“If Cecelia’s life turns out to be peaceful, she will never forgive our father for that toast,” Anthony said in Cassandra Livingston’s ear.
The woman’s pearled smile and husky laughter dazzled the senses. “The dear girl would have every right to be in a dander. Imagine a life without balls, shopping or adoring admirers. What would she do with her time and fortune?”
“Read.”
“Gracious, Anthony, you don’t know your sister very well—or women in general for that matter.”
He offered her a sly smile. “Untrue, my lady. I know my sister very well indeed, and if not acquainted with the manner of all women, I do, at least, know you.”
“Or you soon will.”
Up went an amused brow at her brazenness. “Is that so?”
Cassandra’s only response was a falsely demure expression. She lifted her glass of champagne to conceal her amorous grin.
Anthony need not crawl into Cassandra Livingston’s bed to know all the woman’s secrets. Widowed one year past, the twenty-five-year-old marchioness had lost her husband, Percival, in a duel. It was all one sordid affair that had delighted the ton for months, and there hadn’t been a scandal quite like it for some time. As the tale went, poor old Percival had fatuously issued a challenge to the much younger, and more experienced, Devlin Landcastle—Cassandra’s lover at the time—proclaiming it his duty to recapture his wife’s honor, as he had heard rumor of her alleged affair with Landcastle. Apparently, the marquess was as blind as he was old, for he staunchly believed his angelic Cassandra could do no wrong, and he laid down a challenge to the boastful Devlin: either desist from all slanderous remarks concerning his wife or meet him on the dueling field the following morning. By noon, the marquess was lying in state with a hole in his heart.
Anthony had never cared much for the whole tiring episode, there being one too many duels fought over a woman’s supposed honor to ignite his interest—though none had ended as tragically as the marquess’ in recent years—but the widowed Cassandra had caught his eye.
Though Anthony saw no honor in killing a man for the promiscuity of his wife, Cassandra no longer had a gullible husband to guard her reputation, nor would she ever, having vowed to remain unattached for the rest of her days. She had her title, her fortune, and most importantly, her freedom. And with a respectable year of mourning now over, gossip placed the marchioness in the market for a new paramour.
It was the perfect solution to his predicament. The widow Cassandra clearly held no reservations about an illicit relationship, and Anthony felt it high time he directed his desire toward a more willing participant. Ideally, there was no obstruction to a liaison.
But for one hitch.
He was no longer fascinated by the woman. She was at his fingertips and he felt not a stitch of passion stir his blood. Oh, the heat was still in his veins to be sure, but it wasn’t stirred by Cassandra Livingston, rather a certain Gypsy he had stowed away in his bedchamber.
It was becoming miserably clear no one could replace Sabrina. He would not be satisfied until he’d had her. And that was a maddening thought, for he was beginning to fear that the gentleman within him was not strong enough to overcome the rogue after all.
“Is there an object of your discontent?”
The purr of Cassandra’s voice breached his pensive thoughts, and Anthony shifted his gaze from the dancers to the marchioness. “Pardon?”
“Your frown has steadily worsened these last few moments. Is the chore of a dance really so awful?”
Unaware that his internal struggle was so clear on his face, he carefully composed his features into a bland expression. “I am not opposed to dancing.”
“The company perhaps?”
“The company is radiant, of course.”
She smiled, seductively at that. “An unfulfilled yearning, perhaps?”
He stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean, my lady.”
“Don’t you?”
At her stealthy wink, he realized Cassandra believed he was pining over her and not . . . Blister it, he could not be with Sabrina! It was simply impossible. And he damn well had to accept that.
“Fret not, Anthony, the London Season is upon us, and with it, a great many opportunities.”
Her implication suddenly placed him in an uncomfortable position. Having previously hinted at a possible affair, he now had to break away from the future engagement without outright offending the lady. He was temporarily spared from the bothersome undertaking by Cassandra’s next comment.
“Follow Cecelia’s lead,” she suggested. “The girl is positively beaming at the success of her début . . . though one cannot say the same for your other sister.”
Anthony’s gaze immediately sharpened on an apprehensive Ashley at the other end of the ballroom. She was shaking her head at her husband’s offer to dance, all the while twisting her fingers, her eyes darting to the ballroom doors every so often, as though she was in anxious expectation of someone’s arrival.
His twin’s agitation provoked his own, and Anthony hastily said, “Would you please excuse me, Lady Livingston?”
The marchioness nodded and astutely watched the viscount make his way through the throng of guests to his sister’s side.
“Ah, Anthony,” a smiling Daniel called out when he noticed his brother-in-law’s approach. “Didn’t expect to see you all evening . . . not with Lady Livingston in the room.” At Ashley’s frown, Daniel roughly cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could persuade my darling wife to lift that frown and join me on the dance floor?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Anthony as he cupped his sister’s elbow and steered her a few feet away from her husband. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been trying to catch your attention for the last five minutes, but you were too engaged with Lady Livingston.”
