“What has happened?” he asked, closing his fingers around one of her wrists. His eyes penetrated hers, and for the first time, she felt a trickle of fear. They were glittering, not with fascination, but with…menace. “Tonight. What happened?”
In the closeness of that dim corner, Angelica felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and the racing pulse beating in her throat. It threatened to choke her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
His breathing shifted and a delicate tremor rippled through his arms as if he were restraining himself. “I smell blood, Angelica. On you. All over you. I want to know where in the damned hell it came from.”
His words, uttered from between very tight jaws, nevertheless snapped like a whip between them. She couldn’t have said which startled her more—his use of her familiar name, the profanity or the fact that he somehow smelled blood. On her.
She moistened her lips, trying to dispel the sudden dryness in her mouth, and felt his hand tighten reflexively, crushing one of the flowers on the top of her glove. It was at that moment that she realized just how dangerous and powerful this man was.
This man, who blocked her into a corner, who had his body very nearly pressed against hers and whose gaze bored down into her like a weapon.
Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he felt it, too, and she tried to contain her nervousness. Fury rolled off him, but she didn’t believe it was directed toward her. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t drag her into a corner where they could easily be discovered.
“I thought he was you. He asked me to waltz,” she replied when his fingers tightened again.
He drew back just a bit, loosened his grip. “You thought he was me?” A shaft of light settled on his face, illuminating one eye and half of his nose and chin. The illusion made him appear even more intimidating.
“He behaved as if we’d met, and he asked me about Chas right away. So I thought he was you,” she defended herself, feeling more in control now. Had his anger been worry for her, then? But, he’d smelled blood on her. Such an odd thing to say.
“And then we went out to walk under the stars and…and… he tried to…” Angelica was still a little breathless—from being trotted so quickly across the room, from reliving the fright of her assault, from the steady, dark gaze that continued to bore into her.
“What did he do?” Voss’s fingers tightened and she felt the tension riding along his arms, settling in the space between his brows and drawing them tighter. “Where did the blood come from? It’s not… It can’t be yours.”
She shook her head. “No. He— I stabbed him. With my shears. It’s his blood.”
His eyes widened and then his entire demeanor changed. The edge eased from what was visible of his expression, and his brows relaxed. He wasn’t smiling, but surprise—and perhaps relief—shone there. “Your shears?”
“I’m Atropos. You recognized me earlier, did you not? You called me Mistress Fate.”
His shrug was fluid, and now the crinkles at the corners of his eyes belied a near smile. “I didn’t know which of the three you were. The gown gave you away, despite the fact that you chose black instead of the common white. It’s fortunate for you, apparently, that you were Atropos, for I don’t believe a mere length of thread and a measuring rod or spindle would have been much assistance to you.”
Relieved that his intensity seemed to have eased, she gave him a demure look. “No, I do believe you are correct, my lord.”
But his face darkened again, the crinkles next to his eyes smoothing as the groove between his brows became more pronounced. “And the man who assaulted you? What happened to him?” He hadn’t released her, and in fact, she was aware of his shoes brushing hers. Warmth and awareness filled the space between them, and she realized her fingers had curled into the edge of his cloak. She loosened them.
“I don’t know. He ran off. He didn’t return to the party, I’m certain, for surely all the blood would cause comment.”
“The condition of your gown didn’t,” he reminded her.
“But no one can see it,” she said. “I don’t know how you noticed. You said you smelled blood?” She sniffed, but scented nothing but him. Spicy, masculine and arresting. Very close. She felt a bit light-headed.
His lips flattened. “Does Corvindale know?”
“No one knows but you. The earl isn’t here this evening.”
Now he smiled, but with that false edge. “As much as I’m certain you believe that, I know better than to assume other wise. He’s here.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said, suddenly feeling lighter than she had since arriving at the ball. “I suppose we shall find out when the unmasking takes place.” She cast a look beyond his shoulder, through the filter of hanging vines. It was rather cozy back here in this little corner.
“But our unmasking has already occurred,” he said. Voss’s voice had dropped to a purr, and Angelica flashed a quick look at him. He was looking at her in a very different way than he had only moments before. Much like the way he’d been looking at her when their eyes met across the room.
Her heart pounded, hard, as he lifted a hand to skim a gloved finger along the side of her neck. Little prickles of awareness followed and Angelica found herself hardly able to breathe. She could be affronted at such a liberty, but the touch felt oddly chaste. Yet at the same time, the way he looked at her, leaning in closer, felt very intimate.
“I cannot decide whether to be annoyed or gratified,” he said, stroking along beneath her chin, holding her eyes with his.
“What do you mean, my lord?”
He withdrew his hand and adjusted a camellia on her shoulder. “Well, my dear, I could be annoyed and affronted that you mistook another gentleman for me. Apparently I hadn’t made enough of an impression upon you. Or I could be gratified that, thinking he was me, you agreed to walk in the moonlight with him. As unpleasant as that occasion might have turned out to be.”
A little stab of pleasure startled her. “Such a difficult decision, my lord. I cannot even pretend to assist you.” She looked away in all demureness, and realized with a start that she was well and truly, no doubt about it, flirting with Viscount Dewhurst. And managing quite well.
Maia would be proud. Or…perhaps not, if she knew it was Dewhurst and not Harrington with whom she was being coy.