A Forbidden Love (13 page)

Tiptoeing out the door, she closed it softly behind her. It was the strangest feeling, entering the hallway, like stepping out of her skin. She was suddenly in a mysterious world, filled with unknown dangers, the sanctuary of Anthony’s room instantly forgotten.

Her skittish nerves ruled her senses. Ignoring her elaborate surroundings, she listened instead for any advancing footsteps.

It was the music that steered her though the winding and unfamiliar passages. And try as she might to avoid it, the sounds only grew louder.

Minutes passed. Cautious to move stealthily along the corridor’s edge, her hand lightly skimming the candlelit walls, she ducked within a narrow passage, hoping the brief rest in dark seclusion would help ease her thundering heart.

Anthony hadn’t exactly offered her a map of the dwelling’s interior, and so she had no idea where she was going. Each hall looked the same, and for all she knew, she was traveling in circles. Where were the bloody stairs?

She took a deep breath, clutched her belongings tighter, and stuck her head back into the main corridor. She eased her way out from the shadows and froze. Voices were approaching, about to turn the corner.

Her back hit the wall and she slipped into the darkened passageway once more, her heart pounding, her blood rushing through her veins. She moved quickly to the aisle’s end, listening to the clash of thrumming instruments, bubbling laughter, and lively chatter that invaded her narrow hideaway through a set of looming double doors.

Though her steps seemed deprived of strength, she crossed the inlet, with every intention of hiding until the corridor was clear. Her fingers quivering, she caressed the luminous brass handle before opening one of the glass doors.

The fanfare blasted her the moment she stepped over the balcony’s threshold and into a world of privilege and pomp. She closed the door behind her. Instinct had her crouching on the floor, so only her assessing blue eyes veered over the balcony’s stone ledge, scanning the remarkable mixture of twirling colors below.

It was overwhelming. Nothing could have prepared her for the brilliant array of gowns and elegant suits, or the bright torrent of jewels that winked under the blaze of candlelight with each graceful movement of the dancers. The music filled her soul, the scent of melted candle wax invaded her nostrils, the sparkling gleam from the crystal chandeliers flooded her vision.

The din took her breath away—and almost her senses—as the heat from the ballroom doused her with a cloud of dizziness. But the vertigo was fleeting, and the blurred sets of dancers, all advancing and retreating, holding hands and rotating, regained distinction in form.

Sabrina’s eyes narrowed on one particular pair, standing off to the side, watching the celebration with mild interest, more intently focused on one another instead. The woman at Anthony’s arm was laughing, her head tipped back so a few cinnamon-brown curls bobbed past her naked shoulders. Dark purple plumes trimmed the rest of the locks coiled atop her head. A brilliant gem sat tucked above the cleft of her tightly bound breasts, the much-too-low cut of her plum-colored bodice visible even to a balcony-perched Sabrina, and Anthony definitely had a better vantage point than she.

The sight was like a blow to the gut. What were the chances that that woman was just another relation to Anthony? Flimsy. No man looked at his kin like a rogue in a sea of beautiful maids. Besides, Anthony’s family was blond.

She chided herself for her folly. What did she expect, to find Anthony off to the side, drink in hand, a look of boredom on his face? She scoffed. The viscount may deplore disruptions to his peace of mind, but some disruptions were evidently worth enduring.

Sabrina closed her eyes and turned away from the ball, her back against the balcony ledge, her bottom secured to the floor. She released a long, grated sigh. What did it matter whom Anthony talked with? It shouldn’t, of that she was sure. That it did bother her, even a trifle, was troubling beyond words.

The music stopped. Sabrina lifted her dark lashes and focused on the reflective glass doors in front of her. Gathering her valor, she rolled onto her knees and cast her eyes back over the celebration.

Ladies were giggling and fanning themselves. Gents were playing the part of dutiful escorts, leading their partners away from the dance floor, while the orchestra set down their instruments for a brief repose.

The crowd parted slightly near the arched terrace doors, where an elderly nobleman stood, cane in one hand, tall glass in the other.

