by Tina Folsom
Her lips trembled as she spoke, and Raphael couldn’t help himself. He walked to her and lifted her into his arms.
“No,” she protested, “it’s no use. You’d better go.”
He tipped her chin up with his hand and made her look at him. Unshed tears stood in wait around the rim of her eyes. He wouldn’t let her cry them. “There is something I can do.”
A flicker of hope appeared in her irises.
“Do you have a servant you trust implicitly?”
She gave him a curious look, then nodded. “Adolfo, my gondolier. He’s loyal to me.”
“Good. Send him for a priest.”
“A priest?” She tried to pull away from him, but he didn’t allow it. Her eyes widened, and he knew then that she understood. Her breath rushed out of her lungs. “No. You can’t do that. I won’t allow it.”
He hadn’t pegged her to be this stubborn, but no matter, she would not win this fight. “You have no choice. Only if we can prove that we’re married can a scandal be averted. You know it as well as I do.”
She shook her head. “But you can’t just offer for me and sacrifice yourself. All you wanted was a tumble. It’s not fair to you.”
“Fair? Isabella, I put you in this position. I ruined you. I would be a cad if I didn’t take you as my wife now that our affair has been exposed. Surely you can’t want a scandal?”
She was backed into a corner, and he could kill two birds with one stone. By marrying her, he could insinuate himself into her family. He would be able to get close to her despicable cousin, and, with some luck, find out who the other members of the Guardians were. Nobody would suspect him. However, he would have to be careful.
“Of course I don’t want a scandal, but I’m not going to ruin your life in addition to mine.”
“Ruin my life?” He pulled her closer to his chest, crushing her bosom against him and sliding his hand onto her ass. “My sweet angel, if I get to spend every night with you in the way we spent the last one, I can see how my life would indeed be ruined.” Yes, his second reason for marrying her was right there: he didn’t yet want to let go of the passionate woman in his arms.
Raphael smirked and ground his cock against her. It was still semi-hard, and the way her barely-covered ass felt under his palm made sure all available blood was flowing to it now to bring him to another raging hard-on. “So, here’s your choice: marry me so we can spend every night of our future giving each other pleasure, or ...” He paused and stroked her intimately, knowing he had no second suggestion.
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes. Now get dressed before I drag you back to bed. The next time I ravish you, it’ll be as your husband.” His chest swelled as he said the words, words which should have scared him and made him run the other way. But to know she would be his wife in a few short hours filled him with unknown pride.
***
Isabella spent most of the day in a trance. Raphael had done the honorable thing and married her. She hadn’t expected it. There was no reason why he should. He had nothing to lose—only she did. But she wasn’t brave enough to reject his kind offer, despite the fact that she feared his kindness would wear off soon when he was stuck with the reality of marriage. For a brief moment, she wondered whether he would have married her if she weren’t a wealthy woman, but she pushed away that thought. Everything about his appearance and manners told her that he didn’t need her money.
She allowed Elisabetta to fuss over her hair as she piled it high on her head. She’d chosen a dress made of red silk for the ball. It had been made for her only weeks before Giovanni’s death, and she’d never before worn it. But when Raphael had discovered it in her closet, he had assured her it would be the right gown for the occasion. She needed to make a statement: she wouldn’t cower in the face of vicious rumors.
“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 t
he 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.”
She tried to push him away, and with him her own scandalous desire to do just what he was suggesting. Her body already responded to his salacious words, her sex clenching in anticipation of his body claiming her. And the thought that somebody could see them sent a hot flame through her core. No, she couldn’t allow this to happen.
Raphael encircled her wrists and held them to the wall, then dipped his head to where her bosom heaved. He licked his tongue over her twin swells in a low and sensual stroke and inhaled. “I can smell your arousal, my love.”
Panic gripped her. If she allowed him to do this, he would realize that she was no lady, that she was no better than a whore, because only a whore would allow herself to be ravished in such a public place. And then? Would he toss her away when he saw what she really was? A deeply disturbed woman with lusty feelings, more debauched than any whore in the city?
“Please, Raphael, let us go home,” she pleaded, but knew her voice was hoarse with the lust she could barely contain. She didn’t understand why he conjured these feelings up in her. Her first husband never had. She’d been the dutiful wife, and while she had enjoyed when Giovanni had bedded her, she’d never lost control or felt the desire to do scandalous things like those Raphael proposed.
Isabella felt her bodice loosening and realized that Raphael was undoing some of the hooks that held her dress up. She tried to protest, but couldn’t because his lips on her skin made her brain unable to form any words. When his hands pulled down her bodice by only a few centimeters, it was sufficient for her breasts to pop out of their cage. Cold air blasted against them, tightening her nipples instantly.
Greedily, Raphael clamped his mouth over one nipple and sucked, while his hand cupped her other breast and kneaded it. Isabella couldn’t stop the moan from leaving her lips, just as she couldn’t stop the liquid that pooled between her legs. “Oh, God,” she whispered breathlessly.
