Venice Vampyr: Final Affair (7 page)

“Ready, Signora?” her maid asked and met her eyes in the mirror.

She nodded and stood.

Raphael waited for her at the foot of the stairs. She watched him as she slowly glided down, step-by-step, holding her gown slightly off the floor so she wouldn’t trip.

Isabella looked at her new husband, who seemed frozen where he stood, his lips slightly parted, his eyes glued to her person. His attire was of the latest fashion. These weren’t the clothes she’d lent him the night before. It appeared he’d sent a servant to retrieve some of his own garments.

She let an appreciative glance travel from his head to his feet and felt her sex clench. She’d never seen a more virile man, who could ooze sex like a poppy oozed opium, and who was just as dangerous and forbidden. His eyes were darker now, and they pinned her with a stare so intense she wondered whether she’d done something wrong. Was he angry with her?

As she reached the foot of the stairs, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips for a kiss. Then he took a step closer. His voice was low when he addressed her. “Angel, you take my breath away. I wish we didn’t have to go to this ball to save your reputation—I’d much rather continue ruining you.”

Raphael dipped his head to kiss her cheek, then whispered into her ear, “You make me so hard, I can’t guarantee that the next time I ravish you will be in a bed.”

Her breath hitched at his words. She didn’t care where he took her next, as long as he took her. Her cheeks flushed at her scandalous thoughts. Where had all her manners gone? Had she thrown them to the wind?

When he straightened and looked at her, a knowing grin flashed over his features. He offered her his arm, and she took it, not only because it was expected of her, but also because her stomach was a nest of butterflies and her knees made of pudding.

“Now try not to think of what I’m planning to do to you later or your rather flushed face will attract every scoundrel at the ball like a pot of honey.” He dropped his voice to a deep gravel. “And this honey is mine.”

Isabella shot him a shocked glare. He responded by laughing. A full, uninhibited, happy laugh.

Chapter Ten

The Doge’s Palace was illuminated as if a fire were blazing within. All of Venice was assembled: nobles, wealthy merchants, and foreign dignitaries. It was
the
event of the year. Raphael had never attended before. He lived a life that didn’t allow for exposure. Living at the edge of society—albeit in pure luxury—made it easier to conceal what he was. Tonight he would brave society’s scrutiny for one reason and one reason only: to save his lovely wife’s reputation.

Wife. What a strange concept. He’d never thought he’d get married, let alone in such a hurried way with not even his brother Dante in attendance. When he’d sent a servant to their house for garments with a quick note that he was all right, it was still daylight and therefore impossible for Dante to join him. He’d therefore refrained from telling him that he was getting married, because most certainly, his dear brother would have tried to get to him to stop this foolish undertaking.

Isabella fidgeted next to him as they neared the entrance to the hall and edged forward in the line, so their arrival would be announced to all assembled. He dropped his head to hers and noticed for the first time that he was a good head taller than her. He liked that—it made him feel even more like her protector.

“Don’t be nervous. I promise you, all will be settled.” He clasped his hand over her fingers, which she’d hooked under his arm. They were ice cold. “And when this is over, I’ll get you so hot, you’ll never have cold fingers again.” He loved rattling her, and the jolt in her body told him he’d succeeded again. By the end of the evening she would be panting for release, and he’d be only too happy to oblige his darling wife.

“Names,” the tall announcer prompted him as they reached the top of the line.

Raphael bent toward him and gave their particulars. A moment later, the booming voice of the man announced them to the room: “Signore Raphael di Santori and his wife, Signora Isabella di Santori, formerly Signora Tenderini, the widow of the late Giovanni Tenderini.”

Dozens of heads snapped in their direction, and the collective gasps traveled through the crowd, like a ripple on the water’s surface when disturbed by a pebble. Just as he’d expected, Massimo had already spread the news about Isabella’s ruin. Just as well. This way, Raphael could undermine his credibility.

Keeping Isabella close by his side, he made his way down the stairs and waded into the mass of people whose curious and doubting stares followed them. His goal was single-minded: they needed to see the Doge. His authority alone would silence their wagging tongues. Merely announcing one’s marriage wasn’t sufficient in this case. They had to prove it.

As they approached the place where the Doge sat on his throne to hold audience, they were stopped by one of his attendants. Raphael looked past him and caught the Doge’s eye. The man waved toward him, curiosity flashing in his eyes.

“Let them pass.”

Raphael bowed in front of the older man and noticed how Isabella fell into a deep curtsy. From where the Doge sat, he must be able to see deep into Isabella’s neckline and get more than a glimpse of her ample bosom. Raphael took her hand and pulled her up.

“Your Excellency,” he greeted the powerful man, who would help them restore Isabella’s reputation. “May I introduce my wife and—”

“No introduction is necessary. I caught your name well enough as you entered.” Then his eyes settled on Isabella. “Nasty things have been said about you, Signora.”

“All untrue,” Raphael offered.

The Doge gave him an impatient glare. “I addressed your
wife,
if she is indeed your wife.”

Raphael held his tongue and squeezed Isabella’s arm in reassurance.

“Your Excellency, all rumors are untrue, and I’m certain no harm was intended. However, it merely appears that the person who spread those rumors was misinformed about my status,” Isabella said.

