The Vampire Voss (10 page)

“Do you care to dance?” came a low voice behind her.

Angelica barely managed to keep from clapping a startled hand to her bosom and instead merely straightened. How had he gotten over here so quickly? “Of course,” she replied, turning. Her heart was pounding, and beneath her gloves, her palms had gone damp.

He was there, perhaps not as tall as she'd remembered, but darker and more forbidding thanks to his unrelieved black garb and shadowing hat. The full cloak covered him from shoulder nearly to the floor, and the mask obscured him from temple to upper lip. That left only a bit of jaw and cheek uncovered, but they too were shadowed by a high, white Elizabethan neck ruff.

“Or would you prefer to take in some air beneath the stars?” he added.

His face and eyes were in shadow, and he spoke so low and so near to her ear that, although she could understand what he was saying, and his breath was warm against her, she wasn't able to recognize his voice.

Much as she would like to walk beneath the stars with Lord Dewhurst…Voss…until she was certain it was he, Angelica wouldn't do anything so scandalous.

Although…she was in a mask. No one would recognize her except her sister. “Perhaps after the dance some fresh air would be in order,” she said prudently. That would give her time.

“Come then,” he said and drew her toward the dance floor.

The music had already begun: another waltz. Only at a masquerade ball would there be so many of the scandalous dances in a row, and Angelica felt a prickle of naughtiness as she allowed him to twirl her into position.

“Have you received any word from your brother?” he murmured.

It
was
Voss, then. Angelica's heart lightened and she smiled up at him, allowing her pleasure to show in her eyes. “I have not,” she replied. “But I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be well on your way to Romania.”

There was a pause as he executed some unfamiliar step, half turning her away so that they could pass by another couple. “Ah, yes. I've been delayed.”

“Corvindale won't be pleased, I'm certain,” Angelica said.

“You've spoken to him?”

“Of course. He avoids us all as much as possible, but of course it is difficult to completely ignore the man whose house
we are living in.” She was aware of the solidness of his arms, the warmth of his body near hers.

Voss looked down at her, his eyes seeming to almost glow behind the shadow of his mask. “Living in Corvindale's home must be most unpleasant.”

She felt a little shiver run over the back of her shoulders. He sounded angry, almost malicious. “I know there is little love lost between the two of you, but he hasn't been unkind to us,” she said. There was no reason that she should allow his dislike of the earl to color her own opinion.

Again, a pause as they stepped through several more paces, and Angelica realized that Voss had maneuvered them toward the edge of the dance floor. Beyond the clusters of people and the dangling vines from the Babylonian plants, the doors to the gardens were open. Two sets of tall double doors had been flung wide, allowing easy access to the torchlit pathways several steps below the balcony.

As they drew nearer, a vibrant breeze brushed over her warm skin and Angelica was grateful when Voss eased her off the dance floor. She had begun to feel warm from the dancing and the fresh night air would be a glad change. Especially since she would be with Voss.

Would he try to kiss her? Her belly flipped at the thought and her cheeks warmed. She suspected a kiss from Voss would be very different from the one Harrington had brushed over her lips at the Farbers' fete.

Sliding a firm arm around her waist, he kept her close as they walked through the doors. Angelica had a moment's bit of nervousness and looked behind her to make certain Maia wasn't watching their almost intimate pose—the side of her body was caught up next to his taller one and his arm was tight. He wasn't about to let her go.

“This way,” he murmured, leading her past the rushing
fountain in the center of the massive balcony and toward the darkest set of stairs. The burned-out torch hung uselessly at the top, and for the first time, Angelica felt a niggle of unease.

“Perhaps we should stay here. It's a lovely view.” She paused at the top of the steps, gesturing up at the stars.

The garden lay before them and the sounds of the party loud at their backs. Other couples were out, walking on the balcony. And she could hear the laughter of people below, in the gardens, muted by the rushing fountain. Some of her nervousness lessened.

“There's naught to fear, Miss Woodmore,” he said, tugging at her firmly. “Let us walk and smell the roses. I am looking forward to showing them to you.”

Angelica felt a renewed prickle of nerves as he declined to release her, and she glanced back over her shoulder, undecided. She could pull away and make a scene, and then everyone would know she'd been out on the balcony with Dewhurst— somehow she'd stopped thinking of him as Voss—and Maia would be furious.

She stepped hesitantly forward, her foot finding the top step. She didn't want to make a scene. And there were people below; it wasn't as if they were going to be outside alone. Still…

He looked down at her, his eyes piercing and holding hers. There was something wrong. Angelica felt a low, deep tug in her belly, insidious and insistent. Unpleasant. When he urged her forward, she didn't have the energy to protest, although she felt as if she should.

