“Do not concern yourself with me or the other details, Miss Woodmore. All you need know is that you and your sisters are safe under my care, here at Blackmont Hall and at St. Bridies, too. As for your brother…when he returns, I’m certain he will answer at least some of your questions. And I am hopeful he will do so in short order. Now, is there anything else, Miss Woodmore? This conversation hardly seems worth interrupting my sleep and threatening your reputation. Or is that not a concern for you, now that you are off the marriage mart?”
She snapped upright and once again turned to look at him. This time, she seemed to have somehow girded herself, for she didn’t waver as she met his eyes head-on. “You are beyond vile, Lord Corvindale.”
It was painful, but he managed a smirk. She had no idea how accurate that statement was.
“I insisted on speaking with you because I felt you should know all of the information. I had hoped you’d do the courtesy of telling me what is happening and why. But apparently you cannot be bothered to do even that.”
She drew her shoulders back, which had the effect of thrusting out her rather noticeable bosom, but that lovely picture was ruined by the glare in her eyes and the hand on her hip. “I also wanted to speak with you because it will be of the utmost importance that Angelica is seen out and in Society as soon as possible so as to combat any rumors oron ditsthat might have begun since the masquerade. That is the only way to preserve her reputation.”
“And this concerns me how?”
She didn’t move except for an unpleasant twitch of her lips. “Because you must be seen out and about with us. Quite a lot. Inthe next few days. In order to ensure Angelica’s reputation isn’t besmirched, we will need the presence of an earl.”
She turned to go, presenting him with her slender back and long ivory neck, and then paused to look over her shoulder. “I shall determine which invitations we will accept and then give them to your valet so that he can see you are properly dressed for the occasions.”
With that, she walked out of his chamber and closed the door with finality.
Voss rolledover and opened his eyes. He found himself lying in a massive bed of twisted sheets next to a great, yellow pool of sunshine. He froze and eased back, wondering who’d left the blasted shutters open. At the same time, he realized his head pounded and the room was altogether unsteady. His mouth felt as if he’d been sucking on a piece of rag all night.
But by now he’d realized he wasn’t in his own chamber, nor was he at Rubey’s, or even anywhere he recognized. The window was wide open and not only did the sun pour in, but so did fresh summer air. Blastedbirdschirping outside. A table next to the bed held three bottles—empty, or nearly so, based on the smell of whisky that permeated the chamber as well as the pain in his temples and the vague wisp of memory.
A pool of dark liquid had dried on the table, and the residue of red-brown lined the bottom of one of the glasses. His stomach shifted alarmingly when he recognized it.
Gingerly Voss settled back down and rolled in the other direction. When he saw the white shoulder rising from amid the blankets, and the pool of dark hair…and the red marks on her neck, he remembered.
For a moment, panic seized him. Was she dead?
He tried to focus, tried to slice through the fog and remember… Oh, Luce, it had been a whirlwind of heat and pleasure and feeding laced with horrible wildness. He remembered finding her at Bartholomew Fair, and because she had long, black eyes and wavy, dark hair, he’d enticed her away with a pouch of coin.
But the frenzy of feeding…the blood whisky…the animal that had taken hold of him… It was all dark and hellish. Voss chose to reach for her shoulder instead of the chamber pot when his stomach heaved, and when he touched not icy flesh but warm skin, he exhaled.
Thank you.
He wasn’t certain whom he was thanking. Or why.
She shifted and stirred and he saw more marks on her shoulder, her arm, her throat. By Luce, it was a miracle she wasn’t dead.
Nauseated, Voss stumbled from the bed, relegated to climbing over the foot so as to avoid both the deadly sunshine and also the woman next to him.
That was when he realized, with distaste, that he still wore his clothing. A night of debauchery and still fully dressed. His white shirt was bloodstained, his neckcloth crooked and forlorn but nevertheless hanging from his throat, his pantaloon flap undone but the waist settled at his hips.
Even his damned boots were still on his feet.
At least he didn’t remember any of his dreams.
He looked at the door and around the chamber and realized he was trapped by the sunshine. There was no way to reach the shutters and close them, nor to make his way to the door without walking through a pool of light.
For a moment he thought about doing it anyway, walking into the warmth and allowing it to touch his skin.
Could the pain be any worse than what he’d felt yesterday, when he’d been with Angelica?
He’d wanted her so badly. And Lucifer knew it, and had made it impossible for him to resist.
At the memory of her stricken, accusing face, the nausea rushed through him again. The loathing that had been there. The devastation in those bright, wise eyes.
What else could he have done? He’d been in agony. The pain had been so unbearable, he would have gone mad if he’d had to live another moment with it.
Hell, hehadgone mad. Mad with need and desire.
