“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 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 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 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 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 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.
Bu
t 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 it was Angelica behind this coy mask, and even if he did…well, it 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.
CHAPTER 5
IN WHICH A SQUEAKING CHAIR INTERVENES
Angelica’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 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.
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 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 r
oom, 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 lightheaded.
His lips flattened. “Does Corvindale know?”
Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 75
