by Колин Глисон
“I’m not certain why the earl needs to be brought into the situation,” Maia continued. “Chas knows we can take care of ourselves. Don’t we always? Mrs. Ferny lacks much in the way of her chaperone skills. And from what I’ve heard, Corvindale’s a… Well, he’s not particularly kind or generous. But Chas trusted him and has always spoken well of the man.” She’d finished attending to Angelica’s hair and was now standing next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, back to the wall, clearly scanning the large room and out into the grand foyer. “I recall him being very tall, and so it should be easy to spot him if he were here. But I don’t see anything of him at all.”
The skirts of their frocks, made of the lightest, frothiest silk imaginable, pooled around each other’s slippers in delicate swirling crinkles. While the bodices were tight, tied or gathered just beneath the bosom, the remainder of the fabric fell loosely to the floor, which gave them relative ease of movement. Angelica’s gown was spring yellow, in deference to the Gypsyish undertones of her skin and her dark hair and eyes. Maia, who had more of a classic, Roman goddess look to her beauty, had a fairer, peaches-and-cream complexion that looked lovely when she wore pale blue.
“But Corvindale needn’t be rude about it all,” Maia said. She redonned the glove she’d taken off a moment earlier to fix Angelica’s hair and patted the sapphire and pearl earbobs she wore, as if ensuring they were still hanging there.
“If you do see him, you can’t simply walk up and start lecturing him, Maia.”
Her sister frowned, her pretty heart-shaped face sharpening with determination. “I certainly can. It could be a matter of life and death. And aside of that, I’m betrothed. It’s not as if I’m a young debutante in my first Season, looking for a husband.”
Angelica opened her mouth to argue, but Maia continued, “I can, but I’ll be discreet or subtle about it. But I will if I— Oh. Is that him?”
Angelica looked over toward the threshold of the ballroom, where it met the foyer, and saw three gentlemen standing there. “Isn’t Corvindale dark? They aren’t…”
Her voice trailed off as coldness curled around her heart. She recognized one of them.
The man from her dream.
2
In Which Miss Yarmouth And Viscount Dewhurst Are Disappointed
“Corvindale isn’t here,” Voss observed, stepping into the ballroom ahead of his companions.
He’d taken the opportunity to scan the room whilst standing at the top of the convenient three steps from the grand foyer. The space beyond was a kaleidoscope, filled with swirling gowns of every pastel color imaginable, an aromatic soup of lily and rosewater, lavender pomade, powder and the scent of too much physical exertion, along with the enthusiastic strains from a brass quintet in the corner.
“Damned violin is out of tune,” he added over his shoulder to Eddersley and tried to mentally block the discordant strains from his ears.
Brickbank stumbled a bit on the trio of steps and Voss resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently the fifteen-minute drive in the carriage, along with the cool night air, had done nothing to sober the fellow up. Thank Luce they hadn’t been drinking blood-whiskey, or he’d be utterly useless.
“Next time I’ll have Morose lock the damned cabinet,” he muttered to himself, and settled against the wall where he could observe the activity a moment longer.
The crush of people moved about like busy ants: on and off the dance floor, around its perimeter, in and out of the entryway to the foyer and to the rooms beyond. It was a constant buzz of activity, noise, color and, of course, scents.
“Luce’s breath, I’ve been away from London for too damned long, Eddersley,” he muttered.
This was where he was originally from, after all. He loved the heavy fog that could descend on a moment’s notice, making it easier for one of his nature to move about the dirty, busy streets during the day. Despite the war with France, he presumed it hadn’t completely depleted the variety of goods and the city’s cultural milieu. And he certainly appreciated the vast array of services here—particularly Rubey’s.
And, most of all, rich women who wore gloves. In America the ladies weren’t so strict about wearing gloves all the time. But here in London…a peeress without her gloves on might as well be lifting her skirts in the alley. And those slender, silken hand coverings made it so much easier to slip a little fang into a slim, ivory wrist, provide a bit of pleasure to both parties…and then hide the evidence. Wealthy women, too, had purer, sweeter and richer blood than their lower-class counterparts—although Voss had been exposed to peers with thin, foul blood and milkmaids or doxies with sweetness running through their veins.
