“Have you received any word from your brother?” he murmured.
It was Voss, then. Angelica’s heart lightened and she smiled up at him, allowing her pleasure to show in her eyes. “I have not,” she replied. “But I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be well on your way to Romania.”
There was a pause as he executed some unfamiliar step, half turning her away so that they could pass by another couple. “Ah, yes. I’ve been delayed.”
“Corvindale won’t be pleased, I’m certain,” Angelica said.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Of course. He avoids us all as much as possible, but of course it is difficult to completely ignore the man whose house we are living in.” She was aware of the solidness of his arms, the warmth of his body near hers.
Voss looked down at her, his eyes seeming to almost glow behind the shadow of his mask. “Living in Corvindale’s home must be most unpleasant.”
She felt a little shiver run over the back of her shoulders. He sounded angry, almost malicious. “I know there is little love lost between the two of you, but he hasn’t been unkind to us,” she said. There was no reason that she should allow his dislike of the earl to color her own opinion.
Again, a pause as they stepped through several more paces, and Angelica realized that Voss had maneuvered them toward the edge of the dance floor. Beyond the clusters of people and the dangling vines from the Babylonian plants, the doors to the gardens were open. Two sets of tall double doors had been flung wide, allowing easy access to the torchlit pathways several steps below the balcony.
As they drew nearer, a vibrant breeze brushed over her warm skin and Angelica was grateful when Voss eased her off the dance floor. She had begun to feel warm from the dancing and the fresh night air would be a glad change. Especially since she would be with Voss.
Would he try to kiss her? Her belly flipped at the thought and her cheeks warmed. She suspected a kiss from Voss would be very different from the one Harrington had brushed over her lips at the Farbers’ fete.
Sliding a firm arm around her waist, he kept her close as they walked through the doors. Angelica had a moment’s bit of nervousness and looked behind her to make certain Maia wasn’t watching their almost intimate pose—the side of her body was caught up next to his taller one and his arm was tight. He wasn’t about to let her go.
“This way,” he murmured, leading her past the rushing fountain in the center of the massive balcony and toward the darkest set of stairs. The burned-out torch hung uselessly at the top, and for the first time, Angelica felt a niggle of unease.
“Perhaps we should stay here. It’s a lovely view.” She paused at the top of the steps, gesturing up at the stars.
The garden lay before them and the sounds of the party loud at their backs. Other couples were out, walking on the balcony. And she could hear the laughter of people below, in the gardens, muted by the rushing fountain. Some of her nervousness lessened.
“There’s naught to fear, Miss Woodmore,” he said, tugging at her firmly. “Let us walk and smell the roses. I am looking forward to showing them to you.”
Angelica felt a renewed prickle of nerves as he declined to release her, and she glanced back over her shoulder, undecided. She could pull away and make a scene, and then everyone would know she’d been out on the balcony with Dewhurst— somehow she’d stopped thinking of him as Voss—and Maia would be furious.
She stepped hesitantly forward, her foot finding the top step. She didn’t want to make a scene. And there were people below; it wasn’t as if they were going to be outside alone. Still…
He looked down at her, his eyes piercing and holding hers. There was something wrong. Angelica felt a low, deep tug in her belly, insidious and insistent. Unpleasant. When he urged her forward, she didn’t have the energy to protest, although she felt as if she should.
Down another step, and another. The lights from the balcony above became blocked by the fountain and the railing, and they were in near darkness. Angelica blinked and stopped on the steps, a real frisson of fear descending over her.
She shook her head as if she’d just awakened, and when Dewhurst turned back toward her…his eyes were glowing. Reddish, piercing, there in the dark.
Angelica stifled a scream and he responded with a guttural sound of surprise and fury, his neck ruff going askew. She saw a smooth, undimpled chin clearly for the first time, and suddenly realized: this wasn’t Voss.
The next thing she knew, Angelica’s mask was yanked down over her face, covering her eyes. She felt herself tripping and falling, and a strong arm catching her, gathering her up closely before she landed on the ground, and then he was moving with quick, jolting steps.
She tried to scream, tried to claw the velvet away, but his hand closed over her mouth and the mask with all of its lace ground into her skin and lips, stifling her. Panicked, she kicked and fought, but he smashed her up against him and ran.
