Voss blinked. A range of emotions blasted through him, the least of which had to do with the fact that he was on the verge of learning what he’d come to learn. If she dreamed of people she didn’t know, she might have the Sight. Which would mean he would have a legitimate reason—or at least a justifiable one—to converse with her. He resisted the urge to smile and instead shifted automatically so that his body blocked them from view of the rest of the room. “Go on.”
She was still looking at Brickbank, and Voss watched the steady pumping of the pulse in her throat. “I dreamed you fell off a bridge. That you died.”
Brickbank blinked and glanced at Voss, who lifted his gaze and shrugged. “A dream, you say?” the other man replied, suddenly no longer red-nosed and tipsy. “I was in your dream, and fell off a bridge and died?”
A flash of what might have been irritation crossed Miss Woodmore’s face—perhaps she felt her explanation had been clear enough that it didn’t bear repeating. “Yes. That is what I said.”
Voss shrugged again. Odd enough she’d had a dream about Brickbank and had recognized him—which could or could not mean she had metaphysical powers. But the fact was, a Dracule wouldn’t die from a fall off a bridge. They couldn’t drown, nor would the impact of the water damage them beyond a bit of a headache.
They were never going to die. That was part of the arrangement with Lucifer. It was something Voss was assured of, as long as he was careful with his weakness to hyssop. Not that either of them would be inclined to explain this to the very earnest, lovely—yes, indeed, quite lovely—young woman bristling with intent. Those of the Draculia, of necessity, hid their immortal afflictions from all but other members and their households. And even then, those household members were carefully selected, well paid, and well trained to keep their secrets.
That was, Voss paused for a moment to smirk, certainly one of the reasons Corvindale had been reluctant to take on his responsibility as guardian to the Woodmore girls. He could only imagine the sort of disruption the mortal debutantes would have in the household of a Dracule.
“You have my gratitude, then, Miss Woodmore,” Brickbank was saying gravely. “Shall keep myself far from any bridges, and thus if there is any danger, it shan’t find me.”
The young woman appeared only slightly mollified, and Voss could read the suspicion in her expression. She wasn’t certain if she was being condescended to or not. “At least,” she said, lifting her chin, “you would do well to stay away from bridges whilst dressed as you are. For, you see, you were wearing that exact attire in my dream. When you fell off the bridge.”
Voss stilled, a renewed prickle of interest settling over him. Fascinating, yet he could not find it terribly disturbing due to its impossibility. Brickbank seemed just as stunned.
Before either of them could speak, Miss Woodmore gave a nod and said, “Very well, then. I’ve done my duty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lords. I have a previous engagement.”
And she swept away with much more aplomb than a young woman should have.
***
“What do you see, Miss Woodmore?”
Angelica opened her eyes and attempted to keep her expression bland. “It takes a moment,” she explained to Miss Yarmouth. For the third time. “And great concentration. Even…silence.”
Hoping her inquisitive client would get the hint, Angelica closed her eyes again and fingered Baron Framingham’s glove. She didn’t know how Miss Yarmouth had extracted the item from her possible fiancé, but that wasn’t of any concern.
At last, the familiar prickling sort of buzz descended upon her and Angelica focused on the images evolving. It was rather like that moment between sleep and wakefulness…where one was fully aware of what images scanned over the insides of one’s eyelids but had no control over their content.
When she was able to summon it, the vision was always a picture, a static image that, while it didn’t change, allowed her the chance to examine all its details. A moment in time, captured, as the last bit of life evaporated.
“He’s much older. Perhaps fifty. Bald atop his head, many wrinkles. Lying in bed. Eyes closed.” She listed off her impressions as she got them. “The window nearby…there’s bright sun and leaves on the tree. Full leaves. Summer, perhaps. Alas, I cannot tell if there is anyone with him.” That was a bit of a lie, for she did see a woman who looked nothing like Miss Yarmouth.