He ignored her disapproving tone to demand, “Is something the matter?”
“A grave-looking Binste just came in and went straight over to speak with Papa.”
Their butler, Binste, always wore a grave face, so Anthony saw no reason to suspect anything was amiss. “What of it?”
“I didn’t hear the conversation’s entirety, but I did overhear Binste insist the house needed to be searched. He and Papa then left together. What if they suspect there is an intruder? The servants will eventually find the Gypsy—Anthony say something!”
After a second of frozen disbelief, he thundered toward the ballroom doors.
Ashley followed him and grabbed his arm. “You can’t leave! What will Mama say when she sees all the Kennington men disappearing? What will the guests think?”
“Tell mother I have gone in search of the ‘intruder.’ As for the guests, I don’t give a bloody damn what they think.”
And with that, Anthony stalked off the dance floor, leaving a distressed Ashley and a curious Daniel gazing after him.
He had never bound up a flight of stairs so fast in his life. His heart was hammering, his thoughts reeling. He couldn’t fathom how anyone had discovered Sabrina. But why else would Binste insist the house be searched?
He reached his bedchamber. The door was unlocked. He opened it and slipped into the moonlit room, looking straight to the empty bed and the kerchief laid over the pillow.
His heart plummeted to his feet.
Fingering the scrap of fabric, he clutched it in his hand and brought it closer to his face. Sabrina’s scent drifted all around him, into him, and he closed his eyes.
He had failed her.
Stuffing the kerchief into his pocket, he turned on his heels, prepared to tear the entire house apart in his search to find her.
“I’m still here.”
Her voice, though faint, had the power to bring all his senses back to life. The dull ache in his heart vanished the moment he’d heard her words, and he scanned the dark space in search of her.
With only the moonlight glowing through the windows, the objects in the room were cast in a milky color, and it was hard to tell where the voice had come from. But then he saw her, ensconced in an armchair by one of the windows. She appeared to be part of the furniture until her body shifted and she rose from the seat.
Anthony released a breath of relief. He was sure Sabrina had heard it from across the room. He went over to stand in front of her.
“I thought something dreadful had happened to you.” Then sternly: “Why was the door unlocked? Someone could have found you.”
“I forgot to lock it.”
Her voice was flat. He felt his earlier apprehension stalking him once more. He also noticed she was fully dressed.
He gripped her shoulders. “Has something happened?”
She stiffened at his touch and he loosened his hold before slipping his hands away from her altogether. “Sabrina, what’s the matter?”
Though her face was composed, she could not hide the hurt in her voice. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you home just as soon as you’re well enough to—”
“I want to go home now.”
“Has someone hurt you?”
“I couldn’t find my way out,” was her shaky response. “I was lost. Someone chased me, but I disappeared in here before he could catch me.”
He listened to her, unable to comprehend if what she was rambling about was real or another dream. “Sabrina, what’s going on? Who’s been chasing you? Did you dream of your attackers again? They can’t hurt you anymore, you know?”
“I wasn’t dreaming,” she snapped. “I wanted to leave before you came back, but I got lost in those rotten halls and couldn’t find the stairs. And then I heard voices and had to hide on the balcony, and I caught you whispering to that woman, and . . . and . . .” she made some noise of frustration, then slumped her shoulders.
He dismissed the “caught” bit, as if he’d done something wrong to warrant a capture, to demand, “You left this room?” She moved to turn away from him, but he grabbed her arms, and this time, he didn’t let her go. “Why?”
“I’m not welcome here.”
He could think of no reason, save one, why she would believe such a thing. “Did Ashley ask you to leave?”
“No, but I can sense she wants me to go. And you can’t stand the sight of me anymore.” Her voice cracked. “And you can’t have a tryst with your mistress if I’m in your bed, so—”
“Enough.” This time he cut her off, needing a moment of silence to gather his thoughts. “First of all, I don’t have a mistress. And second, why do you believe I can’t stand the sight of you?” His hands still firmly locked on her arms, he gave her a gentle shake when her silence persisted. “Sabrina, tell me why.”
“You’ve ignored me all day.”
“I wanted you to convalesce in peace.”
“You wanted me gone from your sight!”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yes, it is. You haven’t been able to look at me since the kiss . . . since you opened your eyes and found your lips on mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think?” Her eyes were like liquid silver under the moonlight, so reflective, so luminous. “You want to forget all about kissing me—a Gypsy.”
It was unintelligible to his ears. She actually thought he felt nothing for her, was averse to ever having kissed her because of her heritage? It was all he could do to keep his hands off the girl, and she thought his restraint out of prejudice?
He shook his head in disbelief. “Sabrina, you don’t understand.”
