He heard her sigh, and he felt like giving a sigh of his own, but he had to ask her one important question before he could really be at ease.
“Sabrina, I know Gillingham frightened you, but did he hurt you? Did he cause you any physical pain?”
When she shook her head against his shoulder, he released a long suppressed sigh of relief. It had haunted him, the image of her being tortured in Bedlam. Though she had no prominent bruises to suggest anything dreadful had happened to her, some torments could be concealed. Ravishment for one.
He closed his eyes, banishing the hideous thought. She was safe, he reminded himself. And safe she would remain, just as soon as they were wed.
“How did you find me?”
Her voice was weak and shaky, interrupting his reflection, and he nuzzled her brow with his cheek in a soothing gesture. “I offered Gillingham a trade. The locket for you.”
“Where are we then?”
“In Gillingham’s club.”
Her head reared up, panic flashing in her sea-blue eyes. “Why?”
“Sabrina, there is something we need to discuss.” He wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject of marriage. It had always been the furthest thing from his mind. Then again, was a proposal really necessary? The matter was already decided by Gillingham. He and Sabrina were to wed. He need only inform her of her fate—their fate. Perhaps the simple truth would suffice. “I offered Gillingham a trade,” he went on to say. “But the villain refused it at first. I had to give him something more than the locket before he would surrender you.”
“What did you give him?”
“My word…that I would marry you.”
Her eyes rounded. Big blue pools of disbelief. “You can’t marry me. I’m a gypsy. You said you could never—”
He placed the pad of his thumb over her lips to quiet her. “Sabrina, there was no other way to assure Gillingham of your silence. As my wife, you are bound to me, and I can guarantee you will never breathe a word of the locket’s secret to anyone.”
“But I don’t know the locket’s secret.”
“Yes, but Gillingham doesn’t trust your word. It had to be mine. If you want to live, we must marry at dawn.”
She looked away, her gaze drifting to a corner of the room. So much had happened to her in so short a time. There was a lot to take in, he knew. And after a thoughtful pause, she asked him, “What was really inside the locket?”
There it was. The dreaded question. Should he tell her the truth? He didn’t want to. Revealing the locket’s secret would only risk her life further. But she had lost so much because of the locket. And in the end, she deserved to know the truth; to find some measure of peace in knowing why all this had happened to her.
With a deep breath, Anthony recounted the tale of the lost boy-king. When the story was over, he cupped her chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “Now you know everything. Now you understand why we must marry.”
She nodded somberly.
The next morning, Anthony and Sabrina found themselves in a local chapel, standing before the altar. Both were dressed in the crumpled clothing they had worn the night before. Both looked a little stunned to be standing before the altar and reciting the wedding vows. With Gillingham standing in as best man, and his two brutish protectors attending as witnesses, the ceremony wasn’t anything like Anthony had imagined it would be.
After a few binding words, he was married to Sabrina. The minister made the sign of the cross, blessing the union, and Anthony glanced down at his side to observe his wife for the first time.
His wife.
The new Viscountess Hastings seemed somewhat bewildered at the sudden change in her circumstance. Anthony was feeling that bewilderment himself.
The formal announcement of their nuptials would appear in the next printing of the Times. Gillingham’s doing, of course. For the present, however, two dozen cards had been sent out, all hand delivered across the city to only the most famed gossips, proclaiming the couple’s attachment. Soon all of London would know about the marriage.
The deed was done. Sabrina was safe from Gillingham forever. Now Anthony need only explain all this to his family.
Chapter 29
T he Viscountess Hastings stood alone in the bedchamber, her mind a whirl.
A gypsy wedded to a gajo. It caused her own brow to raise in wonder. Not two days ago, Anthony had vowed he could never be with her because of her gypsy blood. And now he had married her?
Bafflement soon gave way to a ticklish hope. Hope for her future. One that didn’t look quite so bleak anymore. She had married the man she loved. That alone was cause for great joy, for she had never believed her wants would ever come to pass.
But something else gave her vast hope. Anthony had saved her life. In so doing, he’d defied a sacred canon: to never marry an outsider. She could think of only one reason why he would flout convention and risk the wrath of his family and friends. He must love her, too.
Sabrina glanced over to the bed. Her eyes searched the covers for any sign of the charm, but she saw nothing. The knotted cluster of vines was gone. Had Anthony found the charm? Or had a servant mistaken it for trash and tossed it away? She wished she could ask her husband what had happened to it. She wished she could tell him everything that was swimming around in her heart.
But Anthony wasn’t home. He had gone to inform his family of his recent nuptials. And it was her distress over that impending encounter that had her pacing.
She could do little else but wait. Wait and pray that Anthony’s confrontation with his father would not be as brutal as her own had been.
Anthony made his way through the bustling London crowd. He needed to expend the energy burning inside him. A brisk walk to the West End was an agreeable tack.
The stroll also provided him with an opportunity to mull over in his mind what he was going to say to his parents once he arrived at their door. How to explain why he had married a gypsy? The truth was unthinkable. He was sworn to silence about the locket and all the trouble it had caused, but he did need to come up with some sort of reasonable explanation.
