“My sincerest apology,” Voss said. He sounded as if he meant it, and he reached to touch Rubey’s arm as if to emphasize. “Truly. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”
“Never will be soon enough,” said their hostess. And she sounded, at that moment, as if she meant it, too.
Voss turned sharply. “Miss Woodmore, we must make haste. You’re no longer safe here.” Formality and command replaced the empathy in his voice.
Angelica allowed him to lead her from the bedchamber and down the corridor. His strides were long and fast, and she felt awkward trying to keep up with him. But her fingers, glove less, were clasped in his big bare hand, and he steadied her as they hurried along.
The carriage had been pulled up very near the servants’ entrance; to climb in was no more than a step out the door and up into the vehicle. The conveyance was parked in a narrow mews between two tall buildings, which made the space dark and shadowy despite the fact that it was several hours before twilight.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Angelica entered a carriage to ride with Voss. Alone.
“Where are we going this time?” she asked as he stood at the doorway, his hand on the edge of the door, his feet on the stoop of the house.
“Somewhere safer,” he said. His eyes seemed to glitter with heat as he looked up at her. “Somewhere where they cannot find us.”
There was something about the way he said those words that gave her pause. An odd combination of desire and unease prickled inside her.
“Why do you not take me back to Blackmont Hall? Surely it’s safe there,” Angelica said, remembering the stone wall that surrounded the small plot of land on which the mansion sat. Maia must be sick with worry, too. And what if there’d been a message from Chas?
“I’ll not take you back to Corvindale,” Voss said flatly. “Not quite yet.”
And then, to her shock and surprise, he slammed the door closed, leaving himself on the outside. The sound of the latch catching solidified the realization that he didn’t intend to join her.
Angelica whipped the heavy curtains away from the windows just in time to see Voss—she thought it was him, at any rate—heavily cloaked and with a low-riding hat settle on the small stoop at the back of the barouche where the footman would normally stand.
He was choosing to ride outside of the vehicle instead of inside with her? What did that mean?
The sudden jolt of the vehicle starting off nudged her against the padded wall. Voss hadn’t moved, but she could see his gloved hands holding on to the handles next to the window. He looked like a black wraith, his cloak flapping as they went on and his face in shadow, his profile turned away and down.
Angelica, exhausted, still more than a bit horrified at the day’s events, and now filled with annoyance, settled into her seat and folded her arms over her middle.
“This is a fine kettle,” she said to herself. Locked in a carriage, being taken who knew where.
But she wasn’t frightened. At least, not of Voss.
There were much worse threats to her person than the tawny-haired man with the hot gaze.
Perhaps he meant to protect her reputation by not riding about London during the day alone in the carriage with her. Not that anyone could see inside the heavily curtained windows.
Or perhaps he thought it would be safer if he rode outside, where he could watch for other attacks.
Or perhaps he didn’t wish to be near her any longer. Now that he’d been with Rubey for the afternoon.
For it had become starkly clear to her that he and Rubey had been otherwise engaged when the invaders had come into the house, and had somehow avoided a direct attack. The thought of what they were doing made her feel suddenly quite ill again.
Miserable, she settled into the corner of the carriage. The plush velvet walls and cushions embraced her, and she rested her head back and tried not to think about what a disaster her life had become.
She had to admit it, then. That she’d come to truly fancy Voss in the few days that she’d known him, in the fleeting moments of conversation and in those moments when their eyes had met… Well, she must admit it. She had believed,
Voss—she really ought to think of him as Dewhurst again— was merely being gentlemanly in taking care of her and taking her off to safety. Protecting her, or any woman in danger, as any man would do.
Yes, they’d had some compelling conversation. And indeed, when they’d talked just this morning whilst she was still abed, Angelica had felt as if the silken thread of a connection had been strung between them when she looked into his eyes and saw something deeper there.
And, yes, there’d been that kiss…
Angelica’s toes curled up inside the too-large slippers as she remembered that kiss, that melting, mind- shattering kiss. And then she forced her thoughts away from it.
Yes, that kiss. But it hadn’t been her first kiss, and certainly not his. A kiss didn’t have to mean anything. Just because it made the ground shift beneath her feet didn’t mean it did the same to him…and even if it did—there was Rubey.
And thus and so went her thoughts, circular, dark, confused and focused on everything but the fact that her life was in danger and that she’d been attacked for the second time in less than a day.
That was simply too dark and terrifying for her to think about.
Angelica opened her eyes when the carriage made a sharp turn and for the first time, she noticed a glove tucked into the cushion of the seat across from her. Was it Voss’s? By all indication, this was his carriage.
Angelica bit her lip, looking at the crushed beige glove. She was tempted. Oh, so tempted…
Before she could consider any repercussions, she slid over to pluck it from its spot. Too large to belong to a woman, as she’d suspected, the glove had small, tight stitches and was soft as butter. When she brought it close to her nose, she found that the scent that reminded her of him clung to the silk lining.
And there on the edge of the underside was a monogram.
Angelica glanced guiltily out the window of the carriage. But although his hand still grasped the handle and his dark figure stood steady on its small platform, his face was buried in the dark recesses of his hat and the collar of his cloak.
Angelica looked down at the rich leather.
Did she dare?
Did she even want to know?
But the man fascinated her and she needed something other than fear on which to focus her mind. And so she closed her eyes, crumpled Voss’s glove in her hand and opened her thoughts.
Voss shifted with each movement of the carriage so that his face—the only exposed part of his skin—would remain out of the sunlight. An inconvenience at the very least…but much less trying than sitting in that small space with Angelica.
For a moment, he lost his thoughts, sliding back into the red haze that had engulfed him when he entered the chamber to find her being attacked by Trastonio and some other gutterwipe make. Bloodscent filled the air—that of the destroyed maid, and another, sweeter, much more compelling one. From Angelica.
He’d never forget the image that greeted him, penetrating through that sudden, hot fog of desire. Even now, as his leather-clad fingers gripped the handle protruding from the rear of his carriage, in his mind he saw Angelica —wide-eyed, white-faced, huddled in the corner of the chamber. Terror blazed in her exotic eyes, her hair straggled wild and dark around the sagging neckline of her shift. Two white feet and bare calves beneath the hem, streaked with crimson…and her fingers around a piece of wood, her mouth tight with concentration as she prepared to defend herself.
Lucifer’s brittle bones. He’d nearly lost her. And lost his chance.
And then to see, and scent, her blood…a most intimate part of her. The thought of it, the sense of tasting it, hot and heavy on his tongue…her lips parted in pleasured sighs and her lush body opening to him…. It made his desire uncontrollable. His fingers had dug into the edge of the window as he sent her away before he lost the ability
