He must speak with Miss Angelica Woodmore.

Corvindale would be apoplectic, and Voss’s only real hesitation was in determining whether to call on Angelica (when had he begun to think of her in that way?) openly, so that the earl would know he had defied his command, or to do it clandestinely so that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

In the end, he decided to do it openly. Corvindale would learn about it regardless and think the worst of him no matter what, and, frankly, Voss wasn’t terribly opposed to dusting a bit of the floor with Dimitri, bloody Earl of Corvindale. Especially in his current mood.

He wouldn’t even care if he got blood on his shirt, because he needed something else to think about. Something other than what had happened to Brickbank.

When he arrived at the relatively small, but very elegant, well-kept Woodmore home in Mayfair, Voss alighted from his closed carriage (a very undashing necessity for daytime transportation) gloved and cloaked. He also held a wide umbrella low over his hat—ostensibly to protect his perfectly combed and lightly pomaded hair from the faint drizzle.

It occurred to him that the sisters might already have been removed to the safety of the earl’s home, so it was to his surprise and delight that the door was answered immediately by a well-mannered butler. He accepted his card, hat and cloak, then admitted him promptly with a gesture toward the parlor. Voss had suspected that after last night, Corvindale would have left strict orders that Voss not be received, and he’d anticipated having to bluff or barrel his way in.

Mildly disappointed, he stepped through the parlor door and realized immediately why Corvindale had apparently not seen fit to do so.

“Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst,” announced the butler.

No fewer than a dozen faces turned and looked over at him, shock blazoning on all of them. Two were the lovely countenances of the sisters Woodmore—but the vast majority of the others were male.

Of course. Voss was so infrequently out during the daylight, and certainly not familiar with current London Society, that he’d forgotten about the rigid practice of afternoon calls.

“My lord, what an honor for you to join us,” said Angelica, who seemed to be wedged between two pansy-faced, juvenile-countenanced gentlemen on the settee. She appeared both surprised and delighted by his presence.

And perhaps there was the faintest tinge of rose on her cheeks. He certainly expected there should be.

“I hope you will take some tea?” she added.

Bloody tea wasn’t exactly what he’d come for, particularly since a mixture of brandy and wine still sloshed within his belly today. And he didn’t particularly care for the lascivious expression on the face of the good-looking dandy who stood behind Angelica. Likely staring down her bosom, the uncouth fop. Harringford or Harringmede or something like that. He’d seen him at White’s.

Voss would never do such a gauche thing openly. In fact, he never had to resort to stealing glances or ogles. His lips twitched in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Lord Dewhurst,” said Maia, the older one, drawing his attention. She was a pretty one, too, with lighter coloring and a more petite frame than her sister, and Voss wondered briefly whether, if he’d seen her first last night, he’d be as compelled to speak with her as he was to Angelica. His first instinct was no.

Was Angelica the only one with the Sight? Or did the others have it, too?

He nodded to the sisters and ignored the rest of the occupants. Non-Dracule members of Society meant little to him for a variety of reasons, and he’d long become impatient with the strictures of their domain: the farce of rigid politeness on the outer crust, while beneath it, a reality nearly as immoral and corrupt as his own world. He’d long ago come to the conclusion that he had no reason to follow mortal rules and live by mortal standards.

It had been a freeing discovery. And it had given him carte blanche to take and do whatever he desired.

And, he realized as he stood at the edge of the room, he desired Angelica Woodmore. Deeply.

It wasn’t lost on Voss that Maia Woodmore hadn’t made any statement of welcome. He could only assume that Corvindale had already begun to impress upon her all of the reasons Voss should be avoided. Hopefully the earl was still abed like any other sane Dracule would be.

Nevertheless, Voss decided that he had no time to waste.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said, actually putting sincerity in his tones, “but I must have a word with you, Miss Woodmore.”

He was looking at Angelica, so it was clear to which sister he was speaking, but Maia was the first to respond. “Pray have a seat, then, my lord. We have just been discussing the newest play at Drury Lane.”

“I wish I could join you, for I hear the lead actress is devastating,” Voss replied, his voice now dripping with innocence. “But I fear that I have only a short time to enjoy your company, and it’s imperative that I speak with your sister.”

