “At present, I’m afraid my affection lies with none other than my sister Cecelia.”
“Performing your brotherly duty? And how goes that duty? What gentleman here is worthy of our dear Cecelia’s hand?”
He glanced at her askance. It was all he permitted himself to do. If he studied her sly feminine features for any great length of time, he might find his temper bucking too wildly to restrain. And he wasn’t going to embarrass his youngest sister, yet again, by uttering an improper comment. He didn’t want to play chaperon
e for the rest of the season to make amends for any slip of the tongue. And it was that horrifying obligation, rather than any tender brotherly devotion, that kept his tongue in check.
But one look at Cassandra and he found his vision assaulted with the sight of her well-endowed breasts, hiked up and snug together in her rich, carmine red gown of shimmering satin. Look at me, the cleavage seemed to holler. Look at what you lost. But it was a loss he did not regret. He was no more tempted by the woman’s ample curves now than he had been on the night of the ball. More and more of late, no female captured his carnal interest—no female save one black-haired nymph with eyes of midnight blue.
“Madam, you show a great concern for Cecelia’s happiness—at present. There was a time you appeared to care not a jot about her welfare.”
He was referring to the vicious tales she had spread about him and Sabrina, tarnishing Cecelia’s début, and they both knew it, though the marchioness insisted on being coy. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean, Lord Hastings.”
He refrained from any comment, toes curling in his boots.
“I would never spoil Cecelia’s chance at a respectable match,” she purred on. “Here, I shall prove my sincerest wish for her enduring contentment. The gardens are not devoid of respectable gentry this evening. I will help you select a prime candidate for your sister.” Her eyes glazed over the motley crowd in sharp assessment. “What about Lord Kingsley? He is the son of an earl. It would be an equal and very respectable match.”
“He’s a mere babe—and a fop at that.”
“Very well. How about Lord Barrington? He’s neither babe nor fop.”
“He gambles too much,” was his curt return.
“A trait all well-bred gentlemen possess. Really, Anthony, poor Cecelia may never wed if you are to be her matchmaker. What about Lord Redmond?”
“Too poor.”
“With five thousand a year?”
“Too poor for Cecelia,” he clarified.
“Lord Handford?” she suggested next.
A Forbidden Love Page 24
