Page 51 of The Pureblood Daughter
Mama still wants me.
It was perhaps her greatest fear, the one that had been bubbling beneath everything else: that her mother no longer cared, had no concern over her well-being.
But if the letter speaks the truth, she’s been worried for naught.
She lifts it again, holds it up in the afternoon light as she traces the page.Your father regrets his behavior.Nadia narrows her eyes.He is so sorry, my love, and he wishes to make things right.
At first, hope swells in her chest, makes her buoyant and light. But then the countess’s words come rushing back.
“Lord Gray murdered your birth parents...”
Her stomach turns, and she feels she might be sick.
It’s not quite settled in, and she still can’t reconcile the man—thefather—she knows with the person the Rosettis claim him to be. Though she’s not voiced it aloud, some small part of her knows that no matter what the countess or the viscount say, she’ll need to hear it from her father’s lips; only then will she truly believe him capable of such a heinous act.
Taking a deep breath, Nadia folds the crisp parchment and slips it into the bosom of her borrowed gown. For now, she’ll put the letter away and out of her mind. A time will come to face her father, but she’s not yet mustered the courage for such a feat.
The sheer curtains catch the gentle breeze as she stands and moves toward the closed door. Before exiting the room, she runs a hand over her hair and smooths her expression until not a hint of agitation remains.
Out in the hall, footmen and maids bustle this way and that. One of the young Rosetti children, Luca, runs past, a dog yipping at his heels. “Don’t tell,” he whispers, then scurries around a corner before his tutor can catch up.
Seeming slightly out of breath, the young woman pauses to offer Nadia a polite curtsy, then hurries away, checking the doors and hallways as she goes.
The spectacle makes Nadia smile, and she wonders—not for the first time—what it would be like to have a houseful of her own children, all up to their own antics, causing mischief everywhere they go. There would be light and sound andlife, and someone would always be around to share a word or a laugh. Gone would be the long quiet days she spent in her childhood home, when the endless silence was punctuated only by the creaking of wooden floors as servants came and went.
It’s this thought Nadia holds in mind as she sets off through the Rosetti manor. Though she’s been here a few days now, she’s not spent enough time out of her room—Contessa’s old room—to have secured a firm grasp on the layout of the house. And so she finds herself drifting down an unfamiliar hallway, stopping to gaze upon portraits of the family members.
When she arrives at Theodore’s, she pauses. He sits for the artist, a stoic expression furrowing his brow and narrowing his green eyes. His hair is slightly tousled, and that curl swoops just above his brow, ever present and beguiling. The cut of his jaw is handsome and sharp, and Nadia imagines, just for a moment, her teeth sliding along his throat, sinking into his flesh. The vision warms her belly and stirs longing between her legs.
Footsteps sound down the hall, accompanied by an unfamiliar feminine scent, and Nadia turns her head slightly. It takes a moment for the woman to step into view, and when she does, an instinctual hiss rises in Nadia’s throat.
It’s the woman Theodore was dancing with the night of the Rosetti ball, then again at the Oakley soiree.
The woman looks poured of sunshine. Her hair glimmers with golden undertones even in the low light cast by the distant windows, and her blue eyes are cold and keen.
Her stride falters when she meets Nadia’s gaze, and palpable tension stirs in the air between them, like the deadly calm before a storm.
Nadia studies the stranger from her head to her toes and is displeased to find nary a hair out of place. It would be a challenge to find a woman primmer and more polished than this pale-haired beauty.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the woman says. Even her voice is luxurious.
Nadia draws herself up, her feelings of enmity both intense and unfamiliar. What is this feeling roiling in her gut? She’s never quarreled with any woman, let alone one she’s never even spoken to, so why have these feelings of hostility come over her?
“I don’t believe we have. I’m—” The new name, still that of a stranger, catches in her throat.
In the brief moment of hesitation, the woman smirks, and it makes Nadia murderous. She tries to rein the feelings in, but they refuse to be suppressed.
“Nadia,” she finally says, lifting her chin proudly. “Nadia Magdalena.”
At the mention of her surname, the woman’s eyes narrow, but only for a moment. Then she smiles, her teeth white and sharp, though no fangs are in sight. “Lord Rosetti told me we had a visitor, but he didn’t mention you were a Magdalena. I thought Clan Magdalena died out long ago. Murdered, weren’t they?”
The jab lands, as it was no doubt meant to, even though Nadia has only just learned of her ancestry. She curls her hands into fists at her sides, then tries to hide them behind her skirt.
“It seems you were mistaken, Miss...?”
“Kazamir. Honora Kazamir.” She tilts her head, more feline than woman, and her gaze moves up and down, sending shivers along Nadia’s body.“You look vaguely familiar, Miss Magdalena.” One brow arches, and her lips turn up in a nettling smile. “Ah, I remember you. The first time I saw you, I believe you were sprawled across the ballroom floor. Dreadfully discomfiting, wasn’t it?”
Nadia flashes back to that evening—to Theodore’s hand on Miss Kazamir’s waist, their inhuman beauty as they floated across the dance floor—and an intense need to defend what isherscomes over her, flooding her veins with fire.
