Колин Глисон - The Vampire Voss

Angelica wouldn’t put it past her.

By the low light of her bedchamber lamp, she looked at her name, written simply as Angelica in a dark, strong script. Her eyes burned. After a moment, she broke the seal and unfolded it to find more of his writing filling half of the page.

Angelica,

I am very grateful for the information you provided me, and because of that, I plan to fulfill my end of the bargain and leave London. I bid you farewell, then, and offer you a warning: do not wear the rubies in the presence of Corvindale, or even at all while you are under his care. I intended the earbobs to be a jest that only he would comprehend, but in retrospect, I’ve reconsidered. Wearing them could only cause you hurt and, whether or not you believe it, that is the last thing I should ever wish upon you.

Your servant, Voss.

The signature was larger than the remainder of the text, and had a bold and charming flourish—just like the man himself. Angelica had smiled at the thought and read it again, and then a third time.

And then she realized she should be angry…for if she had read the message, she would never have worn the rubies. And she wouldn’t have been abducted and taken to Paris.

But if she’d never been abducted and taken to Paris, she would never have seen Voss again. And somehow, that experience, that time with him superseded the discomfort and terror she’d suffered at the hands of Cezar Moldavi.

What kind of fool was she? To have fallen in love with a vampir?

“I love this violin piece,” Maia leaned over to whisper, pointing to one of the items on the program and pulling Angelica from her musings. “I hope she doesn’t ruin it. Melanie has fat fingers.”

Angelica stifled a laugh and then sobered, for she was reminded of Voss when the second Stubblefield sister commenced with playing the violin. He’d complained about a violinist’s chair squeaking as if it were some great annoyance. At least this time, the performer was standing.

“Harrington has just walked in,” Maia said suddenly from the side of her mouth.

Angelica closed her eyes and waited.

No. It didn’t happen.

The rush of anticipation, the little thrill wasn’t there. She didn’t have the urge to slyly turn and look at him, to wonder if he’d find a way to ease them into a dark corner for a delicate kiss.

Or a passionate one.

“He’s coming this way, along the back of the room,” Maia added. “He looks a bit…determined.” She smiled knowingly, giving her sister a sidewise look.

The back of Angelica’s neck didn’t prickle, despite the fact that she knew her beau was easing along the wall just behind her. Her pulse didn’t quicken, nor did anything flutter in her belly.

But that was often the way of it, she knew. Marriage rarely began with the instant and passionate connection that her great-great-grandmother Beatrice and the Gypsy groom Vinio had. It more often began with a general regard, an ability to stand the other’s presence—and of course, a good family and sufficient income—and then, if one was fortunate, it grew into companionship and affection. Perhaps even love and respect.

That was how it would be with Lord Harrington, should he propose, and Angelica couldn’t be more pleased with it. Truly.

And if she was a bit envious of Maia and her fiancé—that the deep regard and affection shaped itself even before the marriage—Angelica simply told herself that the two had been engaged for nearly a year. The affection and intimacy had had time to grow. His absence might have helped intensify that affection, as well.

“He’s been so patient, waiting for you,” Maia whispered, again pulling Angelica from her thoughts. Why did her sister have to be so talkative tonight? “I do think his attachment is quite solid.”

The fact that Angelica and Maia had never made it to Harrington’s birthday fete because of the attack by Belial, and Angelica’s subsequent abduction, hadn’t seemed to deflate the man’s regard for her at all.

“Did you speak with him at the party last night?” Maia asked.

Why was her sister so dratted talkative? “No, he wasn’t there,” Angelica replied.

Maia smirked. “I’m certain he would have been if he thought you were to attend.”

Angelica reminded herself that she was fortunate that a young, dashing, comfortably wealthy peer seemed to have such an attachment to her. She couldn’t expect a better match.

A small burst of applause interrupted her private lecture and Harrington took that moment to slip into the chair next to her.

She turned and gave him a modest smile that became a bit frozen when he leaned close and whispered, “I have waited two weeks to speak with you, and I shan’t be put off any longer. I should like to call on your guardian tomorrow, Miss Woodmore. With your blessing.”

Her throat dried. The only reason he would make such a request was so that he could ask for her hand. It was truly going to happen.

Tomorrow she was going to become engaged.

Old habits die hard, Voss thought as he slipped through the window.

Although, it wasn’t quite as easy to sneak into a woman’s bedchamber as it used to be. And tonight, for expediency purposes, he’d used the most direct—if not most inconvenient—route.

Fortunately Angelica’s chamber had a sturdy oak tree growing near enough to allow him to reach the sill of her window from a thick branch, and with a little luck and some planning, he managed to launch himself over to the ledge with only a soft thump. The earl really ought to keep those branches trimmed. He was going to have to have a word with him about that sort of maintenance when this was all over and he was certain he wouldn’t have need of them again.

He wasn’t as concerned about Corvindale discovering him as he had been the last time he visited Angelica, for a variety of reasons. And since he’d been lurking about for the past three evenings, waiting for a time in which the earl had gone out for the night without the sisters instead of staying in (why would a vampire stay in at night anyway?), his patience was strained enough that he was ready to take the chance even if the earl was at home as well.

The window was open, allowing the summer breeze as well as Voss to enter the room. Once inside, he stood, looking down at the rumpled bed and the woman sprawled in it.

His mouth went dry and his heart rammed hard in his chest. She’d said she loved him…but had she meant it?

What would he do if she didn’t?

Voss wasn’t certain how long he stood looking down at her, but all at once a clock struck from somewhere in the house. Three. Less than three hours until dawn.

Was that enough time?

Moving closer, he saw more detail in the blue-white light of the full moon shining through her window. The citrusy-sweet spice of Angelica, and feminine smells like powders and creams and fabric teased and assaulted him. Her dark lashes, half-parted lips, the masses of dark hair spread over the pillow. How many times had he dreamed of her thus?

A shoulder protruded from beneath the sheets, and one arm was curled to her throat. Then he saw streaks on her face. Shiny streaks running down her cheeks.

Tears?

Voss moved closer, reaching for her. Without warning she gasped and her eyes shot open. She scrambled into a sitting position, a cloud of hair tangling over the bodice of her night rail and spilling onto the blankets.

“You’re not dead,” she said.

“You have the ability to focus on the most inane things,” Voss said, reeling a bit from her sudden wakefulness, along with the enticing vision of her rumpled and sleepy. “Not, ‘Why are you here, Voss?’ ‘How did you get in?’ Or, even, as you so bluntly said last time, ‘Get out.’”