Voss smiled at a particularly fetching matron in vibrant pink as she approached, allowing his features to soften with charm as their eyes caught…and held. Later, m’dear, Voss promised her with his eyes, and then cast his gaze down over her figure.
He appreciated the changes in male garb over the years, but it was the current fashion for females which he truly relished. Gone were the layers of heavy skirts and panniers, the restrictive corsets and the ridiculously high hair and wigs that shed powder all over his own clothing. Now, the gowns were simple and light of weight and flowed loosely from beneath the bustline to the floor. And even the corsets and shifts beneath them (for Voss was well acquainted with such underpinnings) were shorter and simpler.
The woman tilted her head, then slid her gaze over his shoulders and down…farther, as deliberate as a hand closing over his cock…as she walked past, her arm tucked in the crook of another man’s elbow. The cloudlike flutter of her rosy skirt trailed over Voss’s shoe, along with her personal fragrance, and he couldn’t hold back a smile despite the bad violin threatening to ruin the night. Couldn’t the Lundhames have afforded musicians who knew what they were doing?
As he followed his future tête-à-tête out of sight with his eyes, Voss’s attention moved onto a different figure pushing through the crowd toward them. In spite of himself, in spite of the insistent flow of people around and with him, he stilled, his attention caught by the woman.
Young, was his first thought. Too young for his taste. Not experienced enough. Barely out in Society, perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the outside. But…she moved with grace and flair and determination even through the mad crush.
As she drew closer, Voss realized she seemed to be fixated on something behind him, for she was moving at a steady clip through the same buffet of people that surrounded him. Most women strolled leisurely about a party, often arm-in-arm, intending to see and to be seen. But this girl, with her shining dark hair and eyes, moved with deliberation and speed.
The bright yellow gown made her dusky-rose skin look rich and exotic, and as she drew closer, he could make out the almond shape of her dark, dark eyes. Her breasts caught his attention, of course, as they rose from the square line of her bodice, but it was the curve of her throat and the delicate hollow of her collarbone, the slide of her neck, that made his mouth go dry.
Voss clamped his mouth closed, lest the tips of his upper fangs, which had distended without warning, be revealed. They slid neatly back into place, but he found himself a bit shaken. He loosened his fingers and reminded himself to breathe.
Someone jostled him, forcing his attention from the vision in lemon, and as he turned to snap at Brickbank (for who else would it be?), he found himself face-to-face with Dimitri.
“Corvindale,” Voss said coolly, despite the fact that he’d been taken totally unaware—normally an impossibility. “Won’t you go over there and put that damned violinist out of his misery? His bloody D-string is flat as a hag’s tits.”
“What are you doing here?” Dimitri said. His countenance, always forbidding and dark, had settled into one of stone. His admirable attire, in tones of charcoal, steel, ink and a white shirtwaist, was nevertheless just as dour as his expression. Aloof, annoyed and arrogant, the earl nevertheless attracted interested, half-lidded glances from women everywhere he went. Yet, i
t was that cold demeanor that kept all but the most bold of them away. And even the boldest ones couldn’t coax even the faintest bit of warmth from those steel-gray eyes.
Voss shrugged languidly. “Certainly not the same thing you’re doing. Come to think of it, I can’t imagine what would compel the Earl of Corvindale to make an appearance at a ball. So crowded, so filled with people and, Luce forbid, revelry. Surely you’re not in the market for a wife, and you certainly can’t be looking for anything else from the array of blue-blooded beauties here tonight.” He made certain his feral smile indicated to Dimitri just what he was missing.
The earl’s expression didn’t change. Instead, hardly moving his lips, he said, “Stay away from the Woodmore girls. Or I’ll kill you.”