But that could be anyone—a servant, a nurse, a sister—and she never gave any information that could imply or suggest what the woman’s decision could or should be.
“Facial hair?” asked the young woman, her voice hushed. “Is he clean-shaven?”
“No facial hair, nor sideburns. There seems to be no sign of injury, but his face is drawn and gray.” Angelica opened her eyes. “I believe he dies of old age, or some malady. And from his aged appearance and the loss of his hair, I should expect it will be a decade or more from now.” She looked at Miss Yarmouth. “So you must decide if you can bear to be wed to the man for some time.”
The inquisitive, impatient Miss Yarmouth didn’t seem to appreciate Angelica’s advice. “But you have told me very little. How shall I make a decision about that?”
Angelica tucked the second gold crown a bit deeper into her reticule. “You have more information now with which to make a decision than you did earlier this evening. And more information than anyone else would be able to give you.”
With the exception, possibly, of Sonia. But that was unlikely, for Angelica knew that her younger sister had a completely different view of their gift of Sight than she did. While Angelica had not only learned to live with it, but to embrace it, Sonia considered her version of the Sight a curse, and that was why she’d entered a convent school. She felt she needed protection for—or perhaps from—her gift.
Angelica rose from the little stool in the corner of the ladies’ retiring room—which she had unceremoniously cleared of both maids and ladies upon her arrival—and looked down at the other woman. “The image I receive is only the moment of death. There are times when it’s simple to determine the cause or even the age and time: for instance, if someone is hit by a carriage or is shot or tumbles down a flight of stairs.”
Or falls off a bridge.
Angelica bit her lip. That dream had been so odd, so unexpected. She’d never experienced anything like it before…for it wasn’t like her normal visions. Not only had she dreamed actual events, but the information had come to her unbidden. And the most sobering thing about it was the man had actually appeared tonight. He was a real person. And he’d been dressed exactly as he had in the dream, down to the tie of his neckcloth.
Which meant he would likely die tonight.
Her lip throbbed from where she’d bit down, but Angelica ignored it. What else could she do? She’d warned Lord Brickbank, and suffered through the condescending looks from him and the skeptical one from his handsome companion. Who was he?
Oh, yes. Dewhurst.
He hadn’t seemed any more interested in her pronouncement and warning than Lord Brickbank had, but Angelica had felt a prickling over her skin when he looked at her. As if he was searching for…something.
“I must go,” she told Miss Yarmouth. “I wish you the best regards, and I pray you will make a decision that will make you happy, as well as your father and Baron Framingham.”
She gave a little bow and left the young woman, who now looked utterly miserable and a bit lost, sitting on her stool alone in the room.
Beyond the warm, tea rose, and lily-infused walls of the ladies’ tiring room, Angelica was able to draw in a relatively clean breath. The rooms where the ladies might need to disrobe—to correct frock malfunctions or dragging hems—were kept well heated for obvious reasons and, along with the powder dusting the air, it made for a cloying environment.
“Ah, Miss Woodmore. How serendipitous.”
Angelica turned at the sound of the low, smooth voice and felt her heart give a little lurch. For some absurd reason,
her cheeks suddenly felt warm as she met the eyes of none other than Viscount Dewhurst. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” she asked.
He seemed to have appeared from nowhere, for the corridor down which she’d been walking had been empty when she came out of the chamber. She hadn’t heard the sound of a door opening, nor of footsteps. Unless he had been waiting for her…
A little prickle of unease, combined with—yes, she must be honest—intrigue, filtered over her shoulders as she glanced past him to gauge how far out of earshot she was from the party. Yet, though her heart was pounding and her palms dampened beneath their gloves, she didn’t feel nervous or threatened.
Just…aware.
Very aware.
