Page 33 of The Pureblood Daughter
“Hmm.” Lady Gray arches a brow and studies Adelina. “I hope you don’t intend to make a habit out of your lies.”
“I did notlie,” Adelina snaps. She stands from the settee and moves toward the hearth. The house is warm, and the fire isn’t lit, but she can detect a lingering scent of woodsmoke from the last time it burned. “I’d every intention of retiring for the night. We would not be having this conversation had it not rained and driven me home in such a manner. Can we please let this go?”
“Fine.” Lady Gray closes her fan with a snap, her gaze smoldering. “I’ll not bring it up again.” She stands from the armchair and sweeps across the sitting room, then pauses with her hand on the doorknob and glances back briefly to say, “Let us hope your father doesn’t find out.” Then she’s gone, and Adelina is left alone in the too-bright room.
Adelina crosses her arms and turns her face sharply from the closed doors. If only her mother understood. But she could never tell her about the real reason for her late-night ride, nor what transpired at the lakeside. The whispers, the touches, the teeth.
No, not teeth. Fangs.
Adelina lifts a hand and slips one finger into her mouth. She traces a canine, feels its narrow edge, and wonders how the viscount’s teeth went from smooth to razor-sharp in the blink of an eye. Only one explanation swims in her head, but it’s outrageous, a myth, a tale told to scare children and impressionable young ladies. It can’t be true.
Can it?
An idea comes to mind, one that sends her from the quiet sitting room, up the stairs, and down the hall to her father’s study. There are plenty of books downstairs, but none so controversial as those her father keeps safe behind his closed door.
She would knock, but her father left this morning; his carriage was pulling away as she descended the stairs early in the day.
A furtive glance to the left and right reveals an empty hallway bathed in light. The knob twists easily in her hand, and she’s in her father’s study within a breath. The lock clicks quietly behind her, and then she turns to the bookshelves.
Her father, ever the avid reader, has an impressive collection. He would read to her when she was but a child, would sweep her into his arms and allow her to pick a book. One stands out in her mind, a book he snatched from her tiny hands and refused to open in her presence.
“This one is not for children,”he told her. Of course, in doing so, he instilled an insatiable curiosity in her, and she’s returned to his study on occasion to sneak peeks into the forbidden tome, reading snippets of poetry when she was sure no one was looking. One poem sticks out in her mind, and she knows she must find it.
Her heart picks up its pace as she pulls book after book from the shelf.
No. No. N—
The book slides from the shelf and into her hand, and its leather-bound cover stares up at her, taunting her, daring her to open it. It’s a collection of poetry by German poets and features Heinrich August Ossenfelder’s 1748 publication, “Der Vampir.”
Hands trembling, she struggles to turn to the right page. When she finds the poem, her eyes widen, her lips parting just so.
“Till I myself avenging,” she whispers as she reads, thankful for all those years of German lessons. “To a v—”
The word gets caught in her throat. She swallows with some difficulty before continuing.
“To a vampire’s health a-drinking...” Beneath her breast, her heart begins to hammer. “To thee I shall come creeping, and thy life’s blood drain away. And so shalt thou be trembling, for thus shall I be kissing...”
She pauses, and her eyes trace back over the poem until she finds the hair-raising word.
Vampire.
It’s the word she’s been dreading, the only word apart frommonsterthat came to mind as she and Octavia sped home in the pouring rain.
But it can’t be true. Vampires are revenants come back from the dead to inflict pain and suffering, and Lord Rosetti is very much alive. His skin has a soft warm glow when the sun hits it, and his green eyes are nothing less than lustrous.
How, then, does one explain the teeth? The voice in her head? His sudden disappearance in the hedge maze? He’s a riddle, but she has no answers.
Adelina snaps the book closed, and a small puff of dust swirls in the light cutting through the narrow space between the heavy draperies. She returns the book to its spot on the shelf, ensuring it’s not at all out of place; even now that she’s grown, her father would not approve of such reading material. If he considered it appropriate for a virtuous lady, the poetry collection would be on display downstairs, on the shelves meant for the family to read and guests to admire.
Head swimming, Adelina sighs and moves to the door. The lock clicks quietly, and she opens the door only to come face-to-face with her lady’s maid. Adelina gasps.
“Miss Gray,” Rose says, her eyes narrowing as her gaze shifts to the darkened study.
“Oh, Rose. You startled me.” Adelina lets out a light laugh as she closes the door behind her. “I was just... looking for Papa.”
“Your father is not home. He left early this morning.” Rose’s voice is curt, her words clipped.
“It appears so. I’ll see him this evening for dinner, then.”