Her lips trembled. “Yes, I do.” She tried to wriggle free of his hold. “I know you feel duty-bound to take care of me, but I’m fine, and I want to go home. I don’t want to be in this house anymore. I don’t want to be with you!”
He released her.
She looked up at him, as though surprised that he’d given in so quickly, but therein lied the deception, for Anthony had not given in. He wasn’t about to let her go with such a flagrant misconception.
Lightly he grazed his thumb over her flushed cheeks. She gasped when his hands cupped her face and drew her near.
Planting her fists securely on his chest to brace herself, she demanded in a panicked whisper, “What are you doing?”
His voice was gruff. “I’m going to set things right.” And then he pressed his lips over hers.
She squirmed, but he held her face firmly between his palms, the kiss slow, deep and thorough, leaving her in no doubt as to his true desires.
It wasn’t long before her protests stopped and her lush body surrendered. The feel of her pressing harder and harder into his chest as her need rose, incited chaos in his soul.
With some reserve, she hooked her arms around his neck, clinging to him, her fingers slowly digging and twisting into his hair.
He savored every exhilarating moment of it. But he was careful not to get too swept up in his own desire. He didn’t want to unleash the full force of his passion, to frighten her away. His arms circled her waist with deliberate ease and control. He caressed her spine, his fingers grazing the low curve of her back, just short of touching her posterior, then gliding up the ridges of her backbone. Over and over his hands swirled across her back before lifting to weave into the thick fleece of her ebony hair.
A violent tremor, full of energy and excitement, ripped through her, and he felt every heady vibration. The kiss deepened when he sensed she was eager to feel more. His tongue skipped lightly over her lips, knocking to gain entrance, and at last, she opened her mouth to the warm thrust of his tongue, inhaling sharply at the intrusion.
Pure, sweet heaven was all he could think of. And when she dared to engage in a lambent duel, her own tongue dipping and retreating, he felt the blood pool to his groin, the hardness beginning to build, and his next thought was that he’d soon be reduced to a pile of cinder.
“So this is where you hurried off to?”
The kiss was broken. Anthony and Sabrina split apart, both gasping for air, their bodies reeling in the aftermath of such an intense embrace.
Anthony noticed the intruder in the doorway—and the plume perched on the shadowed figure’s head. He gnashed his teeth. “Cassandra.”
He cursed mentally for having failed to lock the door. Sabrina backed away, probably anticipating a nasty confrontation was about to ensue. And his own guilt at his carelessness kept him from reaching out and drawing her back into his arms, since he doubted very much he could comfort her at that point anyway. With that disagreeable thought on his mind, he faced the vengeful wrath of a slighted Cassandra Livingston, his own anger dangerously growing.
Now that the other woman was aware of Sabrina’s existence, it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the household, never mind the ton, was privy to it as well. And when Cecelia and his mother heard about his “affair” on such an important night, pandemonium would be the unfortunate result.
And there was no hoping to avoid such commotion. Anthony knew Cassandra far too well for that. She wouldn’t be so obvious as to admit she’d personally witnessed the embrace, for that would lead to a series of additional questions, such as what the marchioness was doing in Anthony’s bedroom in the first place? And contrary to expectation, it wouldn’t be Cassandra’s reputation at stake, but her sexual appeal. If word spread that Anthony didn’t find her desirable enough to become his mistress, her enigmatic veil of sensuality would flitter away. Too shrewd to allow such a disaster to befall her, and too vindictive to keep the encounter under wraps, Cassandra would find some sure way to sabotage his supposed liaison with Sabrina. The only question was how. And that question would be answered soon enough.
The marchioness stepped boldly into the room. Her features were deceptively stoic, like a dormant dragon awaiting the precise moment to unhinge its jaws and spurt forth a rush of fire. She raked her disdainful gaze thoroughly over Sabrina before returning her attention to the viscount.
“She’s an uncivilized, rather wild-looking creature, Anthony. Your taste in a mistress has considerably declined.”
“That’s enough,” he admonished darkly.
Cassandra lifted her slender shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “It is your misfortune if you prefer the company of a lowly Gypsy to that of a noble lady.”
And with that incisive slander, Cassandra swept up the side of her gown and sashayed out of the room, her pride intact and Sabrina’s in pieces.
Anthony hastened to the door and locked it after the conniving woman. He leaned against the barrier, regarding Sabrina with remorse. He had failed to protect her after all. Now, with her presence in the house revealed, they would have to leave before she had fully recovered.
“Sabrina, I’m afraid we’re going to have to make a run for it.”
* * *
Sabrina wasn’t listening to Anthony; his words dissolved in the air around her.
She had trespassed into the world of the aristocracy, and she was neither welcomed nor tolerated. The inhabitants considered her nothing more than a wild creature. Lowly. She did not belong here. She did not belong with Anthony. When had she forgotten her proper place in society? When had she forgotten her duty to her people? When had she become such a fool, yearning for the touch of a man she had no hope of ever being with?
