The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

As he followed his future tête-à-tête out of sight with his eyes, Voss’s attention moved onto a different figure pushing through the crowd toward them. In spite of himself, in spite of the insistent flow of people around and with him, he stilled, his attention caught by the woman.

Young, was his first thought. Too young for his taste. Not experienced enough. Barely out in Society, perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the outside. But…she moved with grace and flair and determination even through the mad crush.

As she drew closer, Voss realized she seemed to be fixated on something behind him, for she was moving at a steady clip through the same buffet of people that surrounded him. Most women strolled leisurely about a party, often arm-in-arm, intending to see and to be seen. But this girl, with her shining dark hair and eyes, moved with deliberation and speed.

The bright yellow gown made her dusky-rose skin look rich and exotic, and as she drew closer, he could make out the almond shape of her dark, dark eyes. Her br**sts caught his attention, of course, as they rose from the square line of her bodice, but it was the curve of her throat and the delicate hollow of her collarbone, the slide of her neck, that made his mouth go dry.

Voss clamped his mouth closed, lest the tips of his upper fangs, which had distended without warning, be revealed. They slid neatly back into place, but he found himself a bit shaken. He loosened his fingers and reminded himself to breathe.

Someone jostled him, forcing his attention from the vision in lemon, and as he turned to snap at Brickbank (for who else would it be?), he found himself face-to-face with Dimitri.

“Corvindale,” Voss said coolly, despite the fact that he’d been taken totally unaware—normally an impossibility. “Won’t you go over there and put that damned violinist out of his misery? His bloody D-string is flat as a hag’s tits.”

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri said. His countenance, always forbidding and dark, had settled into one of stone. His admirable attire, in tones of charcoal, steel, ink and a white shirtwaist, was nevertheless just as dour as his expression. Aloof, annoyed and arrogant, the earl nevertheless attracted interested, half-lidded glances from women everywhere he went. Yet, it was that cold demeanor that kept all but the most bold of them away. And even the boldest ones couldn’t coax even the faintest bit of warmth from those steel-gray eyes.

Voss shrugged languidly. “Certainly not the same thing you’re doing. Come to think of it, I can’t imagine what would compel the Earl of Corvindale to make an appearance at a ball. So crowded, so filled with people and, Luce forbid, revelry. Surely you’re not in the market for a wife, and you certainly can’t be looking for anything else from the array of blue-blooded beauties here tonight.” He made certain his feral smile indicated to Dimitri just what he was missing.

The earl’s expression didn’t change. Instead, hardly moving his lips, he said, “Stay away from the Woodmore girls. Or I’ll kill you.”

A dart of fury suffused him, leaving Voss momentarily struggling to maintain his insouciance. But he refused to let his easy smile slip, knowing that to keep it in place would only annoy Corvindale further. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

He would have sauntered off, presenting him with his back, but at that moment Voss caught a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye. He’d turned during the exchange with Corvindale, and now, as he caught the sunny frock at the edge of his vision, he pivoted just in time to see that the lovely young woman was approaching him.

No, not him.

Brickbank.

The dark-haired beauty swept past him, Eddersley and even Corvindale and came to a sudden, almost startled, halt in front of Voss’s tipsy, ginger-haired friend.

As she breezed past, the air stirred, her curls bounced and her gown flowed and Voss caught her scent.

All of the Draculia members, along with their other eccentricities, had a heightened sense of smell. That was a trial as much as a benefit, for the miasma of aromas, especially in an unfamiliar environment, could often be overpowering. Voss had learned to allow the good, the odd and the putrid to meld together into something palatable. But there were times when something separated from the rest and rose to his notice. It might be a smell that was nauseating or strange, or simply rank.

In this case it was…indescribable. Titillating and… intriguing.

Voss realized with a start that he’d been standing there with his nostrils quite literally, ridiculously, flaring, trying to draw in the unusual aura. Fortunately no one else seemed to notice, for the young woman had done something completely and utterly out of etiquette.

Even though he’d been in the Colonies—gad, now they were called the United States, weren’t they?—for much of the past three decades, Voss knew that a proper young woman never approached a man whom she didn’t know and began to speak to him. Particularly without a chaperone.

But that was precisely what was occurring to the dumfounded Brickbank, whose nose was still tinged red at its pointed tip.

“—must have a moment to speak with you, my lord,” she was saying. He had to give her credit, for despite what she must perceive as urgency, her voice was low and calm.

“I…er…” One could only attribute Brickbank’s unusual befuddlement to the breach of etiquette in addition to Voss’s best brandy. “But of course, miss…er, mada—my lady?”

“Perhaps we could step aside?” she asked.

Voss had sidled closer. Not, he told himself, so that he could sniff delicately at the fragrance that clung to her—he felt ridiculous even acknowledging the fact that he considered doing so—but so that he could determine the exact color of her hair. And eyes. And discern whether that was indeed a delicate little mole at the back of her neck, just where the base curved into a creamy-rose shoulder, or some sort of smudge.

Corvindale said something and shifted so that he cut into Voss’s view, bringing the latter back into the moment as if he’d been shaken awake from a dream.

A very compelling dream.

Now that he’d focused back in on the conversation, he realized that she wasn’t merely too inexperienced…but she was also the Earl of Corvindale’s new ward.

But, Luce’s nails, that just made her all the more enticing. He smiled.

“My name is Angelica Woodmore,” she was saying. Her hair was dark, nearly black, but with brown lights that made it rich and interesting. Impatience colored her voice, and de spite the fact that she’d fairly barreled into a strange group of gentlemen—and rather fierce, austere-looking ones at that—she seemed more intent on having some sort of communication with Brickbank than anything else.