“And would you care to correct this misunderstanding now?”

“Indeed. My wedding to Signore di Santori took place yesterday, and it appears the notices I was planning to have delivered to Venetian society have been delayed. I will make sure my personal attendant makes haste.” Her voice was steady now, and only Raphael could feel the light tremble in her body. He tried to soothe it by gently stroking her arm.

“And you have proof that such a wedding took place? I hope you don’t mind my being a little cynical, but as you can imagine, once a claim has been made, it is up to me to verify it.”

Isabella nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Raphael reached into his pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper. She smiled at him when she took it. Then she looked back at the Doge, who motioned her to approach.

When the man took the paper from Isabella’s hands, Raphael could fairly hear her heart pounding. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything. The ceremony as well as the priest had been genuine. The only thing he’d manipulated with his powers of persuasion was the date on the wedding certificate.

When the priest had signed and dated it, Raphael had sent his suggestions into the man’s mind and made him write a different date: one day earlier. That way, Massimo couldn’t claim they’d only gotten married after he’d discovered them in Isabella’s bedchamber. They could claim that Massimo had intruded the morning after their wedding night. The scandal would be all his.

After many long seconds, the Doge looked up and rose from his chair. He nodded to one of his attendants, who pounded a long staff onto the floor to ask for silence in the hall. The chatter of the crowd subsided.

“My dear friends, I would like you to join me in congratulating Signore and Signora di Santori on their recent nuptials.”

Gasps went through the crowd yet again, but before any kind of cheer could break out, a man pushed through. Raphael recognized him immediately: Massimo.

“That’s not possible!” he cried as he rushed toward them.

“Are you calling me a liar?” the Doge asked, his voice tight and threatening.

Instantly, Massimo bowed. “Of course not, your Excellency.” Then he straightened. “I am merely saying it appears rather sudden. And as a close relative, I was not informed.” He glared at Isabella, and Raphael tightened his grip around her arm to pull her closer.

“You are informed now,” was the Doge’s reply before he turned. “Dismissed.” The man had clearly lost interest.

When Massimo turned back to him and Isabella, his eyes were full of hatred. “You scheming, no-good—”

Raphael snatched the man’s throat so quickly he had no time to react. He ignored the stares of the people around him. “Say the word, and I will call you for a duel. Just to warn you, I’m an expert in any weapon you might choose. So I would tread carefully now when you speak about my wife.”

He sensed a tightening of his jaw, evidence that his fangs itched to descend, ready to attack. Quickly, he dropped his grip and turned away from Massimo. He couldn’t risk public exposure.

“Isabella, would you like to dance?” Not waiting for her answer, Raphael pulled her into his arms and twirled them onto the dance floor. Her body pressing against him soothed his anger. He’d been close to killing her cousin right there in full view of everybody. It wouldn’t do. The man would die, soon, and without any witnesses.

Chapter Eleven

Isabella waited for Raphael to retrieve their cloaks and accepted another couple’s well-wishes. After a few dances with her new husband, during which he’d plied her ears with scandalous words not suitable to be repeated anywhere, he’d finally declared that they’d spent sufficient time at the ball and could return home.

She was relieved. Despite the fact that the Doge had declared their marriage legitimate, she didn’t like the stares people gave her. Was it her gown, or was it her husband they looked at? Or maybe it was the fact that she felt flushed, not by the warmth in the large hall, but by the words Raphael had whispered to her on a continuous basis. And by his hard length, which she’d felt while dancing with him.

She shivered when she felt Raphael’s hands on her shoulders, spreading her cloak over her, then tying it at her throat.

“You were the most beautiful woman at the ball.” His breath caressed her neck, and she tilted it slightly, offering it to him. He pressed a soft kiss against her skin, and she felt her blood warm. A moment later, he turned her to face him.

“Here, put this on.”

She looked down at his hands and took a mask from him. “Why do you want me to wear a mask?”

“I’ll explain later.”

He put his own half-mask on and helped her tie hers. It hid most of her face, but her mouth remained free and unimpeded. When she turned and looked into the full-length mirror in the hallway, all she saw was a stranger in a long red dress covered by a black cloak. The black mask made her face unrecognizable.

“Come,” Raphael urged her and led her into the night.

The streets were teeming with revelers, many wearing masks, some elaborate, others as simple as her own. Everybody was the same. Class was forgotten. It was how it was meant to be. During carnival, a pauper could be a prince. A noble could be a pirate. A whore could be a lady.

Isabella looked with wonder at the different people and masks as Raphael led her through the busy alleys around Piazza San Marco. The further they walked, the quieter the streets became. She barely noticed how far they’d gone because she was so fascinated with the activities in the streets.

She was surprised when Raphael suddenly stopped under an arched walkway and pressed her back to a wall behind her, his body flush against hers. “And now, my sweet wife, it’s time to consummate our marriage. I think I’ve waited long enough.” The predatory glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

Isabella gasped in shock. “Here?”

His lips ghosted over her skin, his breath caressing her as he answered. “Yes, my beautiful angel, right here. That’s why we’re wearing masks. I’ll ravish you here, where any passerby might see us. Yet, they won’t know who we are. All they’ll think is that a man is fucking a whore, and they won’t care. Maybe they’ll simply watch.”