That he loved Sabrina wouldn’t matter a fig to anyone. He could already hear his father’s bellows, demanding to know why he hadn’t just made the girl his mistress instead of his wife. And it was to that question Anthony was in want of an adequate answer.
His quick stride suddenly slowed to a more leisurely jaunt. It was not just the reactions of his parents he had to dread. Gossip amongst the ton was going to be in a state of frenzy. Sabrina was going to be abused by every haughty patrician in the city, the country, too. That she now bore the title of viscountess would make nary a difference to anyone. She would be given the cut direct. She would become the social pariah he had feared. And there was scant he could do to avoid any of it.
London wasn’t even privy to his wife’s true heritage—yet. The announcement in the wedding cards only stated Lord Hastings, heir to the Wenhem title and estate, had married Sabrina Kallos. There was no further detail given. But her name alone signified she was neither a member of the gentry nor had she any English blood. And an outsider was rarely, if ever, accepted into the fold of the British aristocracy.
Anthony approached the West End. As he neared his parent’s home, his pensive thoughts gave way to ones of agitation. It was bloody ridiculous that he had to go through this charade. That he had to confess to his parents his supposed misdeeds like some rowdy schoolboy. So he had married the woman he loved. Was England really going to fall apart because of it? Granted he had been coerced into the marriage, but he wasn’t adverse to the way things had turned out. Having Sabrina with him for the rest of his days brought a warm feeling to his heart and a sense of peace he had never felt before. It felt right to be with her. It always had. He’d just never admitted it to himself before—or to her. But he would remedy that. Just as soon as he returned home he would reveal to Sabrina his true feelings for her.
Anthony sighed inwardly. For all his wea
lth and prestige, neither could buy him true freedom. The freedom to do as he willed. Sabrina had been right. There was a chain around his neck. And he had not noticed how tight it was until now.
An old acquaintance approached from the other end of the street, and Anthony gave a nod in acknowledgment, but the gentleman walked past him without reciprocating the greeting. A simple misunderstanding, Anthony concluded. The man obviously hadn’t seen him. But then, when Anthony noticed Lady Stanton drag her daughter over to the other side of the street, rather than pass him by, he realized something was dreadfully wrong.
He didn’t have too long to dwell on it, though. Baffled and restless, Anthony finally reached the front steps of his parents’ opulent townhouse. He was admitted by the butler and informed the earl was expecting him in the study.
Anthony suddenly felt his neck cloth was too tight, and he tugged at the ruffled linen to loosen its grip on his throat.
But his advance toward the study was curtailed by a wild shriek and a hard smack across the back.
Whirling around, Anthony caught Cecelia’s hand in mid-air before she had a chance to clout him.
“How could you?!” she cried.
It had begun.
Anthony rallied up his inner strength and ushered Cecelia into an adjacent parlor, closing the door behind them to bar the servants any view of the row that was about to commence.
His mother was already in the room. She had her back to him, and said not a word, only stared ahead through the window at the brooding storm clouds gathering strength in the distance.
Anthony’s gaze shifted from his mother to Cecelia. He saw more than plump tears in his sister’s emerald eyes. He saw…hopelessness.
Anthony could feel it inside him, a gnawing sense of guilt. To save one life he had ruined another. And now he had to accept the consequences of what he had done.
“How could you do this to me?” Cecelia’s weeping garbled some of her words, but he understood her grief plain enough. “I’m ruined!”
“That isn’t true,” he assured her, not certain he had the authority to make such a claim, but he wasn’t going to watch his sister fall apart before his very eyes, so he had to say something of comfort. “The season will go on for you.”
“This season is beyond repair, as is the rest of my life.” Her dress and petticoat swished at her abrupt twirl, as she stalked over to a nearby table to collect a copy of the wedding card.
The sight of the tear-stained announcement of his nuptials, the smeared ink running down the card like so many broken dreams, wrenched at his gut.
“Who is she?” Cecelia demanded, pointing her trembling finger to the announcement. “Who did you marry? Not that same peasant you were seen with on the night of my début ball, is it?”
“Cecelia—”
“Is it?” she cried.
When he gave no answer, the card was tossed to the floor, and two dainty feet danced all over the announcement in a fit of rage and sorrow.
“How could you do this to me?” she wailed again in disbelief, her dancing fit at an end. “Who will want me now?” she whined with the voice of a little child. “No one will ever marry me. Our family is disgraced. I will die an old, lonely maid.”
She suddenly screamed and lunged for him again. This time, Anthony didn’t try to stop her, but let her clout him soundly. “Do you hate me that much?” Her eyes burned with a dark energy he had never seen before. “You have never liked me, you were always closer with Ashley, but do you really hate me so much? Enough to destroy my life? If you wanted to be an eccentric fool and marry some peasant, why couldn’t you have waited until after I was wed? Why?!”
Anthony could not explain to her the reason he had come up with. To his father, surely, but not to Cecelia. He had nothing to offer her but an apology. He received a firm smack for it.
