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 theother 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. She felt 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 bodyso 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 insteadof 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. Alloveryou. 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 wasme?”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’dsmelled bloodon 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 room, 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 beyours.”
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?”
