Chapter 8 #2
Foolish purring kitten, as Granny Grapes would say. And she’d jab her finger at Angelica just as Maia was wont to do. Yer seeing whatever y’want to see.
Voss—she really ought to think of him as Dewhurst again—was merely being gentlemanly in taking care of her and taking her off to safety. Protecting her, or any woman in danger, as any man would do.
Yes, they’d had some compelling conversation. And indeed, when they’d talked just this morning whilst she was still abed, Angelica had felt as if the silken thread of a connection had been strung between them when she looked into his eyes and saw something deeper there.
And yes, there’d been that kiss…
Angelica’s toes curled up inside the too-large slippers as she remembered that kiss, that melting, mind-shattering kiss. And then she forced her thoughts away from it.
Yes, that kiss. But it hadn’t been her first kiss, and certainly not his. A kiss didn’t have to mean anything. Just because it made the ground shift beneath her feet didn’t mean it did the same to him…and even if it did—there was Rubey.
And thus and so went her thoughts, circular, dark, confused and focused on everything but the fact that her life was in danger and she’d been attacked for the second time in less than a day.
That was simply too dark and terrifying for her to think about.
Angelica opened her eyes when the carriage made a sharp turn, and for the first time, she noticed a glove tucked into the cushion of the seat across from her. Was it Voss’s? By all indication, this was his carriage.
Angelica bit her lip, looking at the crushed beige glove. She was tempted. Oh, so tempted…
Before she could consider any repercussions, she slid over to pluck it from its spot.
Too large to belong to a woman, as she’d suspected, the glove had small, tight stitches and was soft as butter.
When she brought it close to her nose, she found the scent that reminded her of him clung to the silk lining.
And there on the edge of the underside was a monogram. VA, with a large, stylized D in between the initials. Voss Arden, Lord Dewhurst.
Angelica glanced guiltily out the window of the carriage. But although his hand still grasped the handle and his dark figure stood steady on its small platform, his face was buried in the dark recesses of his hat and the collar of his cloak.
Angelica looked down at the rich leather.
Did she dare?
Did she even want to know?
But the man fascinated her and she needed something other than fear on which to focus her mind. And so she closed her eyes, crumpled Voss’s glove in her hand and opened her thoughts.
Voss shifted with each movement of the carriage so that his face—the only exposed part of his skin—would remain out of the sunlight. An inconvenience at the very least…but much less trying than sitting in that small space with Angelica.
For a moment, he lost his thoughts, sliding back into the red haze that had engulfed him when he entered the chamber to find her being attacked by Trastonio and some other gutter-wipe make.
Bloodscent filled the air—that of the destroyed maid, and another, sweeter, much more compelling one. From Angelica.
He’d never forget the image that greeted him, penetrating through that sudden, hot fog of desire.
Even now, as his leather-clad fingers gripped the handle protruding from the rear of his carriage, in his mind he saw Angelica—wide-eyed, white-faced, huddled in the corner of the chamber.
Terror blazed in her long eyes, her hair straggled wild and dark around the sagging neckline of her shift.
Two white feet and bare calves beneath the hem, streaked with crimson…
and her fingers around a piece of wood, her mouth tight with concentration as she prepared to defend herself.
Lucifer’s brittle bones. He’d nearly lost her. And lost his chance.
And then to see, and scent, her blood…a most intimate part of her.
The thought of it, the sense of tasting it, hot and heavy on his tongue…
her lips parted in pleasured sighs and her lush body opening to him…
It made his desire uncontrollable. His fingers dug into the edge of the window as he sent her away before he lost the ability to curb his actions.
Voss thought they’d have more time at Rubey’s. He hadn’t expected one of her own footmen to betray them to the likes of Belial—but then, of course, men like Edouard did strange things for the chance to become immortal.
Too bloody bad for the man who was now frying in the deadly sun. Voss was certain Belial hadn’t told Edouard about that particular drawback of being a made Dracule.
…Just as Lucifer hadn’t told Voss about that, along with a variety of other inconveniences that were a part of their unholy agreement, including the Mark that now throbbed and ached with the devil’s own annoyance.
