“I have a townhouse in the city. I’ll take you there. We’ll eat fresh seafood and watch the boats pass all day long. We’ll drink wine and sunbathe on my terrace. I’ll show you where Marco Polo lived, and we’ll walk through the square of the Basilica di San Marco. You’ll breathe in the beauty of Venice in all its glory. And when the leaning bell towers chime in unison on Sunday, you’ll know you’re in one of the greatest cities in the world. I’ll take you there the morning after our wedding night—after the doctor I’ll have waiting at my home removes any trace of that Scottish bastard from your womb.”
He took a step closer, his hand crushing my fingers. “And when you’re healed, I will take you morning, noon, and night, and you will cry out that you love it.”
I couldn’t stop the bile from surging up my throat, but if I embarrassed myself by vomiting on Raphael, there would surely be hell to pay when we were alone, away from the watchful eyes of my family.
“Excuse me,” I whispered. “I need to use the restroom.”
Raphael’s grip tightened a fraction and then he released me.
I set my glass of water down on a coaster that would protect the antique table’s varnish and headed for the door.
Luca was standing by the exit, talking with one of Raphael’s brothers when he noticed my movements. “Where are you going, cousin?”
“I need to use the restroom,” I said, far more calmly than I felt.
Luca’s gaze searched my face and then darted to Raphael. He slowly stepped out of my path, clearing the way for me.
I didn’t look behind me as I all but ran from the room. No doubt I would’ve seen the sickening twist of Raphael’s lips.
When I made it to the privacy of my bathroom, I closed the door and slid down against it. I brought my legs up to my chest and rested my forehead on my knees.
And then I wept.
Because on the morrow, I would marry a monster.
And Hadrian hadn’t come.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Blazing torches guarded the patio while we dined alfresco. The table was laden with a cream-colored tablecloth and white bone china. I sat next to Raphael while servants poured us wine from the Moretti vineyards.
Conversation was lively and everyone was boisterously animated—everyone except me.
Raphael’s menacing presence dampened any chance I might’ve had of enjoying the meal. The toasts began after the main course was cleared. Every male stood and raised a glass to the joining of the Moretti and Foscari families by marriage, a calculated ending to years of strife between them.
Dessert was served. I kept my gaze trained on my plate so I didn’t have to see the smiles resulting from my sacrifice.
Lost in inner turmoil, I flinched when I felt Raphael’s hand settle on my thigh in a possessive hold underneath the table.
When Lorenzo, Raphael’s brother, stood to make the final toast of the evening, Raphael’s fingers wandered toward the apex of my thighs.
I instinctively clamped my legs together, but my unwillingness only made Raphael intensify his effort. It was clear that he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.
As his brother droned on in Italian, Raphael’s gaze shifted and momentarily rested on me. He arched a brow and we silently battled.
With a shaky exhale, I unclenched.
Raphael’s smile was triumphant, and he was so consumed with thoughts of touching me, he didn’t notice when I grabbed my dessert fork. Lifting the edge of the tablecloth so that I could see his hand, I jabbed the utensil into the fleshy skin between his thumb and forefinger.
Raphael snatched his hand back and recoiled away from me in an instinctive full body retreat, causing his knee to hit the underside of the table with a dense thud. Glasses trembled and liquid sloshed; silverware clattered against china.
His reaction caused Lorenzo to stop mid-speech, and everyone at the table turned to look in our direction. I picked off the corner of the lemon ricotta cake and stuck it in my mouth.
“Delicious,” I murmured and then smiled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raphael’s jaw clench. I looked at him. “Is it not to your liking, my love?” I purred. “Try the chocolate raspberry torte. It might be more your style.”
Raphael struggled to maintain control of his emotions. Eventually the color in his face returned to normal. He smirked at me. Only his eyes betrayed the truth, and they promised retribution when we were alone again.