The Vampire Voss

never indicated just how she would get that message to their absent brother) that Angelica was pining over a vampir if she did not attend.

And Angelica was certainly, definitely, not pining over a vampir. A man, perhaps.

But not a vampir. And why did she feel so dratted empty when she thought about that?

She didn’t even know if he was still alive. He was supposed to have died.

He probably had. “Will this do?” asked Maia, gesturing to a row of chairs near a tall, potted plant with her neatly gloved hand. She looked particularly lovely tonight, with her hair scooped up high at the back of her crown in an intricate braided and curling mass. Depending upon the light, her hair could appear mahogany or chestnut, or even honey-red. Angelica had always been a little envious of her sister’s classic beauty, compared to her own Gypsyish looks. Yet, she often told herself that though her sister might have gotten the beauty, she also got the bossy, rigid personality of their mother to go along with it.

“You look so pretty tonight. Is it because Mr. Bradington has returned?” asked Angelica as she smiled at Maia, suddenly feeling a rush of affection for her sister. After her experience with Voss, she understood better what happened between a man and a woman and how beautiful it could be. Now she realized how Maia must have felt all these months with Mr. Bradington absent, waiting for him to return. “You seemed so happy when you were dancing with him at the party last night.”

Clearly surprised, Maia smiled. Her creamy cheeks pinkened a little. “I am glad he’s returned at last. He is an accomplished dancer.”

“And when you danced the waltz, he looked down at you in such a way that it makes me want to blush,” Angelica said. “His regard is very evident.”

Maia’s smile faltered just a bit. “I’m not certain that’s proper, to be so overt about it in front of everyone.”

“Why would you think such a thing? I know that you are careful about propriety, but you’re engaged to be married,” Angelica said. “I would be so happy if a man looked at me that way, regardless of whether it was in public or private.”

She would not think about Voss.

“Corvindale seemed annoyed that we waltzed, even after I informed him that Chas permitted it. And I reminded him that we are to be married in two months.” Maia’s smile had been replaced by very flat lips.

“Corvindale is always annoyed about something,” Angelica replied, getting a surprisingly unladylike snort from her sister.

“I’ve never heard truer words.” Then Maia bumped her with her elbow. “Shhh. Tilla is about to play.”

As the smattering of applause greeted the youngest Stubble field sister, who was taking her seat at the piano, Angelica settled into her seat and tried not to look bored.

She found that the performance and the necessity of sitting quietly gave one an ample opportunity to think… something that she found she’d been doing much of lately. Not always pleasant thoughts, but sometimes they were pleasant.

Sometimes the thoughts…the memories…actually made her blush. And the insides of her tingle.

Other times, they made her want to cry.

And still other times they made her angry.

But threading through all of them was Voss.

They had become, she thought, intimate enough that she could think of him again that way.

If he was even still alive. A little shudder whipped through her now as she remembered that dream where he’d died. She’d kept Chas from killing him, but for all she knew, he was dead anyway. The same coat, the same neckcloth…the image of him sprawled in the sun: the dream was burned in her brain. She remembered what Corvindale had said about Voss’s friend: Brickbank was destined to die that night, and no precautions could have changed it.

She’d never know for certain of Voss’s fate, unless Chas chose to tell her. And it certainly shouldn’t matter to her. But she couldn’t deny that it did.

It felt as if that part of her life was unfinished.

The day after she and Chas had returned from Paris, when she couldn’t sleep, Angelica had succumbed and opened the drawer in her bureau. The message that had come from Voss after she sent him the letter telling him what she’d learned from the watch chain was still in the drawer, the seal unbroken. Apparently even nosy Maia hadn’t found it…unless she’d discovered a way to lift the seal without breaking it.

Angelica wouldn’t put it past her.

By the low light of her bedchamber lamp, she looked at her name, written simply as Angelica in a dark, strong script. Her eyes burned. After a moment, she broke the seal and unfolded it to find more of his writing filling half of the page.

Angelica,

I am very grateful for the information you provided me, and because of that, I plan to fulfill my end of the bargain and leave London. I bid you farewell, then, and offer you a warning: do not wear the rubies in the presence of Corvindale, or even at all while you are under his care. I intended the earbobs to be a jest that only he would comprehend, but in retrospect, I’ve reconsidered. Wearing them could only cause you hurt and, whether or not you believe it, that is the last thing I should ever wish upon you.

Your servant, Voss.

The signature was larger than the remainder of the text, and had a bold and charming flourish—just like the man himself. Angelica had smiled at the thought and read it again, and then a third time.

And then she realized she should be angry…for if she had read the message, she would never have worn the rubies. And she wouldn’t have been abducted and taken to Paris.

But if she’d never been abducted and taken to Paris, she would never have seen Voss again. And somehow, that experience, that time with him superseded the discomfort and terror she’d suffered at the hands of Cezar Moldavi.

What kind of fool was she? To have fallen in love with a vampir?

“I love this violin piece,” Maia leaned over to whisper, pointing to one of the items on the program and pulling Angelica from her musings. “I hope she doesn’t ruin it. Melanie has fat fingers.”

Angelica stifled a laugh and then sobered, for she was reminded of Voss when the second Stubblefield sister commenced with playing the violin. He’d complained about a violinist’s chair squeaking as if it were some great annoyance. At least this time, the performer was standing.

“Harrington has just walked in,” Maia said suddenly from the side of her mouth.

Angelica closed her eyes and waited.

No. It didn’t happen.

The rush of anticipation, the little thrill wasn’t there. She didn’t have the urge to slyly turn and look at him, to wonder if he’d find a way to ease them into a dark corner for a delicate kiss.

Or a passionate one.

“He’s coming this way, along the back of the room,” Maia added. “He looks a bit…determined.” She smiled knowingly, giving her sister a sidewise look.

The back of Angelica’s neck didn’t prickle, despite the fact that she knew her beau was easing along the wall just behind her. Her pulse didn’t quicken, nor did anything flutter in her belly.

But that was often the way of it, she knew. Marriage rarely began with the instant and passionate connection that her great-great-grandmother Beatrice and the Gypsy groom Vinio had. It more often began with a general regard, an ability to stand the other’s presence—and of course, a good family and sufficient income—and then, if one was fortunate, it grew into companionship and affection. Perhaps even love and respect.

That was how it would be with Lord Harrington, should he propose, and Angelica couldn’t be more pleased with it. Truly.