The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

He bowed his head. “Your brother is very cunning and able, and you are likely correct. I’m confident he can take care of himself. But you and your sister must not leave this house or see anyone without my permission. You are completely safe whilst in my custody, but Cezar Moldavi is not only ruthless but also very intelligent. And your brother has betrayed him in a most egregious manner. He will not give up easily.”

“Cezar Moldavi?” Her eyes widened.

Now it was Dimitri’s turn to be surprised. “You recognize that name, then?” Woodmore must have been much more forthcoming with his sisters than he’d thought—and more than was prudent.

“Rather like yourself, Corvindale, I’m familiar with the name but I have never met the man.” She fluttered her hands, this time in more agitation. “I mean to say, now that I’ve met you—”

Dimitri shifted impatiently. “Yes, yes, Miss Woodmore. Please refrain from stating the obvious. Now, I am expecting Mr. Cale any moment now. What other items must you drag forth and force me to ponder?”

“You still have not tendered an apology,” she replied primly, and, he thought, with great bravery. “I have never been handled so—”

“Miss Woodmore,” he interrupted. “Do you mean to say that should a man push you from the path of an oncoming carriage he should bow and scrape at your feet in apology for mussing your skirts? Or should he ask permission first, before doing so?”

“Well, I do believe—” She stopped herself this time and pressed her full lips together. Then she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I did not realize we were in some sort of danger. You made no effort to impress that fact upon me—a fact which you obviously well knew. Perhaps in the future, Lord Corvindale, you might be a bit more forthcoming. Particularly about things that apply to me and my sisters.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. Simply to shut her up.

She had the temerity to step closer, followed by a stronger waft of spiced flowers. “There is one more thing, my lord. I require your assurances that my sister’s reputation will be intact when she is returned here to your custody—or that you will take the appropriate steps to correct any problems thereof.”

Dimitri pressed his lips together. If he ever saw Chas Woodmore alive again, he would kill him for visiting this mess upon him. He and Chas were associates—one could almost consider them friends, as odd as it might be for a Dracule to be friends with a vampire hunter. But this situation with the sisters went beyond the boundaries of friendship and strained the slender bit of honor that Dimitri had.

“You have my assurances that I will do my utmost to protect your sister’s reputation, Miss Woodmore,” he replied stiffly. “No one—other than perhaps yourself and Chas— is more concerned about it than I am. But you haven’t any reason to worry. She is safe from Moldavi and in unblemished company.”

Miss Woodmore held his gaze for a bit too long, but Dimitri managed to hide the fact that he was lying from behind his incisors.

Voss was going to be dead the moment Dimitri found him and slammed a stake through his heart. Lucifer could bugger himself. And then maybe he’d be fortunate enough that the devil would be furious enough to kill Dimitri in retaliation.

That was a compelling possibility.

And then Angelica would have to be married off to someone who would keep his mouth shut, quickly and quietly—

At that moment, he was saved from any further interaction with this woman who seemed to be fearless in his presence and who seemed to have no qualms about making demands that any prudent man would be.

“My lord.” Vigniers, his butler, appeared in the corridor. “Mr. Giordan Cale has arrived.”

Cale, of course, was right on Vigniers’s heels, his hat in hand, his strides confident and unrushed. But his face was haggard and weary and for a moment, Dimitri feared the worst news about Narcise Moldavi.

“Dimitri,” Cale said by way of greeting. And then, “Miss Woodmore.” He gave a quick bow as she, ever the proper miss, curtsied. Her chestnut hair gleamed with shots of gold and copper as she did so.

It occurred to Dimitri at that moment that she’d not curtsied to him at their first official meeting. He frowned. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said to the infuriating woman. Then he looked at Cale and gestured down the corridor. “My study.”

Cale bowed again to the woman then brushed past her, seemingly without hesitation or even without stirring her skirts.

Dimitri could do nothing but follow him, and was absurdly pleased when Miss Woodmore took the hint and shifted out of the way, spicy essence and elegant wrists and all, as he strode past her into the sanctuary of his study.

At last.

7

WHEREIN OUR HEROINE’S HORIZONS ARE GREATLY BROADENED

Angelica opened her eyes.

Sun shone through the window of an unfamiliar room, cascading onto the bed where she slept. The chamber was clearly that of a woman, with floral paper on the wall and little glass bottles on the dressing table. Lace-trimmed curtains hung at the open window and in front of what appeared to be a large dressing room.

It took only a glance over at the blue-lined cloak and the pile of her black Greek gown on a bepillowed chair for her to remember.

All the blood. All the violence.

Angelica sat up and the coverlet fell away, leaving her to see that she’d been dressed in a night-rail. Her hair fell around her shoulders, loose and heavy. She was cold, despite the warmth of late afternoon sun pouring into the chamber.

Voss. She looked around, as if he might be lurking in the corner—which of course he wasn’t. And which would be outside of unseemly.

But his presence lingered—there, in the cloak he’d draped over her shoulders. In the clean comfort of the room and even, faintly, in the air.

Before she could decide what to do, a firm knock came at the door and it cracked open.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The woman came in before Angelica bade her to do so. Her clothing, her demeanor, even her opening the door immediately after the knock, indicated that she wasn’t a servant.

“Good morning,” Angelica said, examining the new arrival.

She was older, perhaps in her late thirties. Her frock, a daydress that showed enough bosom to qualify for an evening gown, was nevertheless made of good lawn and was at the height of fashion. Large, bright scarlet roses patterned the fabric and wide pink ribbon trimmed the sleeves and hem. Although she didn’t wear gloves, her strawberry-blond hair was dressed in a proper chignon and a bit of curl flattered her striking face. One wouldn’t consider her beautiful, but she had a pleasing, if not shrewd, countenance with high cheekbones and good skin.