A dart of fury suffused him, leaving Voss momentarily struggling to maintain his insouciance. But he refused to let his easy smile slip, knowing that to keep it in place would only annoy Corvindale further. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
He would have sauntered off, presenting him with his back, but at that moment Voss caught a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye. He’d turned during the exchange with Corvindale, and now, as he caught the sunny frock at the edge of his vision, he pivoted just in time to see that the lovely young woman was approaching him.
No, not him.
Brickbank.
The dark-haired beauty swept past him, Eddersley and even Corvindale and came to a sudden, almost startled, halt in front of Voss’s tipsy, ginger-haired friend.
As she breezed past, the air stirred, her curls bounced and her gown flowed and Voss caught her scent.
All of the Draculia members, along with their other eccentricities, had a heightened sense of smell. That was a trial as much as a benefit, for the miasma of aromas, especially in an unfamiliar environment, could often be overpowering. Voss had learned to allow the good, the odd and the putrid to meld together into something palatable. But there were times when something separated from the rest and rose to his notice. It might be a smell that was nauseating or strange, or simply rank.
In this case it was…indescribable. Titillating and… intriguing.
Voss realized with a start that he’d been standing there with his nostrils quite literally, ridiculously, flaring, trying to draw in the unusual aura. Fortunately no one else seemed to notice, for the young woman had done something completely and utterly out of etiquette.
Even though he’d been in the Colonies—gad, now they were called the United States, weren’t they?—for much of the past three decades, Voss knew that a proper young woman never approached a man whom she didn’t know and began to speak to him. Particularly without a chaperone.
But that was precisely what was occurring to the dumfounded Brickbank, whose nose was still tinged red at its pointed tip.
“—must have a moment to speak with you, my lord,” she was saying. He had to give her credit, for despite what she must perceive as urgency, her voice was low and calm.
“I…er…” One could only attribute Brickbank’s unusual befuddlement to the breach of etiquette in addition to Voss’s best brandy. “But of course, miss…er, mada—my lady?”
“Perhaps we could step aside?” she asked.
Voss had sidled closer. Not, he told himself, so that he could sniff delicately at the fragrance that clung to her—he felt ridiculous even acknowledging the fact that he considered doing so—but so that he could determine the exact color of her hair. And eyes. And discern whether that was indeed a delicate little mole at the back of her neck, just where the base curved into a creamy-rose shoulder, or some sort of smudge.
Corvindale said something and shifted so that he cut into Voss’s view, bringing the latter back into the moment as if he’d been shaken awake from a dream.
A very compelling dream.
Now that he’d focused back in on the conversation, he realized that she wasn’t merely too inexperienced…but she was also the Earl of Corvindale’s new ward.
But, Luce’s nails, that just made her all the more enticing. He smiled.
“My name is Angelica Woodmore,” she was saying. Her hair was dark, nearly black, but with brown lights that made it rich and interesting. Impatience colored her voice, and de spite the fact that she’d fairly barreled into a strange group of gentlemen—and rather fierce, austere-looking ones at that—she seemed more intent on having some sort of communication with Brickbank than anything else.
“Miss Woodmore, I am the Earl of Corvindale,” said Dimitri in a pronouncement that Voss was certain was meant to stop the chit in her tracks.
It did, in fact. Miss Woodmore paused and looked at him in surprise. Then her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “My sister has been looking everywhere for you, my lord. We understood you would be here tonight. You have not responded to her letter.”
Voss didn’t try very hard to smother his amusement at the girl’s set-down. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as young as he’d thought, taking the earl to task. He shook his head mentally, wondering what it was about the earl that attracted women. Certainly Miss Woodmore wasn’t one of them. He was ridiculously glad that was the case.
Corvindale, of course, rose to the occasion by looking down his long, prominent nose at her. “An earl does not generally respond on command, Miss Woodmore. Particularly to imperious orders from young women.”
“Angelica!”
