How could she have mistaken that other figure for him? She could hardly credit her previous error.

“I….” Angelica looked back at Harrington. Even from behind his mask, she could see the warmth in his eyes. A week earlier, she would have been taking his arm with alacrity and strolling in the moonlight with him. And perhaps even permitting a second, chaste kiss.

But now… She resisted the urge to glance back over her shoulder in Voss’s direction. Just because he was here, and looking at her…well, that really meant nothing. Everyone of the ton was here tonight. Perhaps he didn’t even recognize that it was Angelica behind this coy mask, and even if he did… well, that didn’t mean he’d ask her to dance. Or even approach her.

“Miss Woodmore?” Harrington had tilted his head to look down at her during this space of silence. He made his voice loud enough to be heard over the low buzz of voices and strains of music. “I can only imagine how lovely the moonlight will be, filtering over your dark hair. But I should certainly like to see it for myself.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help a smile in return. Such a romantic thing to say without being ridiculous, like comparing her eyes to diamonds and her skin to silk or whatnot. Lord Fedderley had done that once and it was all she could do to keep from rolling her so-called diamondlike eyes. She lifted the drink again to give herself more time to determine how to respond, and managed, as she lowered it, to glance back to where Voss was standing.

He was gone.

Angelica wasn’t prepared for the stab of disappointment when, as she cast her gaze over the perimeter of the room in what would be the path between where he’d been and where she stood, she didn’t see him.

That, she supposed, was that.

She turned. And there he was.

5

IN WHICH A SQUEAKING CHAIR INTERVENES

Angelica’s face flushed hot beneath her mask, and suddenly, her heart was slamming in her chest.

But before she could speak or even gather her composure, Voss had taken matters in hand.

“I do believe you’ve promised this dance to me, Mistress Fate,” he said, smoothly turning and somehow gathering up her arm to slip it around his crooked elbow—all without the slightest hitch. “A waltz,” he added, looking down at her.

At last, his eyes said, gleaming with satisfaction from above the cloth tied around his lower face. Between the heavy, slashing brows and the squat, boxy hat—and even with the whimsical curls peeking from beneath—he looked striking and dangerous. Dangerous in a manner that made her belly feel as if it were filled with butterflies, not leaden with stone.

Angelica had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Harrington, who had no opportunity to circumvent the tide of Lord Dewhurst. But no sooner had she bid him a hurried “Please excuse me” than Voss had taken her away and to the floor filled with other dancers.

As if he’d done it a hundred times, he spun her neatly to face him, his strong hand settling just so at her waist, and the other curving around her fingers as he lifted her left hand into position. He pulled her so close that the camellias at her waist nearly brushed the side of his cloak.

Angelica had already waltzed—twice!—that evening, but this was an entirely different matter. It was as if every part of her had awakened and now absorbed the slightest sensation. The swish of her gown flowing against and around his pantalooned legs. The imprint of each finger from the hand at her waist.

She was aware of the gentle tension in her raised and extended arm, and the warmth of his gloved palm against hers. The brush of air over her bare, upper arms as they spun with grace around and between the other dancers. The sleek shift of muscle and tendon in his shoulder beneath her hand. The bounce of her hair, the warmth and breadth of his body so close. He smelled foreign and spicy, very unlike the common pine and balsam scent Harrington favored.

Again, she wondered how she could ever have mistaken her attacker as Voss. The reality was so much more…more.

It was several moments before she realized that he’d not spoken a word since they stepped into the kaleidoscope of swirling couples, and that they’d made their way efficiently around and between the other dancers. She ventured the question that came to mind.

“Surely you haven’t been to Romania and back already? To take your friend’s body?”

“I bribed Eddersley to go in my stead.” His tone was clipped, and when he turned toward the edge of the group and slipped Angelica between two couples near the side, she realized he was leading her off the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “The song isn’t over.”

He glanced down with dark, glittering eyes, and she felt as if he’d turned some great force on her. His hand had closed around her arm as he released her from their dance pose, but instead of leading her toward the balcony, which was on the other side of the large chamber, he was edging them toward the most shadowy corner of the room.