She choked on the lump of tears in her throat, willfully maintained her stiff composure.
Anthony moved away from the door and lit the candle on the nightstand. “We have to get out of this house before Cassandra finds a way to inform the entire ton of your presence.”
Her sentiments precisely. Only she would have omitted the “we” part. Voice flat, she said, “You don’t have to come with me.”
“I most certainly do.”
She couldn’t bear to be with him any longer. He had no dream to blame for his conduct this time around. He had wanted to kiss her. And she had wanted to kiss him. Now she didn’t trust herself alone with the man. She didn’t trust him very much either. He had promised to protect her from her attackers, but who would protect her from him?
“And what will your family think when you leave with me?” she said, hoping to dissuade him from the journey.
“Don’t trouble yourself with my family. I will explain everything to them once I return to London.”
“Everything?”
“A reasonable account of some sort.”
“So you’ll lie.”
“Most definitely. Now fetch your things.”
Anthony scrambled through the bedchamber, gathering together a few articles of clothing and stuffing them into a small carrying case. His methodic movements rattled her nerves. He seemed intent on accompanying her, regardless of anything she said to discourage him.
“But you have a ball to attend,” she tried desperately to reason with him.
“The ball will go on without me. My obligation is to your safety.”
“But a Gypsy walking with a gadjo?”
“Walking? I’m afraid not. You’re in no condition to travel on foot.”
“Well, then, riding alongside—”
“Riding together,” he corrected and stuffed another garment into his bag. “I can’t manage two horses once you’re gone.”
Her palms sweated at the thought of the two of them riding together—close together—for days. “We’re going to attract attention. I’d be safer on my own. Those men are still out there—”
“Which is exactly why I’m coming with you, to protect you.”
It was decisive and absolute. He was leaving—with her in tow—no matter what she had to say about the matter.
Anthony went over to his writing desk and shuffled through the papers. With a frantic sigh, she did a little scrambling of her own, trying to locate her bag of belongings, which she’d tossed aside when she’d last come into the room. She found the bundle wedged partly under the bed and yanked it out.
She had to get out of the house fast, and since Anthony was determined to come with her, she didn’t think it was wise to mulishly stand there, hoping he’d change his mind. For all she knew, a horde of guests were already mounting the steps and would be pounding at the door any moment now, determined to cart her out of the house and directly over to the magistrate’s on a charge of trespassing. And if she had to choose between Anthony and the gaol, she supposed the viscount was indeed the better option, though that thought didn’t improve her mood.
When she looked up again, it was to notice Anthony’s arm moving swiftly, quill in hand.
“You’re writing another letter now?”
“It’s only a brief note for Ashley, to have the rest of my belongings packed and shipped back to London.”
“And how will you deliver the note?”
“I won’t,” he retuned simply. “I know my twin. She’ll soon come in search of me and find the instructions on my desk.”
He finished scribbling the message and propped the paper upright against the inkwell to ensure his sister noticed it.
“Let’s go.”
Anthony blew out the candle and cradled her hand. At the touch of his warm palm, her heart jumped, smacked right against her ribs with a resounding thump. She tried to pull her hand away, but he maintained a firm grip all the way to the door and into the deserted corridor.
She needed something other than his closeness to reflect upon and blurted out the first idea that came to mind. “It’s bad luck to start a journey on Friday.”
He cast her a brief look over his shoulder. “My dear, I assure you it would be bad luck if we did not start our journey tonight.”
He was right, of course, not that she cared, what with the endearment he’d just expressed still skipping through her head.
“Do you hear that?” he said.
Sabrina gathered her wits and tried to focus on the dangerous situation at hand. Her ears caught sounds of closing doors. “What’s going on?”
“The servants think there’s an intruder in the house so they’re searching all the rooms.”
“Where do we go then?”
“I don’t know. If we descend the servant stairwell, we’ll end up in the kitchen and there’s bound to be an army of scullery maids in there. But if we use the main staircase, we’ll come to within yards of the ballroom door and three hundred very questioning guests.”
Another dilemma. She wasn’t the least bit surprised. “Is there another way to get below stairs?”
“Only the stairway in the east wing, but it’s located on the other side of the house.”
“So?”
“With so many servants moving about, we might come across one or more of them.”
“Then what do we do?”
Those large shoulders lifted and plummeted as he sighed. “We have no other choice, I suppose, but to risk the route to the east wing.”
And risk it they did. Whenever a servant was heard coming their way, they ducked into one of the unoccupied rooms, waited until the maid or footman had entered a neighboring chamber to search through, and then bolted from the room and down the corridor.
It had been one of the more climatic moments of her life to finally reach the staircase without detection, and seeing as the eastern wing of the house was covered in darkness, it provided the perfect camouflage for their escape.