Down another step, and another. The lights from the balcony above became blocked by the fountain and the railing, and they were in near darkness. Angelica blinked and stopped on the steps, a real frisson of fear descending over her.

She shook her head as if she'd just awakened, and when
Dewhurst turned back toward her…his eyes were
glowing
. Reddish, piercing, there in the dark.

Angelica stifled a scream and he responded with a guttural sound of surprise and fury, his neck ruff going askew. She saw a smooth, undimpled chin clearly for the first time, and suddenly realized: this wasn't Voss.

The next thing she knew, Angelica's mask was yanked down over her face, covering her eyes. She felt herself tripping and falling, and a strong arm catching her, gathering her up closely before she landed on the ground, and then he was moving with quick, jolting steps.

She tried to scream, tried to claw the velvet away, but his hand closed over her mouth and the mask with all of its lace ground into her skin and lips, stifling her. Panicked, she kicked and fought, but he smashed her up against him and ran.

Her arm was bent up beneath her, her hand curled between her and her attacker, and suddenly she realized she felt the shape of her reticule wadded up beneath her arm. Trying to focus and to keep the fear from oversetting sense, she managed to grasp the little purse. Through the light fabric, she felt the shears and closed her fingers around the entire bag, then stabbed down into the man's torso.

Hard.

She felt it slice into him, the sickening sense of driving into flesh, and she squeezed her eyes shut despite the fact that she was already blinded. He staggered and her dark world tipped as she screamed, then she stabbed again. Dampness leached into her and she felt his grip loosen. Suddenly she tumbled free and landed on the ground. The sound of him crashing away through the hedge sent a wave of relief through her.

Voices and footsteps came and by the time she'd sat up and readjusted the mask over her eyes, Angelica was surrounded by what would normally be the work of a nightmare
or hallucinatory episode. A faerie, a peacock, a sultan and a jester had gathered around.

Her fingers and knees shook and her belly felt as though it were about to erupt, but Angelica managed to stand without assistance once the jester helped her to her feet. She realized she still clutched the reticule and suspected it was soaking with blood, so she allowed it to drop to the ground in the dark.

“What has happened?” they were asking in a variety of manners and tones.

Angelica could barely organize her thoughts, let alone summon the words to respond. And now that the moment of terror was over, she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. To forget her fear, the sudden inability to think, her foolish,
foolish
mistake and the harsh hands gripping and holding her. And the glowing eyes.

Glowing eyes. How could that be?

“I'm fine,” she said, forcing her voice to be steady. If Maia found out about this incident, she'd never let her come to another ball, let alone a masquerade. Nor would Corvindale or Chas. “I merely lost my way in the dark and some creature ran over my foot and startled me.”

“Did you fall in the fountain? Your gown is wet,” said the faerie, and Angelica reached automatically to touch the lower part of her skirts.

“It'll dry,” she said, realizing it was blood and thankful that it wouldn't show on the dark fabric as more than a shine.

Her hair sagged heavily near the back of her head, instead of at her crown where it had originally been anchored, and it felt as if a few curls had come undone. But the original arrangement had been a loose, messy one, and she hoped it wasn't noticeably different.

No one asked what she'd been doing in the gardens alone— the anonymity of the masks was still at work—and Angelica
thanked the characters for their assistance before pivoting toward the ball.

By the time she climbed the steps back to the balcony, where the party roared above, her stomach had settled and her knees had strengthened. Angelica hadn't finished berating herself, however, for her foolish mistake. Hadn't it been at the Lundhames', two nights ago, that she'd reminded herself of the fate of Miss Eliza Billingsly and her compromising position with Mr. Deetson-Waring?

And here she'd gone and done something nearly as foolish, and dangerous, too, simply because she was wearing a mask. Clearly her companion had been after something more serious than a simple kiss in the dark. Had he meant to ravish her somewhere in the back of the garden? Or…was it possible he'd been trying to abduct her? To force a wedding or engagement?

He'd seemed to know who she was, for he'd asked about her brother, and the Woodmores were known to be a well-established, wealthy family.

A little shiver threatened to weaken her knees again, but Angelica fought it away. She'd come through this incident safely, and now she would forget about it. She'd learned her lesson, thankfully, without serious consequences.

“Miss Woodmore. I have your drink.”

Heaven's daisies. It was Harrington, standing there with a little glass cup of something pale.

“Why thank you,” she said, and gratefully accepted the drink. She was thirsty. “I do hope you weren't waiting long. I had to—I walked outside for a moment just to see the stars.” Her fingers still trembled a bit.