He stepped from the narrow shadow given off by a statue on its wide pedestal, moving into the corridor near her. “I had hoped to claim you for a dance, if your card isn’t filled,” he said, still in that warm voice. “And then you disappeared, and I thought I had lost my chance. But now I have been so fortunate as to find you just when I had given up hope.” Any sense of the melodramatic in his words was balanced by the twinkle in his eyes.
As it was, Angelica had forgotten about her dance card, which she’d stuffed into her reticule before meeting Miss Yarmouth. It was filled, of course, and she’d missed at least two dances. She thus expected the gentlemen in question would be looking for her to claim a different song. Which meant that she was overbooked.
But her mouth moved before she realized what she meant to say, and instead this came out: “Dance card? I do believe mine has gone missing, my lord.” She shrugged delicately, her little reticule with its two gold crowns and crumpled dance card dangling from her wrist. “And I cannot recall to whom I’ve promised this next selection.”
“As I said,” he replied, his green-gold eyes narrowing with humor, “how serendipitous that I should have come upon you. It would be a shame, to say the least, if you were resigned to standing against the wall because you had lost your card. Instead I shall rescue you from such a fate.”
He offered his arm, and Angelica, who was no stranger to curling her fingers around a man’s coat sleeve, stepped closer as she did so. At once, she became fully aware of not only his height and breadth, but also how terribly handsome he was. All bronze and honey-colored in hair and skin, but with bright emerald glints sharpening his golden eyes. He had thick brows and lashes, and full lips that made her mouth go dry when she looked at them. As he looked down at her, with a bit of a smile on those mobile lips and his eyes warmly considering her, Angelica’s breath became unsteady and her cheeks even a bit warmer.
Shaking off the momentary paralysis, she started toward the revelry. After the merest of hesitations, he came along with her…almost as if he’d been expecting her to go in a different direction. Away from the party.
As if Angelica Woodmore was foolish enough to slip away with a strange gentleman. If she were Maia, she’d sniff in annoyance at the insult—whether it was real or imagined. She wasn’t about to make the foolish mistake that Eliza Billingsly had made last Season, getting caught in a compromising position with that stoop-shouldered Mr. Deetson-Waring. They were now wed, and Eliza had never looked unhappier.
“I do hope Corvindale will allow you to waltz,” Dewhurst said as they approached the ballroom.
Angelica had a little stumble. “A waltz?” The forbidden dance had recently become popular in Paris after being common for more than a decade in Vienna, but its music was rarely played in London. And even rarer were the debutantes who were allowed to partake in the scandalous moves.
Then she realized what else he’d said. “Corvindale? He’s given little attention to us thus far, my lord. I hardly fear he’ll impose his sanctions on me for a simple dance.” It occurred to Angelica that, with Chas gone and the earl reluctant to take on the responsibility of her guardianship, she might attain a certain, albeit temporary, latitude in her actions. Not that she would do anything foolish…but a young woman could do with a bit of adventure now and again.
Unless she were Maia Woodmore, then she would sit primly and properly and wonder when her fiancé was going to return from the Continent.
Dewhurst was looking down at Angelica with a smile. “My dear Miss Woodmore, I greatly fear you are wrong about that.”
“About the earl?”
“No,” he said, the slow smile sending a bolt of warmth into her belly, “about the waltz being a simple dance.” His eyes narrowed again as humor lit them. “The waltz is sensual and graceful and smooth…and the steps might be considered simple by one who’s never executed them before. But the dance itself…it is quite an experience.”
Angelica felt, again, that sort of breathlessness. Yet she managed to keep her voice even and bright. Mildly flirtatious. “Indeed?”
“And if one is partnered by a good dancer, then, my dear Miss Woodmore, the experience is even more enjoyable. And I must confess…I am an excellent dancer.”
“Then I shall count myself fortunate you have deigned to partner me for my first waltz.”
“Your good fortune, but my infinite pleasure.”
All at once, Angelica remembered their initial conversation, the one which they’d shared with Brickbank. And at the same moment, something flashed into her memory—a detail from the dream. The bridge. She recognized it, and had just remembered.