“My lord,” she managed to say, but her words were certainly lost in his wake, in the midst of the music and conversation.

He fairly towed her along behind him, toward a shadowy corner where a fountain stood between two potted trees. Dangling vines hung from pots on shelves high on the walls, providing a convenient curtain for those who might wish to dally in corners without being seen.

Voss swept away a handful of the vines, speaking sharply into the corner and scattering leaves and flower petals. Seconds later, Angelica was nearly trampled by a Romeo and a befeathered swan as they stumbled out of the alcove and away. Apparently, Juliet was elsewhere.

The next thing she knew, the wall was behind her and Voss was in front of her, very close, his fingers curved around her upper arms. He’d yanked away the mask covering the lower part of his face, and she could see, even in the low light, the flat line of his mouth and the pinch of his nostrils.

She tried to swallow, and felt a renewed rush of heat behind her mask. She wanted to tear the heavy velvet and lace confection away so she wasn’t so stifled, and suddenly, the very thought became reality as he stripped it up and off her head, tossing it aside. None too gently.

“What has happened?” he asked, closing his fingers around one of her wrists. His eyes penetrated hers, and for the first time, she felt a trickle of fear. They were glittering, not with fascination, but with…menace. “Tonight. What happened?”

In the closeness of that dim corner, Angelica felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and the racing pulse beating in her throat. It threatened to choke her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

His breathing shifted and a delicate tremor rippled through his arms as if he were restraining himself. “I smell blood, Angelica. On you. All over you. I want to know where in the damned hell it came from.”

His words, uttered from between very tight jaws, nevertheless snapped like a whip between them. She couldn’t have said which startled her more—his use of her familiar name, the profanity or the fact that he somehow smelled blood. On her.

She moistened her lips, trying to dispel the sudden dryness in her mouth, and felt his hand tighten reflexively, crushing one of the flowers on the top of her glove. It was at that moment that she realized just how dangerous and powerful this man was.

This man, who blocked her into a corner, who had his body very nearly pressed against hers and whose gaze bored down into her like a weapon.

Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he felt it, too, and she tried to contain her nervousness. Fury rolled off him, but she didn’t believe it was directed toward her. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t drag her into a corner where they could easily be discovered.

“I thought he was you. He asked me to waltz,” she replied when his fingers tightened again.

He drew back just a bit, loosened his grip. “You thought he was me?” A shaft of light settled on his face, illuminating one eye and half of his nose and chin. The illusion made him appear even more intimidating.

“He behaved as if we’d met, and he asked me about Chas right away. So I thought he was you,” she defended herself, feeling more in control now. Had his anger been worry for her, then? But, he’d smelled blood on her. Such an odd thing to say.

“And then we went out to walk under the stars and…and… he tried to…” Angelica was still a little breathless—from being trotted so quickly across the room, from reliving the fright of her assault, from the steady, dark gaze that continued to bore into her.

“What did he do?” Voss’s fingers tightened and she felt the tension riding along his arms, settling in the space between his brows and drawing them tighter. “Where did the blood come from? It’s not… It can’t be yours.”

She shook her head. “No. He— I stabbed him. With my shears. It’s his blood.”

His eyes widened and then his entire demeanor changed. The edge eased from what was visible of his expression, and his brows relaxed. He wasn’t smiling, but surprise—and perhaps relief—shone there. “Your shears?”

“I’m Atropos. You recognized me earlier, did you not? You called me Mistress Fate.”

His shrug was fluid, and now the crinkles at the corners of his eyes belied a near smile. “I didn’t know which of the three you were. The gown gave you away, despite the fact that you chose black instead of the common white. It’s fortunate for you, apparently, that you were Atropos, for I don’t believe a mere length of thread and a measuring rod or spindle would have been much assistance to you.”

Relieved that his intensity seemed to have eased, she gave him a demure look. “No, I do believe you are correct, my lord.”

But his face darkened again, the crinkles next to his eyes smoothing as the groove between his brows became more pronounced. “And the man who assaulted you? What happened to him?” He hadn’t released her, and in fact, she was aware of his shoes brushing hers. Warmth and awareness filled the space between them, and she realized her fingers had curled into the edge of his cloak. She loosened them.