“You’re sorry,” she imitated with scorn. “My life is in tatters thanks to you and you’re sorry.” Another smack.
This time, the countess turned away from the window and approached her hysterical daughter, folding the howling girl in her arms.
She gave her son a cold and piercing look, and without any affection in her voice, informed him his father was waiting for him in the study and that he should not keep the earl waiting.
Anthony quietly withdrew from the room, Cecelia’s sobs following him out the door.
He was numb. He couldn’t feel anything right down to his toes. He had known this was going to be difficult, but he had not expected it to be this difficult.
Truthfully, he hadn’t thought very much about his family and the response they would have to his nuptials. He had thought only of saving Sabrina’s life. And he had no regret in that regard.
Yet the devastation in his sister’s eyes, the cold and lifeless stare of his mother was a blow he had not been prepared for.
And there was more to come. Anthony had reached the entrance to his father’s study. He felt awkward having to knock. He had done it countless time before, but this time was different. This time, for the first time, he felt as if he would not be welcomed by his father.
Anthony opened the door and stepped into the study. The earl was seated at his desk, his hands resting on his cane, gazing pensively out the window. He did not acknowledge his son when he entered the room, but continued to stare ahead.
Anthony did not interrupt him. He waited for his father to say the first words. And it took a while for the earl to abandon his meditation and confront his son.
“Sit down, Anthony.”
He did as his father requested.
The earl kept his eyes averted from his son’s while he spoke. “You understand you have caused this family much grief.”
“Yes, I know, Father.”
“Then may I ask the reason why?”
Anthony took in a deep breath. There was no sufficient answer he could give. The deed was done. The reason mattered not, but it was a matter of formality to have some explanation given.
“I compromised the girl,” said Anthony. “I felt it my responsibility to do the honorable thing.”
That word, responsibility, seemed to trigger something within his father, who twitched slightly before he lifted his gaze to finally meet his son’s. And the disappointment Anthony saw reflecting back at him was heart wrenching.
“You have never done the responsible thing before and married one of your mistresses. Why this one?”
“She was an innocent, unlike the others.”
“I see.” The earl swiveled in his chair and looked back toward the window. “You have certainly chosen an inopportune moment in which to demonstrate your sense of responsibility. Here, I have begged you for years to take up the reins of the estate, and to do your filial duty as my heir, but I see my requests meant nothing to you.”
Anthony felt the tension in his chest mounting. The hurt in his father’s voice was like a cutting sword to his heart. But he could not tell the man the truth. Not a soul could ever know that for once in his life, he had done something responsible by saving his gypsy’s life.
“Well, something must be done, you understand?” The earl moved a hand toward his eye. Anthony thought he spotted the glistening of a tear, but it was gone before he could get a really good look.
That his father might be shedding tears was more than he could bear. He had never seen his proud father cry. And the thought that something he had done could reduce the earl to such a state was suffocating.
“Cecelia needs to be protected,” said the earl gravely. “We will head back to the country for the remainder of the season. Perhaps, in a year or two, we will return to London, providing the scandal has settled somewhat, and try to launch her début once more. God willing, she will still be able to make a respectable match and find some happiness.”
Anthony flinched at the word “happiness.” The very thing he may have denied his sister from ever finding.
“You, of course, are not permitted to return.”
A bemused expres
sion crossed over the viscount’s face. “What do you mean?”
The earl’s steady gaze remained on the window. “You are not welcomed here or at the estate in Sussex.”
“For how long?”
“For so long as I live.”
Anthony got up from his chair, leapt from it was more like it. “Banishment? I don’t believe you would do that to me.”
“And I never believed you could do this to me. So you see, we are both disappointed in the other.”
In brisk, long strides, Anthony took to pacing, his fingers twined and locked behind his back. “In a few years, the gossip will die down. A new scandal will erupt and captivate the ton. Cecelia will find herself a good husband and all will be well again. Banishing me isn’t necessary.”
The earl’s golden-tipped cane slammed into the floorboards, resounding throughout the room. “You have married a worthless wench with no breeding or fortune. You have disgraced the Kennington name. Banishment is indeed necessary. If I had my way, I would disinherit you, but the estate is entailed to my first-born son. That being the case, I will not welcome your wife into my home so long as I live. Nor will I admit you or any offspring you might have. I never want to meet your heir, Anthony. I never want to look upon his face and be reminded of the shame which you have brought upon me.” The earl took in a deep, ragged breath before he resumed. “In addition, your allowance is hereby severed. What funds you possess are yours to keep. Your townhouse in London belongs to you still, but if you have any measure of respect remaining for your youngest sister, you will never venture near this city so long as she remains unwed.”
Anthony couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He could scarcely utter the next question past his lips. “And where do you expect me to live?”
“There is the old manor house in Northampton, once belonging to your mother’s father. It was entrusted to you on your twenty-first year—not that you’ve ever shown an inkling of interest in the management of the property. I’ve already sent word to the land steward there. He and a scant number of servants are expecting you. You may reside within the manor’s walls until my death, when, at such time, the Wenhem estate will pass on to you.”
A Forbidden Love Page 28
