A Forbidden Love (31 page)

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 chaperone 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.

Anthony’s gaze settled on Lord Handford. The periwinkle blue of his waistcoat jabbed him in the eyes. “Hideous taste in fashion.”

“Lord Middlebrook? Osbourne? Thorncroft?”

His gaze skipped over each of the suggested candidates. “Unattractive, a miser, a greater rake than I am.” With a supercilious air, he’d dismissed them all—and felt like a wretch for having done so. Here he was, judging and condemning each man for faults, real or imagined, based on society talk, without bothering to acquaint himself personally with any of them. He was doing to them just what the rest of the world was doing to Sabrina. He was deciding who was fit and worthy of his sister’s hand based on appearance and gossip, not character and integrity.

“Tut, tut, Lord Hastings,” came the soft admonishment. “The way you do go on about your own kind. One would think you’d rather spend your time with uncultivated peasants.”

His tight lips parted in exasperation, but he hadn’t the chance to make any disparaging comment. The bell clanged in the distance.

“Time for the cascade!” Cassandra flashed him a dazzling smile. “I wish you luck in your search for the perfect mate—for Cecelia.”

A clump of her skirt secured in her gloved hand, she swept up the train of her gown and gracefully flounced off to observe the entertainment.

He let her go, grateful her voice was no longer chafing his ears.

Heart thudding in his breast, Anthony took in deep and even breaths, watching the supper boxes drain of diners as the crowd amassed around the cascade. It was a fleeting source of entertainment, visible for only fifteen minutes each night, its start signaled by the sound of the tolling bell. The cascade was in fact an ornate construction of a mill, complete with gushing waterfall and mill wheel. The mechanical display set into motion when water poured over the wheel, bringing the whole animated scene to glorious life. It was a delight to all eyes. Fireworks sparked and exploded in the distance, a torrent of brilliant colors showering the earth.

It was magical.

And Anthony wished with all his heart that Sabrina was there to see it with him.

Chapter 26

L
anky shadows and swirling mist did not look very inviting. It all gave Sabrina a sense of impending doom. Her doom.

But she was just being foolish, she tried to convince herself. London was a foreign land. Of course she was nervous to wend through it on her own. But she had no choice in the matter. She had to get away from Anthony. She had to try to forget him. If she didn’t, her heart would be eternally chained to his. And that was a tragic fate indeed. To be tied to one man without any hope of ever being with him.

It was too much for her to bear. She had to move on. She had to take a chance at a new life. She might even come to be happy again, if she ever found another gypsy home and family to join.

Sabrina poked her nose past the front door. The street was deserted. Slowly, she peeled back the heavy oak barrier and slipped through it, closing it softly behind her.

Safe. For now.

Her bag of belongings flattened against her chest like a shield of armor, she hastily moved away from the grand dwelling, glancing down either side of the walkway to confirm she was indeed alone.

The fog licked at her boots as she made her way in the direction of the north star. It was as good a bearing as any, she figured, the city as unknown to her as it was. She might as well follow that bright light in the sky and hope it guided her to some sheltered setting.

But a shrill voice inside her head insisted she stop, turn around, and get back inside the safe haven of Anthony’s home. She didn’t listen to that voice, though. It had taken her much too long to sneak away undetected, and she wasn’t about to risk capture by slipping back inside Anthony’s abode. It was just the shadows, the silhouettes of the gloomy buildings in the distance, that rustled her fears. She was in a strange new world. A dark and threatening world. And she would have to learn to conquer her fear of it. There was no choice but to accept and get accustomed to the darkness and fog of London. Why not sooner rather than later?

The sudden thought of always being alone in such a dour place made her pause and pivot. Her eyes went to Anthony’s townhouse. Soft candlelight flickered through the draped sheers of the main floor windows. Such a warm and inviting glow, she reflected, as her gaze lifted to the second level, where another streak of light spilled through Anthony’s bedroom window, a beacon summoning her home.

What rubbish!

She twisted back on her heels and headed stealthily through the shadows. Anthony’s home was not her home. She had to accept that. She had to move away from any illusions to the contrary.

Sabrina lowered her eyes to her booted toes, watching them disappear beneath the churning mist with each hastened step. Her heels clicked the cold pavement in faint strikes. It was so hushed, it was a wonder she didn’t hear the footfalls behind her before it was too late.

A hand broke through the thick shadows, smothering her lips before she could scream. She didn’t think to struggle, not once she felt the cusp of steel prick her in the back.

“Rather good of you to come out of there,” rasped a harsh voice by her ear. “Saves us the trouble of having to go in after you.”

Us?!

Nerves humming, Sabrina listened to the steady approach of creaking axle wheels.

Sweat was pooling to the base of her spine. On impulse, she sent her heel swinging into her assailant’s shin.

The ruffian cursed, lurched in reflex, but maintained his tight grip on her face, winding the blade around her waist and wedging it just under her chin.

She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to make some room between the cold cutting edge and her neck.

“Inside,” barked the voice, nudging her toward the now stationary carriage.

The door opened from the inside, revealing another kidnapper, and the driver in the top seat made the band of three complete. Three villains. She could think of no one who would want her so desperately save Gillingham.

Her eyes wide, her breathing heavy and loud, Sabrina rooted her heels in the pavement, pushing back against one assailant’s chest, while trying to evade the other’s reach.

But a mighty shove sent her crashing to the floor of the carriage.

She gave a piercing shriek in the seconds before a foul sack was draped over her head, suffocating her.

“Stop with the hysterics or I’ll squeeze ’til you’re quiet.”

And to support his threat, the fiend strengthened his hold on the sack, wringing the very breath from her lungs.

Sabrina grasped frantically at his fingers, hard as rocks. Her neck felt as if it was about to snap, the pressure was so great. Before she lost all her waking senses, she stilled. Quiet as a mouse, she sat in trepidation at the cat’s feet, waiting to learn whether she would live or die.

When those thick fingers loosened their grip on her throat at last, she slumped forward, weak and light-headed. Sputtering, wheezing, she gasped for precious air. But she didn’t touch the sack around her head. She didn’t dare. Wherever the goons were taking her, they didn’t want her to see where she was going. And she’d oblige them for now. She had little strength to defend herself against three hulking brutes. If she attempted to remove the sack now, she’d likely get a smack across the head for her efforts, and as dizzy as she still was, Sabrina couldn’t risk losing consciousness. She had to stay alert. She had to gather her strength. She would need both when the time came to escape.

The carriage lurched into motion and took off at a high speed.

But that chance of escape grew bleak with each passing moment. By the time the carriage had rolled to a halt, Sabrina not only had a sack still muffled around her head, but her wrists were tied as well, trussed with thick, coarse rope that chafed her skin and made it blister and bleed. The blood had stopped flowing once she’d ceased trying to wriggle free of the binds, little dry blood clusters having formed over her tender wounds.