Return to the House of Sin. Anabelle Bryant

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СКАЧАТЬ One

      Bastard was a label he’d never own.

      His blood ran pure blue.

      And as a wealthy, revered paradigm of the English gentleman, heir to a barony, Lord Crispin Daventry was far better than his current self-destructive behaviour, the like spurred from a desire for distraction and instinctual escape of loathing. His indulgent routine of inebriation, debauchery and reckless gambling masked a quelling desire to smother emotion, blot out bitter memory, and at last forget, if only for one night.

      Because she’d chosen a bastard.

      He stared out of the window of his spacious apartments overlooking Canale de Grazia and watched the gleaming rays of sunrise shimmer across the water in glorious shades of marmalade and gold. Heat carried on the ocean breeze to caress his jaw, a gesture so ephemeral one believed the dawn hour in Venice possessed enchantment unknown anywhere else on Earth. As was habit, he witnessed the day’s awakening and considered his options; how to become a better man, return to London and repair his tarnished reputation, all too quick to recognize the foolish litany as a composition of deceit and reassurances.

      With a smirk, he reached across the gilt trestle table for a glass of merlot, abandoned half full during last night’s amusements. His residence housed the culmination of each evening’s conquests, his popularity within the city’s fast set somewhat legendary. He laboured to perpetuate the illusion lest anyone suspect he was not as he seemed and the masquerade of vengeful rogue, scorned lover and unrepentant aristocrat be destroyed. Somehow, he’d managed to grow comfortable within that particular lie.

      In one manner, he’d become what she’d wanted. A bastard. For no parent would wish him for a son, his transformation likely unrecognizable to his own mother, their ancestral relations decorous, straight-laced and, above all else, proper. This contrast, thrown against the local rakes who womanized and purported an ostentatious reputation of scandalous activity, granted him liberties. For while he indulged in dishonourable habits here in Venice, by being of golden English birth no one kept watch on his behaviour. Italians were generous with their admiration and stingy with opinion.

      His thoughts moved to his closest comrade, Antonio Ferrisimo, Count of Este. Were it not for their fast friendship, Crispin would never have found his place among Venetian society. Ferris provided a loyal, if somewhat reckless, alliance, and was the one person he would despair at leaving when he finally returned to England.

      With the help of the count, Crispin put forth a reputation soon multiplied by the masses, as a man outrageously wealthy and determined to win at any cost. He’d ruined men, caused women to beg, and left a trail of broken hearts and empty purses in his wake. He wasn’t an ordinary aristocrat in need of amusement, but an elite gambler, one without a heart and therefore unstoppable, as he would feel the tug of risk in every wager and ignore the momentary fright some men knew when in over their head. Unfortunately, this portrayal was mostly fiction.

      Crispin drained the glass and placed it down with deliberate care, the thought of his family left in London without explanation one of his crueller acts. Still, Venice had long ago become tedious and he’d lingered on, stalled by equal measures happenstance, survival and good fortune until practised dissolution became a way of life and moral code.

      He released an exhale of derisive contemplation. He’d abandoned England a year ago, the circumstances disreputable and problematic, and in turn changed in too many ways worth unriddling at the moment. For all his chary planning, he’d at last stopped running in Venice. How utterly ironic. To flee a broken heart and find oneself settled in the city of love.

       Love.

      The word burned like poison on his tongue.

      Love destroyed.

      He’d loved her with everything he had within him and he’d failed.

      This past year amidst his newly created life, he’d proven his worth as more than enough. The realization settled as he glanced over his shoulder where last evening’s company slept. Sex made for swift disillusion when one raced to outrun the past. He returned his eyes to the open window as the cerulean sky stretched and yawned, all at once awake and poised to place a tender kiss upon the water. It all seemed fitting. To tirelessly tread, submerge, drown, yet never escape the impetus to one’s misery as if caught in an in-between, his own personal purgatory.

      ‘Cara mia.’

      He didn’t turn at first, aware of what she admired. A broad back with nary a trace of excess, rigid strength divided by the natural depth of his spine, unwilling to yield as it scored hard planes of smooth muscle, two halves of the whole. Still, underneath, beneath muscle and sinew, he remained raw.

      He waited a few beats longer before he offered his attention.

      Daniela sat up, her eyes glossy and drowsed. The counterpane fell away to reveal seductive curves and delicate olive skin, her nipples erect and rosy, an invitation for his mouth to accept.

      ‘Come back to bed.’ She drew out each syllable in a seductive complaint, her voice as warm and silky as the sheets he’d left moments before. ‘It’s too early, tesoro.’

      Her distress prodded him to smile, though he dropped it away. Daniela was beautiful and insatiable, generous with her delectable body and adventurous in sensuality as if an innate quality of her culture. The variety of women he’d enjoyed since arriving embraced sexuality wholeheartedly, much to his pleasure. How unlike the reserved propriety of England’s females. With contrary convenience, Venice and its rich excess served as the ideal prescription for deflecting heartache and becoming lost in the lush temptation of an Italian actress.

      ‘Si, come back to bed.’

       Or two.

      Mirella pushed back against the pillows and lounged beside Daniela, her liquid gaze tracing over his height from head to waist, stalled there no matter he wore trousers caught low on his hips. From her shoulder, she collected a handful of unruly tresses, tangled from bed play, and dropped the weighty lengths to her back before pursing her lips in an enticing pout.

      ‘We were up all notte.’ She soothed a palm over the empty space on the linens which separated her from her sister. ‘Even a great leone needs his sleep.’ From the way she stroked her collarbone, fingertips trailing downward to brush lightly over her breast, she had anything but slumber in mind.

      Still, her tenuous command of his language was charming, her penchant for calling him a lion endearing, and he found himself beside the mattress and atop the sheets before he could ponder things further. Why waste time on mental anguish when one could sink into decadent abandon, the ladies anxious to chase away his sorrows? He murmured agreement as he pulled Mirella closer, Daniela’s breasts pressed tight against his back. Perhaps he would postpone his travel plans. England promised a world of confrontation and hurt, bitter truths and harsh expectation, while his delicious companions provided the opposite. Indeed, home would have to wait.

      ‘I wish we were home already.’ Lady Amanda Beasley whirled in a flurry of skirts, her temperament twisted halfway into an impatient fluster, her cheeks pinkened. Several curls tumbled from beneath the brim of her bonnet and her eyes snapped with alternating degrees of anger, frustration and outright bewilderment. ‘We’re polished society, daughters of the Earl of Huntingdon and respected members of the ton, but here we stand in a damp and drafty coaching inn at the mercy of an impertinent bout of disagreeable weather. What will happen next?’

      Her sister, Raelyn, knew СКАЧАТЬ