“Not at all,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to stroll about on the balcony with me?”

It was fortunate that she was drinking from the effervescent
lemonade, for if not, she might have responded too quickly. As it was, as she withdrew the cup from her lips, she looked across the dance floor and saw him leaning against one of the Babylonian columns.

It's him.

Voss.

He was masked, of course, with the lower part of his face covered, and only his eyes and thick, slashing brows showing above. He looked like some sort of Indian or Oriental thief, with a low, square hat half covering his thick hair and a sweeping cloak.

A flush of heat swept her as their gazes connected. There was the space of half the room and throngs of people between them, but it was as if he were standing next to her. She had no doubt this time that it was Voss.

How could she have mistaken that other figure for him? She could hardly credit her previous error.

“I….” Angelica looked back at Harrington. Even from behind his mask, she could see the warmth in his eyes. A week earlier, she would have been taking his arm with alacrity and strolling in the moonlight with him. And perhaps even permitting a second, chaste kiss.

But now… She resisted the urge to glance back over her shoulder in Voss's direction. Just because he was here, and looking at her…well, that really meant nothing. Everyone of the
ton
was here tonight. Perhaps he didn't even recognize that it was Angelica behind this coy mask, and even if he did… well, that didn't mean he'd ask her to dance. Or even approach her.

“Miss Woodmore?” Harrington had tilted his head to look down at her during this space of silence. He made his voice loud enough to be heard over the low buzz of voices and strains of music. “I can only imagine how lovely the moonlight will
be, filtering over your dark hair. But I should certainly like to see it for myself.”

“Oh.” She couldn't help a smile in return. Such a romantic thing to say without being ridiculous, like comparing her eyes to diamonds and her skin to silk or whatnot. Lord Fedderley had done that once and it was all she could do to keep from rolling her so-called diamondlike eyes. She lifted the drink again to give herself more time to determine how to respond, and managed, as she lowered it, to glance back to where Voss was standing.

He was gone.

Angelica wasn't prepared for the stab of disappointment when, as she cast her gaze over the perimeter of the room in what would be the path between where he'd been and where she stood, she didn't see him.

That, she supposed, was that.

She turned. And there he was.

A
ngelica's face flushed hot beneath her mask, and suddenly, her heart was slamming in her chest.

But before she could speak or even gather her composure, Voss had taken matters in hand.

“I do believe you've promised this dance to me, Mistress Fate,” he said, smoothly turning and somehow gathering up her arm to slip it around his crooked elbow—all without the slightest hitch. “A waltz,” he added, looking down at her.

At last,
his eyes said, gleaming with satisfaction from above the cloth tied around his lower face. Between the heavy, slashing brows and the squat, boxy hat—and even with the whimsical curls peeking from beneath—he looked striking and dangerous. Dangerous in a manner that made her belly feel as if it were filled with butterflies, not leaden with stone.

Angelica had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Harrington, who had no opportunity to circumvent the tide of Lord Dewhurst. But no sooner had she bid him a hurried “Please excuse me” than Voss had taken her away and to the floor filled with other dancers.

As if he'd done it a hundred times, he spun her neatly to
face him, his strong hand settling just so at her waist, and the other curving around her fingers as he lifted her left hand into position. He pulled her so close that the camellias at her waist nearly brushed the side of his cloak.

Angelica had already waltzed—twice!—that evening, but this was an entirely different matter. It was as if every part of her had awakened and now absorbed the slightest sensation. The swish of her gown flowing against and around his pantalooned legs. The imprint of each finger from the hand at her waist.

She was aware of the gentle tension in her raised and extended arm, and the warmth of his gloved palm against hers. The brush of air over her bare, upper arms as they spun with grace around and between the other dancers. The sleek shift of muscle and tendon in his shoulder beneath her hand. The bounce of her hair, the warmth and breadth of his body
so close
. He smelled foreign and spicy, very unlike the common pine and balsam scent Harrington favored.

Again, she wondered how she could ever have mistaken her attacker as Voss. The reality was so much more…
more
.

It was several moments before she realized that he'd not spoken a word since they stepped into the kaleidoscope of swirling couples, and that they'd made their way efficiently around and between the other dancers. She ventured the question that came to mind.

“Surely you haven't been to Romania and back already? To take your friend's body?”

“I bribed Eddersley to go in my stead.” His tone was clipped, and when he turned toward the edge of the group and slipped Angelica between two couples near the side, she realized he was leading her off the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “The song isn't over.”

