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.
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 thetonwas 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.
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.