“Your attention, honored guests.”

Sabrina found something about his countenance familiar.

“A toast.”

Servants bustled through the masses, filling every empty hand with a glass of some sparkling spirit.

“To my daughter, Cecelia. May she have many happy and
peaceful
years before her.”

There was a hearty laugh from the crowd. “Here, here,” chimed, as hundreds clinked glasses in a concordant wish of contentment for the young debutante.

So the elder man was Anthony’s father? Sabrina gave him a more thorough scan. No wonder she had found his features so familiar.

Upon the lord’s signal, the orchestra resumed their instruments and struck up another dance. Her gaze passed indifferently over the crowd, and returned to rest on Anthony and the same well-endowed lady, who was laughing again, this time over a remark Anthony was whispering into her bejeweled ear.

Sabrina saw red.

Chapter 12

“I
f Cecelia’s life turns out to be peaceful, she will never forgive our father for that toast,” Anthony remarked gruffly in Cassandra Livingston’s dainty ear.

The woman’s pearled smile and husky laughter were intended to dazzle the senses. “The dear girl would have every right to be in a dander. Imagine a life void of balls, luncheons, and picnics. What would she do with her time and fortune?”

“I hear the route to the Orient is adventurous.”

“Abandon the London season to travel to the far side of the world? Good gracious, Anthony, you don’t know your sister very well—or women in general for that matter.”

He offered her a sly smile. “Untrue, madam. 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 blond brow at her brazenness. “Is that so?” he drawled.

Cassandra’s only response was a falsely demure gesture, as she lifted her glass of champaign 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 much of 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 affair, 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’s 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 husband to object to any aspersions involving her repute, 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 affair, and Anthony felt it high time he directed his desire on a more willing participant. Ideally, there was no obstruction to a liaison.

But for one hitch.

He was no longer fascinated by the woman. The sultry creature 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, only it wasn’t stirred by Cassandra Livingston but by a certain gypsy he had tucked away in his bedchamber.

Bloody hell! It was becoming dismally clear that no one could replace his gypsy in his lustful cravings. He would not be satisfied until he’d had Sabrina. 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 to your discontent?”

The purr of Cassandra’s voice breached his pensive thoughts, and Anthony shifted his gaze from the rows of dancers to the marchioness. “Pardon?”

“Your frown has steadily worsened these last few minutes. Is the chore of a dance really so atrocious to you?”

Unaware that his internal struggle was so clearly written 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, as always.”

She smiled seductively at that. “An unfulfilled yearning, perhaps?”

He stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean, madam.”

“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 to a possible affair, he now had the irksome task of breaking away from their future engagement without outright offending the lady. Though, temporarily, he was spared from the bothersome undertaking by Cassandra’s next comment.

“Follow Cecelia’s lead,” she suggested and nodded up ahead. “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 twining her fingers, her eyes darting to the ballroom doors every so often, as though she were in anxious expectation of someone’s arrival.

His twin’s agitation evoked his own, and Anthony hastily implored, “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 to attend to.” At Ashley’s darkening gaze, Daniel roughly cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could persuade my darling wife to lift that frown and join me out on the dance floor?”

“I’ll do my best,” was Anthony’s hasty reply, and he promptly 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,” she griped, “but you were too
engaged
with Lady Livingston.”

He ignored her disapproving tone to demand, “Is something the matter?”

“A grave-looking Binste just walked by and went straight over to speak with Papa.”

Their butler, Binste, always wore a grave face, as far as Anthony was concerned, so he 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 that 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!”

Glaciation took over, numbing all his senses.

He was thundering toward the ballroom doors when Ashley grabbed him by the 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.

Anthony had never bounded 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 his gypsy. But why else would Binste insist the house be searched?

He reached his chamber. The door was unlocked. He opened it and slipped into the moonlit room, his eyes shooting straight to the empty bed. There was nothing but a kerchief laid over the pillow.

His heart plummeted to his feet.