He glanced down with dark, glittering eyes, and she felt as
if he'd turned some great force on her. His hand had closed around her arm as he released her from their dance pose, but instead of leading her toward the balcony, which was on the other side of the large chamber, he was edging them toward the most shadowy corner of the room.

“My lord,” she managed to say, but her words were certainly lost in his wake, in the midst of the music and conversation.

He fairly towed her along behind him, toward a shadowy corner where a fountain stood between two potted trees. Dangling vines hung from pots on shelves high on the walls, providing a convenient curtain for those who might wish to dally in corners without being seen.

Voss swept away a handful of the vines, speaking sharply into the corner and scattering leaves and flower petals. Seconds later, Angelica was nearly trampled by a Romeo and a befeathered swan as they stumbled out of the alcove and away. Apparently, Juliet was elsewhere.

The next thing she knew, the wall was behind her and Voss was in front of her, very close, his fingers curved around her upper arms. He'd yanked away the mask covering the lower part of his face, and she could see, even in the low light, the flat line of his mouth and the pinch of his nostrils.

She tried to swallow, and felt a renewed rush of heat behind her mask. She wanted to tear the heavy velvet and lace confection away so she wasn't so stifled, and suddenly, the very thought became reality as he stripped it up and off her head, tossing it aside. None too gently.

“What has happened?” he asked, closing his fingers around one of her wrists. His eyes penetrated hers, and for the first time, she felt a trickle of fear. They were glittering, not with fascination, but with…menace. “Tonight. What happened?”

In the closeness of that dim corner, Angelica felt the rise
and fall of his breathing, and the racing pulse beating in her throat. It threatened to choke her.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

His breathing shifted and a delicate tremor rippled through his arms as if he were restraining himself. “I smell blood, Angelica. On you. All
over
you. I want to know where in the damned hell it came from.”

His words, uttered from between very tight jaws, nevertheless snapped like a whip between them. She couldn't have said which startled her more—his use of her familiar name, the profanity or the fact that he somehow smelled blood. On her.

She moistened her lips, trying to dispel the sudden dryness in her mouth, and felt his hand tighten reflexively, crushing one of the flowers on the top of her glove. It was at that moment that she realized just how dangerous and powerful this man was.

This man, who blocked her into a corner, who had his body very nearly pressed against hers and whose gaze bored down into her like a weapon.

Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he felt it, too, and she tried to contain her nervousness. Fury rolled off him, but she didn't believe it was directed toward her. If he meant her harm, he wouldn't drag her into a corner where they could easily be discovered.

“I thought he was you. He asked me to waltz,” she replied when his fingers tightened again.

He drew back just a bit, loosened his grip. “You thought he was
me?
” A shaft of light settled on his face, illuminating one eye and half of his nose and chin. The illusion made him appear even more intimidating.

“He behaved as if we'd met, and he asked me about Chas
right away. So I thought he was you,” she defended herself, feeling more in control now. Had his anger been worry for her, then? But, he'd
smelled blood
on her. Such an odd thing to say.

“And then we went out to walk under the stars and…and… he tried to…” Angelica was still a little breathless—from being trotted so quickly across the room, from reliving the fright of her assault, from the steady, dark gaze that continued to bore into her.

“What did he do?” Voss's fingers tightened and she felt the tension riding along his arms, settling in the space between his brows and drawing them tighter. “Where did the blood come from? It's not… It can't be
yours
.”

She shook her head. “No. He— I stabbed him. With my shears. It's his blood.”

His eyes widened and then his entire demeanor changed. The edge eased from what was visible of his expression, and his brows relaxed. He wasn't smiling, but surprise—and perhaps relief—shone there. “Your shears?”

“I'm Atropos. You recognized me earlier, did you not? You called me Mistress Fate.”

His shrug was fluid, and now the crinkles at the corners of his eyes belied a near smile. “I didn't know which of the three you were. The gown gave you away, despite the fact that you chose black instead of the common white. It's fortunate for you, apparently, that you were Atropos, for I don't believe a mere length of thread and a measuring rod or spindle would have been much assistance to you.”

Relieved that his intensity seemed to have eased, she gave him a demure look. “No, I do believe you are correct, my lord.”

But his face darkened again, the crinkles next to his eyes smoothing as the groove between his brows became more
pronounced. “And the man who assaulted you? What happened to him?” He hadn't released her, and in fact, she was aware of his shoes brushing hers. Warmth and awareness filled the space between them, and she realized her fingers had curled into the edge of his cloak. She loosened them.

“I don't know. He ran off. He didn't return to the party, I'm certain, for surely all the blood would cause comment.”

