The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

The man who strode confidently into the study was not Lord Harrington. In fact, it was a well-dressed, neatly groomed Voss.

“What in the dark hell are you doing in this house?” Dimitri said, furious at the man’s effrontery. “You’re more of a fool than I’d thought. Woodmore has left word that you’re to be staked on sight.”

“I don’t see you reaching for your ash pike,” Voss replied lazily. “But don’t let me stop you.”

Dimitri tamped down the annoyance. He was used to dealing with this bastard and his insouciance, and he wouldn’t allow the man to needle him. He was stronger, older and infinitely wiser. “I owe you more than an ash stake in your heart,” he said coolly. “After your games and salvi that night in Vienna.”

Even now, nearly a century later, he couldn’t think of the night Lerina had died and his business had been destroyed without wanting to do something violent…to someone. Preferably the arse-licker in front of him. Yes, it had all started with him and his games and trickery. Moldavi would never have risked his own humiliation by daring to insult and challenge his host if Dimitri hadn’t already been sluggish and intoxicated from Voss’s ruse.

To his surprise, chagrin colored Voss’s face. “Indeed, you do have cause for anger, Dimitri. I see it now. But I do hope that after our conversation, you’ll be a bit more…tolerant.”

Dimitri made a show of glancing at his pocket watch, then glanced again at the windows. Full, hot sun, with nary a cloud in the sky showed from between a narrow opening in the far set of drapes. “In fact, I’m expecting another visitor momentarily. I’m afraid I haven’t the time nor the inclination to speak with you. Good day, Voss.” Burn in the sun.

The other man smiled. “Lord Harrington won’t be calling today, I’m afraid. I’m here in his stead. To speak with you about my intentions toward Angelica.”

At first Dimitri couldn’t react, and then he burst out in hard, derisive laughter. “You’re mad. If I don’t kill you, Woodmore will.”

“May I speak, Dimitri? I hope that you’ll change your tack…but if not, please know that I am here because I love Angelica. And she loves me. We intend to wed, with or without Woodmore’s—or your—blessing. But I hope to gain your support. You of all people will understand, I believe.”

There was something different about Voss, the least of which was his almost placating tone. Dimitri had never known the man to show deference to anyone, nor to speak in a tone without that hint of conceit.

Curious now, yet just as wary, Dimitri scoffed. “I can understand my ward believing she loves you—isn’t that your forte, Voss? Wooing and coaxing and seducing? But you, love her? You love anyone besides yourself?”

Voss didn’t rise to the bait. “I can certainly see how you might look at it from that perspective. You know that even I would never have touched Lerina—or anyone else one of us was feeding and mating with, but—”

“You fail to understand, Voss, that it wasn’t the infidelity or even the loss of Lerina that has created my antipathy toward you. I knew who and what she was, and that’s why Moldavi even had the opportunity with her. She was trying to gain my attention, poor wretch. Why do you think I was with her?” Dimitri closed his mouth and clenched down hard. He needn’t explain himself. Not to him.

Not to anyone.

But Voss looked surprised. “And all these years, I thought it was because you loved her.”

Dimitri kept his face stony. He’d only loved one woman, and she’d left him long ago. “No, I never loved Larina—just as you never loved the scores of women you’ve been with. Don’t misunderstand—I didn’t wish her to die, of course. As for you—it’s simple. I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. I have no interest in interacting with you, Voss, because you aspire only to trick and manipulate, and to take from others for your own gain.”

Voss stared at him, and for the first time, Dimitri believed that the man might have actually heard him. “Indeed,” he said. And nodded, as if accepting what Dimitri had just said.

Voss took a breath and continued, “In spite of that, perhaps what I’m about to show you will change your mind.”

“Show me?”

“I mean to show you proof of my regard and intentions toward Angelica.” Voss drew off his coat and folded it neatly onto a chair.

Dimitri watched in morbid fascination as the other man then divested himself of a ridiculously tied neckcloth, which also joined the coat, and then untied the collar of his shirt. “Burning hell, Voss, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

“Showing you this.” The man whipped off his crisp white shirt and turned away, giving Corvindale a full view of his back.

For a moment, Dimitri couldn’t speak. “Satan’s dark soul,” he whispered at last.

He stared at the smooth expanse of Voss’s back, stunned and disbelieving. A shaft of something dark and unfamiliar stabbed him in the belly.

Impossible.

“Your Mark is gone.”

“You have an uncanny knack of speaking the obvious,” Voss said, but his voice was filled with warmth. Delight, even. He turned and pulled his shirt back on. “There’s nothing of the Draculia in me any longer—with the exception of the fact that I still have an enhanced sense of smell. And could still fling three men across the road should I have the mind to do so, so consider that a warning, Dimitri.”

“Luce’s damned soul,” Dimitri said, still working on comprehension. Impossible. “I’ve studied and searched for decades.… No one’s ever done it before.…” He flapped his hand toward the shelves of books, the stacks of papers and manuscripts, the hollow, empty feeling growing in his chest. “How? How did you break the covenant?”

Voss looked at him, pity and understanding in his face. “I changed.”

EPILOGUE

OF MIRACLES, SIBLINGS AND A FINAL REQUEST

Voss turned his face up to the sun, drinking in the warmth from which he’d been banned for more than a century. The prickle of a tear stung the corner of his eye at the beauty of it, the knowledge that he was, again, his own man.

With the woman he loved.

“My greatest fear,” he said, clasping Angelica’s hand as they strolled through the gardens—in the daylight, when all the flowers were actually open!—at Dewhurst, “was that Moldavi would have made you Dracule. All the way to Paris, I couldn’t allow myself to think of anything about why I was going, what I needed to do…because if I did, I would think too hard. And then I would have weakened, and he would have found that weakness.”