During this exchange, Angelica had risen from the sofa and, with a tempered glare at her sister, managed to navigate between the shod feet and pantalooned legs of the myriad of male callers. She was wearing a pale yellow frock today, trimmed with gold ribbon around the neckline (which was, of course, much higher than last night’s), and her hair was pulled into a smooth, neat gather at the back of her head. Only a few wisps of hair fanned her cheeks, giving her the look of an exotic pixie. A slender golden chain rested around the base of her throat, with a tiny, matching cross settling into the hollow there.

Voss swallowed hard and deflected his wayward thoughts as he trained his gaze up. To her eyes. Cocoa-brown eyes, wide and dark as night.

“I’m certain we don’t wish to keep Dewhurst,” Angelica was saying to her sister and the room at large. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Angelica,” Maia said, beginning to rise. “I don’t—”

“Never fear, Miss Woodmore.” This time he clearly spoke to the elder sister. “Despite whatever warnings Corvindale might have given you, I have no plans to corrupt your sister in the few moments I will speak with her in the foyer.”

With that, he gave a little bow to Angelica, and gestured her to cross in front of him toward the parlor door. Before he turned to follow her out of the room, inhaling subtly as she swept past, Voss turned and took a moment to memorize the faces of the men in the room.

He locked eyes with each of them in turn until he saw the familiar leap of fear and terror in their eyes. Then, quite pleased with himself, he followed Angelica from the room.

“The library is here,” she said. “We’ll be able to speak privately there.”

Indeed. Voss contained a rush of pleasure. The door would remain open, of course. But—blast! His belly felt prickly and odd as he followed her into the room. And his damned shoulder ached.

He mentally patted himself on the back when he not only left the door open, but much wider than was strictly necessary. Merely a first step, he told himself and his Mark. There will be other opportunities to close it later.

Then he turned to face her, and for a moment, his thoughts and words scattered. Angelica stood near a tall window across the room from him, and in a sort of irony, the embattled sun had managed to emerge from its blanket of clouds beyond her. It shone through the window, bathing her in its soft glow of warm beams…warmth and light that Voss hadn’t felt or been touched by since he was twenty-eight.

A hundred and twenty years without feeling the sun.

For a moment, the ridiculous thought that Angelica Woodmore would be just as elusive as those golden rays worried at him. But that was absurd on so many levels. Nothing could keep him from what he wanted.

Still. How was it she had positioned herself so perfectly: embalmed in a nimbus of light, which made her dusky skin glow and the edges of her hair seem to light—and yet, she was out of reach. Literally. The pool of light served as more of a deterrent than Corvindale ever could.

“My lord?” she asked, smiling at him. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Was it possible she knew? Had Corvindale told her how to protect herself from the likes of Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst and Dracule?

He eyed her closely, not yet employing his thrall, but trying to read anything in her gaze that might indicate whether she knew exactly what she was doing…but there was nothing in her expression other than curious pleasure. That was a fact which warmed him considerably.

“My lord?” she asked again. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit…weary.” Her voice trailed off.

Voss straightened in annoyance. He was perfectly groomed and attired. He looked bloody tantalizing.

“How is your friend Lord Brickbank?” she continued, before he could respond.

And suddenly everything came rushing back to him: the images, the guilt and anger, the reason he was here. A heavy, dark ball settled in his belly.

“In fact,” Voss said, realizing to his shock that he needed to steady his voice, “he is not well at all. That’s the reason I wished to speak with you.”

Angelica’s face drained of color and her eyes widened. “My lord, no.” Her fingers curved around the back of a nearby chair as if to provide support, and he wondered briefly if she might faint.

“I’m afraid…yes.” His voice was curiously choked and Voss resorted to swallowing twice, hard, in order to continue. “He fell from a bridge last night and would have survived, I’m certain, if he had not impaled himself upon a piece of rotted dock.”

She’d lifted her free hand to her mouth, her eyes no longer almond shaped but nearly circular. “I am so sorry, my lord. Apparently even my warning couldn’t have prevented such an event.”

Voss shifted and tried to decide whether her comment was meant to stab him in the chest with reproach, or if she believed that her warning truly had been in vain. Unable to come to a conclusion, he opted to explain further. “The interesting thing, Miss Woodmore, is that my friend fell not from Blackfriars, but from Westminster. I confess, I didn’t fully disregard your warning. We avoided Blackfriars. You did name it as the bridge to be avoided, did you not?”