“The condition of your gown didn't,” he reminded her.

“But no one can see it,” she said. “I don't know how you noticed. You said you
smelled
blood?” She sniffed, but scented nothing but him. Spicy, masculine and arresting. Very close. She felt a bit light-headed.

His lips flattened. “Does Corvindale know?”

“No one knows but you. The earl isn't here this evening.”

Now he smiled, but with that false edge. “As much as I'm certain you believe that, I know better than to assume other wise. He's here.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she said, suddenly feeling lighter than she had since arriving at the ball. “I suppose we shall find out when the unmasking takes place.” She cast a look beyond his shoulder, through the filter of hanging vines. It was rather cozy back here in this little corner.

“But our unmasking has already occurred,” he said. Voss's voice had dropped to a purr, and Angelica flashed a quick look at him. He was looking at her in a very different way than he had only moments before. Much like the way he'd been looking at her when their eyes met across the room.

Her heart pounded, hard, as he lifted a hand to skim a gloved finger along the side of her neck. Little prickles of awareness followed and Angelica found herself hardly able to breathe. She could be affronted at such a liberty, but the touch
felt oddly chaste. Yet at the same time, the way he looked at her, leaning in closer, felt very intimate.

“I cannot decide whether to be annoyed or gratified,” he said, stroking along beneath her chin, holding her eyes with his.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

He withdrew his hand and adjusted a camellia on her shoulder. “Well, my dear, I could be annoyed and affronted that you mistook another gentleman for me. Apparently I hadn't made enough of an impression upon you. Or I could be gratified that, thinking he was me, you agreed to walk in the moonlight with him. As unpleasant as that occasion might have turned out to be.”

A little stab of pleasure startled her. “Such a difficult decision, my lord. I cannot even pretend to assist you.” She looked away in all demureness, and realized with a start that she was well and truly, no doubt about it,
flirting
with Viscount Dewhurst. And managing quite well.

Maia would be proud. Or…perhaps not, if she knew it was Dewhurst and not Harrington with whom she was being coy.

“What is it that you thought might happen, walking in the moonlight with me?” he asked. His voice was very near her ear, smooth and low, its very timbre somehow discernable despite the dull roar of music, rushing water, and revelry around them. “Perhaps the experience of your first kiss?”

“Oh,” she said, her breath gone again at the dark light in his eyes. Yet, she managed to say, “I've already experienced my first kiss.”

Those glittering eyes narrowed with pleasure and he whispered, “I'm rather pleased to hear you say that. Now, let us see about making you forget it.”

He moved, his mouth covering hers as the wall reared up
behind her. He eased—pushed—her back against it, his somehow gloveless hands settling: one, warm, to cup the back of her head, and the other sliding around her waist.

Angelica couldn't have been prepared for the rush of heat and pleasure from the touch of his lips. Neither tentative nor rapacious, they fit to hers deliberately, without apology— molding and tasting, coaxing…demanding hers to respond. And she did, following his lead, aware of the bare touch of his fingers on the underside of her jaw, of the warm mouth delicious over hers and the heat of his body pressing her into the wall.

An explosion of pleasure rushed through her—warm and bold, tingling low in her belly and down…farther. Angelica needed to breathe but she forgot how, sinking into the sleek, sensual rhythm of mouth sliding against mouth.

His tongue surprised her, slipping briefly along the half-part of her lips in a heated little tease, and then his mouth crushed over hers again as his arm tightened around her waist. Voss's breath buffeted warm against her skin as he shifted away, coming low and unsteady. Along her cheek he smoothed his lips, nibbling, pressing gentle kisses that left tingles in their wake.

She'd tilted her head back, unable to hold it up any longer, and the fountain of hair at the back of her head was smashed against the wall, the pins driving into her scalp. His hands drew her closer, his face buried near her ear, his lips moving along her hairline and down to the curve of her neck.

Angelica gasped and trembled; she was sensitive and a bit ticklish there, and the light movements of his nose and mouth buried in her neck's crook made her want to squirm away at the same time as press him closer. She wanted him to kiss and nibble, to taste as he'd done her mouth—not to featherlightly touch, and she grabbed onto his cloak, pulling him
closer, only half aware of what she was doing. She wanted
more
, something more.

“Voss,” she whispered to the ceiling, planting her hands on his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric, not sure what she was asking for. But she needed something to release the tightening inside her.

She became vaguely aware of the activity beyond the curtain of vines behind him, and that the music seemed to have started again. Or perhaps it was that the fountain had been turned off or had run out of water, and now the sounds of the jaunty three-step dance tune more easily reached her ears.