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 Maia’s smile had been replaced by very flat lips.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.
And if she was a bit envious of Maia and her fiancé—that the deep regard and affection shaped itself even before the marriage—Angelica simply told herself that the two had been engaged for nearly a year. The affection and intimacy had had time to grow. His absence might have helped intensify that affection, as well.
“He’s been so patient, waiting for you,” Maia whispered, again pulling Angelica from her thoughts. Why did her sister have to be so talkative tonight? “I do think his attachment is quite solid.”
The fact that Angelica and Maia had never made it to Harrington’s birthday fete because of the attack by Belial, and Angelica’s subsequent abduction, hadn’t seemed to deflate the man’s regard for her at all.
“Did you speak with him at the party last night?” Maia asked.
Why was her sister so dratted talkative? “No, he wasn’t there,” Angelica replied.
Maia smirked. “I’m certain he would have been if he thought you were to attend.”