The room was still expect for the infrequent snorts and coughs from a tipsy Vincent, dozing on the chestnut brown divan. There would be no game tonight. Sabrina didn’t feel like playing a game. Resigned to spend her evening in quiet contemplation, she sat curled in an armchair, legs pressed up against her chest, chin resting on her knees.
Her heart was heavy. It seemed every emotion she had ever known was now battling in her chest. Leading the wild herd of emotions was fury. Fury that Anthony wanted to hide any child they might have in shame. Then came 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 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 figure grew more distant over the rolling green hills, jabbed at her heart. A child would offset the loneliness. 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 soul, 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 overcome obstacles 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 continent and join another caravan. It wasn’t unthinkable.
Careful 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 good-bye 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 choked her. 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 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.
* * *
It was the first of May. Vauxhall Gardens were open for the season. Anthony strolled the graveled promenade, making his way back to one of the amphitheaters where his family supped. The majestic avenue was lined with elm trees and festooned with thousands of sparkling glass lamps. The gardens glowed under the brilliance: 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, the whispers that trailed after him. Whispers of “scandal” and an “unseemly Gypsy.” 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 the heavens, 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 “restraint” during his sister’s début ball, and with a Gypsy 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 addlepate 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 boulevard and entered the grove, enclosed by a colonnade and tight shrubby and thoroughfares. There the orchestra, an assortment of some fifty musicians, were seated in their gothic box, their music sheets aglow from the resplendent lamps. Scattered across the grove were the supper boxes, seating anywhere from six to twelve diners, all of whom gaily partook of the roasted sweetmeats, biscuits, cheese cakes and arrack punch.
Anthony remained off to the side, 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 hewed lawn than his in-laws.
No, Anthony definitely wasn’t prepared to link up with his kin just yet. Lulled by the harmony of clashing instruments, he settled his gaze on the spinning dancers. As he 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 Sabrina, 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 offence . . . 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 twisted 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 Gypsy already?”
His expression steely, he knitted his fingers behind his back to keep them from reaching for 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 let there be another one, 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 created 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 champagne, 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 in his chest. “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, with an inappropriate comment. He didn’t want to play chaperone for the rest of the Season to make amends for a 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 his vision was assaulted by her well-endowed breasts, hiked up in her carmine red gown. Look at me, the powered 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 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 tale 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 making a comment, toes curling in his boots.
“I would never spoil Cecelia’s chance at a respectable match. 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.” She went 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.”
“A trait all well-bred gentlemen posses. 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 looked at Lord Handford. The periwinkle blue of his waist coat stabbed 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 Gypsies.”
His tight lips parted in exasperation, but he hadn’t the chance to make any disparaging comment. A 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. He watched the supper boxes drain of diners as the crowd amassed around the Cascade. It was a fleeting source of entertaining, 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 miller’s house, complete with waterfall and miller’s wheel. The mechanical display set into motion when water poured over the miller’s 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.