Venice Vampyr (Venice Vampyr #1)

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