Compelled by a flood of guilt and determination, she paused just at the juncture of their corridor with another hallway and the foyer leading to the ballroom. Voices and laughter, along with the music, had become loud enough that she needed to turn to fully face Dewhurst in order to ensure he’d hear her.
“My lord,” she said, releasing his arm and looking up at him. He’d halted, of course, and now looked down at her with a bemused expression. That wide, squared-off jaw with its cleft and smooth, golden skin, complemented by full lips and unruly hair, combined to create a most attractive image. And it was clear he knew just what sort of effect he had on women.
“Feeling a bit apprehensive about dancing the waltz now, my dear miss?” he asked. “We could always take a stroll on the patio until the next quadrille.” Those eyes glinted wickedly.
She drew herself up, even crossing her arms in front of her. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s about your friend, Lord Brickbank.”
The levity evaporated from his expression, and for the first time since he’d approached her after she’d left Miss Yarmouth, Angelica saw that he was grave. “Your warning was quite startling, indeed.”
“A warning I am certain he intends to disregard.”
She was pleased when he gave an acknowledging incline of his head. At least he didn’t intend to pretend. “I’m certain you can understand his skepticism. Do you often make such warnings to gentlemen you’ve never met?”
“No, in fact I do not. That is why I am certain that the warning must be heeded. I—” She clamped her lips together. Not necessarily prudent to divulge her secret at this point. But how else to explain it, to make him understand she wasn’t a novice at this sort of thing?
Except she was a bit of a novice when it came to interpreting dreams. She’d never had one with such shocking clarity…such graphic images.
Angelica shook her head to clear it, to try to pare through her frustration. “I have had dreams before,” she said. “But I’ve never met the person afterward.”
“So you truly have no way of knowing whether your dream is a true portent?”
She uncrossed her arms, unable to keep her hands stationary when trying to explain. “My great-grandmother had some of what they call the Sight. After hearing stories about her, I’ve learned to never disregard anything unusual, despite whether it’s unprovable or not.”
Her hands gesticulated more wildly than was proper, but she was bent on impressing upon him the seriousness of the situation. “Please, my lord. I feel very strongly that you must ensure that he take my warning seriously. And, as absurd as it might seem, I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars
Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.”
Lord Dewhurst seemed to relax a bit. “Miss Woodmore, if only every person were so intent on protecting one’s fellow man.” His words seemed not the least bit condescending. “What if I were to tell you it would be impossible—as improbable as that might sound—for Lord Brickbank to die by falling off a bridge? Would that make you feel any better? And would you then agree to hasten out to the dance floor with me before our waltz is finished?”
“Miss Woodmore will not be hastening anywhere with you, Voss. Most especially not to a waltz.”
Angelica swallowed a gasp at the sudden appearance of Lord Corvindale, who looked absolutely thunderous.
He was taller than Dewhurst—Voss?—and with his dark hair and clothing, and olive skin, he seemed more imposing and arrogant.
“Angelica,” came that familiar sharp whisper.
Relieved to have somewhere to focus her attention other than the furious earl, Angelica found her sister storming up to them as quickly as she would allow herself to storm, clearly following in Corvindale’s wake. It was obvious the earl had rudely left her behind in his haste to get to them.
And she truly wished Maia would not say her name with that particular inflection. It was highly annoying, and even more so that, since her sister’s name had only two syllables, Angelica couldn’t repay her in kind.
“Maia,” she replied in a matching tone as her sister continued her reprimand in a low voice.
“Were you truly going to waltz with Viscount Dewhurst? That dance is simply scandalous! Chas would never allow it if he were here, and you know it.” Her fingers had curved around Angelica’s arm and were digging into its soft underside as she tugged her away from the two men, who were speaking sharply and in short bursts, but too low to be discernible. “The matrons would buzz about it for weeks, Angelica. You simply cannot—”
Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 71