Her arm was bent up beneath her, her hand curled between her and her attacker, and suddenly she realized she felt the shape of her reticule wadded up beneath her arm. Trying to focus and to keep the fear from oversetting sense, she managed to grasp the little purse. Through the light fabric, she felt the shears and closed her fingers around the entire bag, then stabbed down into the man’s torso.
Hard.
She felt it slice into him, the sickening sense of driving into flesh, and she squeezed her eyes shut despite the fact that she was already blinded. He staggered and her dark world tipped as she screamed, then she stabbed again. Dampness leached into her and she felt his grip loosen. Suddenly she tumbled free and landed on the ground. The sound of him crashing away through the hedge sent a wave of relief through her.
Voices and footsteps came and by the time she’d sat up and readjusted the mask over her eyes, Angelica was surrounded by what would normally be the work of a nightmare or hallucinatory episode. A faerie, a peacock, a sultan and a jester had gathered around.
Her fingers and knees shook and her belly felt as though it were about to erupt, but Angelica managed to stand without assistance once the jester helped her to her feet. She realized she still clutched the reticule and suspected it was soaking with blood, so she allowed it to drop to the ground in the dark.
“What has happened?” they were asking in a variety of manners and tones.
Angelica could barely organize her thoughts, let alone summon the words to respond. And now that the moment of terror was over, she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. To forget her fear, the sudden inability to think, her foolish, foolish mistake and the harsh hands gripping and holding her. And the glowing eyes.
Glowing eyes. How could that be?
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing her voice to be steady. If Maia found out about this incident, she’d never let her come to another ball, let alone a masquerade. Nor would Corvindale or Chas. “I merely lost my way in the dark and some creature ran over my foot and startled me.”
“Did you fall in the fountain? Your gown is wet,” said the faerie, and Angelica reached automatically to touch the lower part of her skirts.
“It’ll dry,” she said, realizing it was blood and thankful that it wouldn’t show on the dark fabric as more than a shine.
Her hair sagged heavily near the back of her head, instead of at her crown where it had originally been anchored, and it felt as if a few curls had come undone. But the original arrangement had been a loose, messy one, and she hoped it wasn’t noticeably different.
No one asked what she’d been doing in the gardens alone— the anonymity of the masks was still at work—and Angelica thanked the characters for their assistance before pivoting toward the ball.
By the time she climbed the steps back to the balcony, where the party roared above, her stomach had settled and her knees had strengthened. Angelica hadn’t finished berating herself, however, for her foolish mistake. Hadn’t it been at the Lundhames’, two nights ago, that she’d reminded herself of the fate of Miss Eliza Billingsly and her compromising position with Mr. Deetson-Waring?
And here she’d gone and done something nearly as foolish, and dangerous, too, simply because she was wearing a mask. Clearly her companion had been after something more serious than a simple kiss in the dark. Had he meant to ravish her somewhere in the back of the garden? Or…was it possible he’d been trying to abduct her? To force a wedding or engagement?
He’d seemed to know who she was, for he’d asked about her brother, and the Woodmores were known to be a well-established, wealthy family.
A little shiver threatened to weaken her knees again, but Angelica fought it away. She’d come through this incident safely, and now she would forget about it. She’d learned her lesson, thankfully, without serious consequences.
“Miss Woodmore. I have your drink.”
Heaven’s daisies. It was Harrington, standing there with a little glass cup of something pale.
“Why thank you,” she said, and gratefully accepted the drink. She was thirsty. “I do hope you weren’t waiting long. I had to—I walked outside for a moment just to see the stars.” Her fingers still trembled a bit.
“Not at all,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to stroll about on the balcony with me?”
It was fortunate that she was drinking from the effervescent lemonade, for if not, she might have responded too quickly. As it was, as she withdrew the cup from her lips, she looked across the dance floor and saw him leaning against one of the Babylonian columns.
It’s him.
Voss.
He was masked, of course, with the lower part of his face covered, and only his eyes and thick, slashing brows showing above. He looked like some sort of Indian or Oriental thief, with a low, square hat half covering his thick hair and a sweeping cloak.
A flush of heat swept her as their gazes connected. There was the space of half the room and throngs of people between them, but it was as if he were standing next to her. She had no doubt this time that it was Voss.