A new voice—a feminine one, laced with shock and annoyance, and barely hissing from between clenched teeth but pitched so as to reach above the dull stew of noise—drew the attention of the entire group. Voss recognized immediately that this was another Woodmore sister and he couldn’t help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
Corvindale looked as if he’d been stung. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. The man stiffened and couldn’t quite suppress a flare of something that rose in his austere face, but was quickly submerged. Fascinating. Voss could still sense the man’s discomfort as he turned to the sister and gave a sharp, smart bow.
“Miss Woodmore,” he said.
“Maia, I’ve found the earl,” said Miss Angelica Woodmore unnecessarily.
“So I see,” replied her sister. Still with clenched teeth, but at this point Voss wasn’t certain if that was for the benefit of Corvindale or Angelica.
The next portion of the conversation between the earl and the sister was lost on Voss, for the lovely Angelica had turned back to Brickbank. Every time she moved, a new, fresh waft of her filtered toward him. Voss sidled nearer, sliding past Eddersley to get closer.
“It’s of a personal nature,” Miss Woodmore was saying. Her expression and demeanor were of matching earnestness, and for a moment, Voss was overwhelmed by annoyance.
Why wasn’t she approaching him to speak of something of a personal nature? He was quite certain he could find something personal and natural to interest her.
Why on God’s green earth did she have to find Brickbank fascinating?
Then Voss realized it was simply because she hadn’t seen him yet, and he edged his way even closer. Women always noticed him. And that was one of the delights of his immortal life. He enjoyed as many of them as he wanted, without the hassle of having to woo or court or be the recipient of their many moods. Let alone spend any significant amount of time with them outside of the bedchamber. Why bother? There was always another one waiting.
None too gently, he elbowed up to Brickbank and turned to bestow his most charming smile on the yellow-gowned chit with the alarmingly enticing neck.
It was swanlike, long and curved just so. Elegant…and Voss realized he was having a hard time swallowing. His incisors teased him, slipping out just enough that his tongue brushed against them in a parody of where they really wanted to be: sliding into that ivory flesh, to feel the flood of hot, heavy blood surging into his mouth, over his tongue…into him.
Sweet. It would be sweet and heady and rich, and she would sigh against him, the pleasure trammeling through her veins, matching his. Their breath
s would mingle, their bodies sear against the other.…
He blinked, focused and nearly turned away, calling himself every ridiculous name he knew. It had been less than thirty minutes since the girl in the alley…and only yesterday since he’d partaken even more fully of the erotic flesh. He certainly didn’t need to pant after a virginal young miss who was about to be taken under the wing of that dead-blooded Corvindale, enticing as she might be. Another trip to Rubey’s might be in order. Or a tête-à-tête with that saucy matron in pink. She looked as if she’d be a rough, wild ride.
She might be convinced to allow him to sink into her neck instead of her arm. Or thigh. Plump, sensitive thighs were a lovely treat, but not so much as a sleek, bare neck. He felt the stab of interest shimmer through him, and he found himself eyeing that one belonging to Miss Woodmore.
“I feel the need to warn you,” she was saying. Obviously Brickbank wasn’t listening any more closely than Voss had been, for his expression seemed quite unfocused, as well.
“Warn me?” he repeated.
“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” Voss said, at last, at last, drawing the girl’s attention to him. He gave a genteel bow and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. Her scent surrounded him and he felt something tug in his belly, followed by a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder. His mouth brushed the cotton of her glove and he had an instant fantasy of slipping that glove down to bare a narrow wrist. “I am Dewhurst.”
Her eyes met his and he felt a sizzle of warmth at the candid interest in them. Ah. Very good.
“I would very much appreciate it if you would recommend to your friend that he heed my warning,” she told him.
“And what warning might that be?” Voss returned.
For the first time, she seemed to hesitate. Drawing herself up as if girding for battle, the hollows of her delicate shoulders catching the light and shadow just so, Miss Woodmore moistened her lips and spoke. “I had a dream in which you died,” she blurted out, looking at Brickbank.
