“Miss Woodmore, I am the Earl of Corvindale,” said Dimitri in a pronouncement that Voss was certain was meant to stop the chit in her tracks.
It did, in fact. Miss Woodmore paused and looked at him in surprise. Then her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “My sister has been looking everywhere for you, my lord. We understood you would be here tonight. You have not responded to her letter.”
Voss didn’t try very hard to smother his amusement at the girl’s set-down. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as young as he’d thought, taking the earl to task. He shook his head mentally, wondering what it was about the earl that attracted women. Certainly Miss Woodmore wasn’t one of them. He was ridiculously glad that was the case.
Corvindale, of course, rose to the occasion by looking down his long, prominent nose at her. “An earl does not generally respond on command, Miss Woodmore. Particularly to imperious orders from young women.”
“Angelica!”
A new voice—a feminine one, laced with shock and annoyance, and barely hissing from between clenched teeth but pitched so as to reach above the dull stew of noise—drew the attention of the entire group. Voss recognized immediately that this was another Woodmore sister and he couldn’t help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
Corvindale looked as if he’d been stung. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. The man stiffened and couldn’t quite suppress a flare of something that rose in his austere face, but was quickly submerged. Fascinating. Voss could still sense the man’s discomfort as he turned to the sister and gave a sharp, smart bow.
“Miss Woodmore,” he said.
“Maia, I’ve found the earl,” said Miss Angelica Woodmore unnecessarily.
“So I see,” replied her sister. Still with clenched teeth, but at this point Voss wasn’t certain if that was for the benefit of Corvindale or Angelica.
The next portion of the conversation between the earl and the sister was lost on Voss, for the lovely Angelica had turned back to Brickbank. Every time she moved, a new, fresh waft of her filtered toward him. Voss sidled nearer, sliding past Eddersley to get closer.
“It’s of a personal nature,” Miss Woodmore was saying. Her expression and demeanor were of matching earnestness, and for a moment, Voss was overwhelmed by annoyance.
Why wasn’t she approaching him to speak of something of a personal nature? He was quite certain he could find something personal and natural to interest her.
Why on God’s green earth did she have to find Brickbank fascinating?
Then Voss realized it was simply because she hadn’t seen him yet, and he edged his way even closer. Women always noticed him. And that was one of the delights of his immortal life. He enjoyed as many of them as he wanted, without the hassle of having to woo or court or be the recipient of their many moods. Let alone spend any significant amount of time with them outside of the bedchamber. Why bother? There was always another one waiting.
None too gently, he elbowed up to Brickbank and turned to bestow his most charming smile on the yellow-gowned chit with the alarmingly enticing neck.
It was swanlike, long and curved just so. Elegant…and Voss realized he was having a hard time swallowing. His incisors teased him, slipping out just enough that his tongue brushed against them in a parody of where they really wanted to be: sliding into that ivory flesh, to feel the flood of hot, heavy blood surging into his mouth, over his tongue…into him.
Sweet. It would be sweet and heady and rich, and she would sigh against him, the pleasure trammeling through her veins, matching his. Their breaths would mingle, their bodies sear against the other.…
He blinked, focused and nearly turned away, calling himself every ridiculous name he knew. It had been less than thirty minutes since the girl in the alley…and only yesterday since he’d partaken even more fully of the erotic flesh. He certainly didn’t need to pant after a virginal young miss who was about to be taken under the wing of that dead-blooded Corvindale, enticing as she might be. Another trip to Rubey’s might be in order. Or a tête-à-tête with that saucy matron in pink. She looked as if she’d be a rough, wild ride.
She might be convinced to allow him to sink into her neck instead of her arm. Or thigh. Plump, sensitive thighs were a lovely treat, but not so much as a sleek, bare neck. He felt the stab of interest shimmer through him, and he found himself eyeing that one belonging to Miss Woodmore.
“I feel the need to warn you,” she was saying. Obviously Brickbank wasn’t listening any more closely than Voss had been, for his expression seemed quite unfocused, as well.
“Warn me?” he repeated.
“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” Voss said, at last, at last, drawing the girl’s attention to him. He gave a genteel bow and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. Her scent surrounded him and he felt something tug in his belly, followed by a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder. His mouth brushed the cotton of her glove and he had an instant fantasy of slipping that glove down to bare a narrow wrist. “I am Dewhurst.”
Her eyes met his and he felt a sizzle of warmth at the candid interest in them. Ah. Very good.
“I would very much appreciate it if you would recommend to your friend that he heed my warning,” she told him.
“And what warning might that be?” Voss returned.
For the first time, she seemed to hesitate. Drawing herself up as if girding for battle, the hollows of her delicate shoulders catching the light and shadow just so, Miss Woodmore moistened her lips and spoke. “I had a dream in which you died,” she blurted out, looking at Brickbank.
Voss blinked. A range of emotions blasted through him, the least of which had to do with the fact that he was on the verge of learning what he’d come to learn. If she dreamed of people she didn’t know, she might have the Sight. Which would mean he would have a legitimate reason—or at least a justifiable one—to converse with her. He resisted the urge to smile and instead shifted automatically so that his body blocked them from view of the rest of the room. “Go on.”
She was still looking at Brickbank, and Voss watched the steady pumping of the pulse in her throat. “I dreamed that you fell off a bridge. That you died.”
Brickbank blinked and glanced at Voss, who lifted his gaze and shrugged. “A dream, you say?” the other man replied, suddenly no longer red-nosed and tipsy. “I was in your dream, and fell off a bridge and died?”
A flash of what might have been irritation crossed Miss Woodmore’s face—perhaps she felt her explanation had been clear enough that it didn’t bear repeating. “Yes. That is what I said.”