Every twist and turn of the carriage as it avoided street urchins or piles of refuse in the street, dogs or even other vehicles, made Voss’s shoulder stretch and caused a renewal of pain.
When he’d sent Angelica away from the chamber instead of tearing into her flesh, the agonizing sting from his Mark had left him breathless.
Lucifer was never pleased when one of his Dracule thought of someone other than themselves.
The pain had lessened only a fraction since then, and Voss wasn’t certain how much longer he could fight it.
Closing his eyes, resting his temple against the sunbaked side of the carriage, he drew in a deep breath of summer afternoon in London: warm, close, and filled with the smell of rotting food, human and animal waste, choking coal smoke and, faintly, summer lilies. Very faintly.
The unpleasant aromas did little to distract his thoughts from the paralyzing burn at his shoulder.
He couldn’t understand how Dimitri lived with the pain his wildly inflamed Mark must inflict on him at all times.
Surely it wasn’t worth the self-denial, especially knowing he could rid himself of the suffering immediately.
But still Dimitri denied himself, after more than a century…since that night in Vienna.
The evening in question, more than a century ago, had begun innocently enough.
Dimitri had invested in a private men’s club being built in Vienna—a large, Baroque-style home that was one of many in the new architectural fashion since the Turkish siege had ended—and had invited several acquaintances, most of them Dracule, to visit for an evening of cards and women and other entertainment.
Voss had thought it would be the perfect opportunity to confirm his suspicions about Dimitri’s Asthenia and add the information to his book of notes.
Having played cards with the stone-faced Dimitri in the past and having observed him carefully on several other social occasions in London and Paris, he’d noticed the man never accepted jewelry as tokens for bets, nor did he interact with men or women who wore ostentatious accessories.
Thus, in the guise of offering his host a gift, Voss had had a series of a dozen special goblets made.
Each one had a different jewel hidden in the bottom of the cup’s base.
The cups were identical except for the different gems, and the type of gem was identified by a mark on the bottom of the cup and the slot in which it rested in their velvet-lined case.
When Voss arrived at the club, he, along with every other entrant, was required to leave any weapons—particularly swords or wooden canes that could be sharpened—as well as any valuables, locked in private chests at the front of the club.
That, of course, included jewels and other accessories, and served only to enhance Voss’s suspicion about Dimitri’s weakness.
He managed to bring in the goblets, for they were made of hammered metal and appeared very plain and unassuming, just as he’d intended.
When Voss entered, he had the chest of cups with him and found a corner behind a heavy curtain in an alcove in which to hide it.
His plan was to offer one to Dimitri filled with his best blooded brandy as a gift, and then secretly swap the goblets out one by one throughout the night.
That way he could determine which gem affected Dimitri without the other man knowing what he was doing.
This type of elaborate ruse was just the sort of thing in which Voss reveled. He enjoyed not only the planning, but the execution as well, and considered a trap had only been perfectly sprung and a puzzle solved when he managed to do so without the victim realizing what was happening.
But in this case, things did not turn out as he’d intended.
He and Dimitri, along with several other guests—mortal and Dracule alike—sat in the main parlor of the club.
Windows dark with heavy curtains allowed only a swatch of moonlight to filter through, and a violinist played in the corner.
Lovely women, a rarity in men’s clubs—at least in London—offered trays of drink and slender ivory wrists or shoulders.
The very essence of the place was hot and lush, stemming not from its colonnaded design but from the scent of warm blood and rich wine, along with the haze of hashish smoke filtering from another chamber.
The chamber exuded hedonism, complete with food and drink and the most sensual of furnishings—both of the inanimate and mortal type.
Dimitri had planned his establishment well, and even though Voss meant to use the evening to observe and learn from his host, he found himself lulled by the strains of music and the feminine company—and young, hard males as well, for those who tended toward that preference.
Voss had tried that once, early on after realizing he was to live forever, and he might just as well find pleasure wherever he could. But in the end it hadn’t appealed, and he returned to the lush flesh of women instead of the hard muscle of men.