Neferet's Curse: A House of Night Novella (House of Night Novellas) Read Online Free PDF Page B

down my body, taking in my modest bicycle bloomers and my serviceable, unadorned flat leather shoes. “What you are wearing is lewd.”
    “Father, bicycle bloomers are what all the girls wear.”
    His eyes continued to stare at me, burning me from my waist down. I had to fist my hands at my sides to keep from covering myself.
    “I can see the shape of your body—your legs.” His voice sounded odd, breathless.
    My stomach heaved. “I-I will not wear them again,” I heard myself saying.
    “Be sure you do not. It isn’t proper—not proper at all.” His hot gaze finally left me. He pushed his hat firmly on his head and bowed sardonically to me. “I shall see you at dinner, where you will behave as, and be dressed in the fashion of, a civilized lady, worthy of her position as mistress of my home. Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “Carson!”
    “Yes, sir!” His poor valet, who had been hovering nervously in the corner of the foyer had jumped at Father’s violent tone and skittered to him, reminding me of a large, old beetle.
    “See that Miss Wheiler remains at home today, where she belongs. And get rid of that infernal bicycle!”
    “Very good, sir. I will do as you say…” The old wretch had simpered and bowed as Father had stalked from the house.
    Alone with him, Caron’s eyes flicked from mine to the tapestry on the wall behind us, then to the chandelier, then to the floor—everywhere except truly meeting my gaze. “Please, Miss. You know I can’t let you leave.”
    “Yes. I know.” I chewed my lip and added, hesitantly, “Carson, could you, perhaps, move my bicycle from the outbuilding to the gardening shed at the rear of the grounds instead of actually getting rid of it? Father never goes there—he’ll not know. I’m sure he’ll be more reasonable soon, and allow me to return to my club.”
    “I would like to, Miss, I would. But I cannot disobey Mr. Wheiler. Ever.”
    I’d turned on my heels and slammed the door to the parlor that had become mine. I hadn’t really been angry with Carson, nor did I blame him. I did understand all too well what it was to be Father’s puppet.
    That night I dressed carefully for dinner in my most modest gown. Father hardly glanced at me while he talked endlessly about the bank, the precarious state of finances in the city, and the impending World’s Fair. I rarely spoke. I nodded demurely and made agreeable noises when he paused. He drank goblet after goblet of the secretly watered wine and ate an entire rack of rare lamb.
    It wasn’t until he stood and bade me good night that his gaze lingered on mine. I could see that, despite the weakened wine, he’d had enough of it to flush his cheeks.
    “Good night, Father,” I said quickly.
    His gaze scalded from my eyes to my lips. I flattened them together, wishing they were less full, less pink.
    The gaze then went from my lips to the high bodice of my dress. Then, quite abruptly, he met my eyes again.
    “Tell Cook to have the lamb more often. And have her be sure it is as rare next time as it was tonight. I find I have a taste for it,” he said.
    “Yes, Father.” I kept my voice soft and low. “Good night,” I repeated.
    “You know you have your mother’s eyes.”
    My stomach heaved. “Yes. I know. Good night, Father,” I said for the third time.
    Finally, without another word, he’d left the room.
    I went to my bedchamber and sat in my window seat, my neatly folded bicycling bloomers in my lap. I watched the moon rise and begin to climb its way down the sky, and when the night was at its darkest, I made my way carefully, quietly, down the stairs, and out the rear door that led to the path, which emptied into our elaborate gardens. As I’d walked past the great bull fountain, I pretended that I was just another of the shadows surrounding it—not a living thing … not a girl who could be discovered.
    I’d found my way to the utility shed and discovered a shovel. Behind the shed, at the