The smile that told her just what sort of relationship he wanted.
“No, we do not,” she replied primly. Oh, so primly. “But if I don’t get back to Blackmont Hall or at least to a chaperone soon, my reputation will be ruined on the grounds of mere suspicion and assumption. ’Tis nothing to take lightly, my lord.”
So it was “my lord” now.
“And then…?”
“And then I’ll never make a good marriage. No respectable gentleman will want to wed me.” She sipped again. “Chas has made it very clear I need to make a match this Season. He has little patience for chaperoning us about.”
Yes, there was the concern of Chas being more than annoyed that Voss had ruined his sister. And of course, marriage to a Dracule was out of the question—for a variety of reasons in Chas Woodmore’s eyes, the least of which was the immortality issue. Not to mention the pact with the devil. Thus, Chas would be incensed if his sister was ruined by Voss, or any other Dracule.
But Voss was fully confident in his ability to evade thevampirhunter. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Angelica continued talking, the whisky having done a nice job of loosening her tongue. “But perhaps after Maia and Mr. Bradington wed, she can be my chaperone and Chas can go about his business. Sonia won’t be out for another two years.”
“Is there a respectable gentleman whom you wish to wed? Is there one who might have his hopes dashed if you do not return? Or if you return…in a questionable state?” Voss wasn’t altogether certain why he pursued this topic, but he didn’t seem able to control his tongue. Perhaps he ought to try a sip of the whisky himself.
No. He had no reason to subject himself to the horror of that rotgut.
“Perhaps. Lord Harrington is quite agreeable.” Her expression wasn’t one of sly flirtation, but rather as if she’d just realized some simple fact such as that the sky was blue.
Voss thought he recalled the man in question—the slender dandy who’d waltzed with her at the masquerade. The one whom he’d put the fear of the Devil into with a mere glance whilst visiting in Angelica’s parlor. He smothered a snort. Harrington was probably the sort who’d been thrown in the privyandhadhad his clothes tossed into the coal pit in school.
“Agreeable is such a flavorless word. I don’t believe I should appreciate being described as merely being agreeable by a woman such as yourself,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
“That is no surprise,” she replied. “I suspect you would aspire to descriptors like ‘charming’ and ‘handsome’ and ‘witty.’ And ‘wealthy.’”
Voss was enjoying this exchange and, from the glint in her eye he thought was only partly from the whisky, she seemed to be, as well. The slender ivory column of her neck shifted in and out of shadow as she moved and drank and teased.
“Mmm,” he said, his voice rumbly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I should simply like to be considered interesting. Or exciting.”
She snorted. Definitely, it was a snort. A ladylike one, but nevertheless. “Why would you need to be any of those things when you are a man, and a rich one at that? And not terribly difficult to look upon, either,” she added with a sudden warm look that took him by surprise. “The choice is yours, and your wealth assures you a vast selection to choose from.”
If only it were that simple. Despair—such a foreign emotion he wasn’t even certain he recognized it properly—rushed in. Marriage was something in which Dracule members had no reason or desire to indulge.
But it was something to which Angelica and those of her class aspired. It was the focal point of her life, in fact. Marriage, an heir and one to spare, perhaps a daughter…a household that didn’t need to be uprooted every few decades becausenothing bloody changed.
And yet…everything one knew or cared about was eventually left behind. Aged. Died. Turned to dust.
Voss succumbed and took a drink of the whisky, which turned out to be thinner than rainwater. Was it too bloody much to expect for Maude havesomethingpalatable, considering the fees she charged?
And couldn’t the woman in the next room find a high C without going flat?
“Or perhaps you have no intention of marrying,” Angelica said, drawing him back to the moment at hand. Her voice had gone as flat as the singer’s.
Voss opened his mouth but found he had no response to that. Instead he replied, “You were going to tell me something you’ve never told anyone before, Angelica. Have you changed your mind, then?”
She sipped again. Her cheeks were flushed and her almond-shaped eyes bright. “I’ve told no one of this, Dewhurst.”
“You’ve said that,” he replied, unaccountably irked by the fact that she continued to call him by his title.
“If I tell you, you must tell me one of your secrets. Will you?”
He smiled, gave a low, rolling laugh and gestured to himself from head to scuffed-up toe. “But I have no secrets. Whatever it is you see here is all there is to know of Lord Dewhurst.” He gave the little flourish of a bow.
But when he rose back to full height, her eyes speared him. “Pardon me, my lord, but I can see that isn’t true. It’s in your eyes. There’s something there—some fear, a horror, some grief, or perhaps a memory—that you hide.”
He froze and they stared at one another for a moment. Even the insistent burning in his shoulder faded because there was nothing at the moment but Angelica.
