Return to the House of Sin

[This story is dedicated to anyone who wishes to begin again, recreate themselves, find a new life within the old and aspire to be happy.

To my readers, thank you for your support and for spending time with my characters. I appreciate all of you and enjoy our conversations online.

And to my mom, most of all. ]

Chapter One (#u2b54607f-70a3-52ce-b648-a92d62979884)

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 better than to interrupt. Like a kettle filled with steam, once Amanda’s impetuous temper found a vent, she would cool and in good time regain a sensible demeanour. It wasn’t Raelyn’s fault their plans had taken an unfortunate and inconvenient turn. No one controlled the weather and the unrelenting rains left the roadways muddy and impassable. Although the whole of their sudden jaunt across the continent did find its root in Raelyn’s misfortune, much like their miserable stretch of travel.

All day, gloomy clouds mocked their progress. Mile after mile of roads lined with bare crab apple trees passed amidst dusty, bleak nothingness, mute until an onslaught of rain struck with vehement insistence, the sound of the relentless downpour akin to Raelyn’s tears inside the carriage. Wasn’t their extended travel sufficient punishment? Watching her sister’s genuine discontent reminded of the delicacy of Raelyn’s disposition in comparison to her own. Clenching her teeth and praying for patience, Amanda’s remorse had transformed into fortitude. Each raindrop’s ping on the coach roof counted the seconds until it became the drum of her pulse. Somehow they’d managed to arrive at the wharf without further complications.

At this very moment, their father sought the necessary information concerning their passage while Amanda, Raelyn and their maid, Enid, waited across the room. It was Raelyn who’d insisted they continue through the torrential downpour, but Amanda was hard-pressed to place further blame on her sister’s shoulders. While Raelyn nursed her broken heart, Amanda was equally as eager to accomplish their itinerary.

‘Whatsoever will we do if we miss our passage? Another ship won’t leave for France until a fortnight or longer.’ Raelyn’s voice turned an odd tone, caught somewhere between incredulity and barely constrained exasperation. Amanda identified the emotion as fear, her sister unwilling to be left alone with her thoughts of what might have been.

Like her sister, Amanda wanted to leave Italy as soon as possible. France was the last stop on their travel agenda and then they would return to England. The whole of it amounted to a month’s worth of unexpected inconvenience because Raelyn had become entranced with her suitor, bewitched by his promises, and subsequently jilted. Whenever Amanda recalled these facts, she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Raelyn was a darling of the ton, sought by the handsomest suitors and invited to every distinguished event. Amanda reasoned this occurred because Raelyn carried herself with unmatched grace and delicate composure or was born under a lucky star she’d missed at birth. Either way, her sister accomplished effortless charm. Even through despairing sadness, Raelyn’s tears were neat, her lids hardly swollen, and lashes a-glisten. No doubt several gentlemen awaited her return, eager to console and offer entertainment after her recent disappointment.

Of course, Father’s suggestion of a change of scenery and distraction through adventure had snagged Raelyn’s attention like a fish to bait, her sister anxious to escape the pitying gossip and perfunctory sideways glances sure to feed society’s vicious rumour mill once the emotional debacle became lively fodder. With no choice but to accompany them, as Raelyn and Father composed her entire family, Amanda left behind numerous friends, several social engagements and a stack of tempting invitations for the season.

It was imperative their travels adhered to the schedule Father had planned or Amanda would never be returned to England in time to attend the event of a lifetime, a grand soiree in celebration of Princess Charlotte’s presentation at court. It promised to be spectacular and still nursing her wounds after missing the Frost Fair in February due to her sister’s struggles with an impertinent cold, Amanda was determined to ameliorate her disappointment by attending the festivities. At last, she would have the opportunity to prove her own elegance and self-reliance. She’d practised a delicate laugh when no one was in earshot and reminded herself often to tuck in her elbows, skirts, and slippers for that matter. Her tendency to fall prey to endearing mishaps, as her father labelled them, was an attribute she strove to expunge from her person.

Therefore, she held no dreamy notion of falling in love or dancing with a handsome suitor at said event. Love seemed a fickle and somewhat cruel emotion. On most days, she genuinely sympathized with Raelyn’s misfortune, though lately all that wasted effort did nothing more than convince Amanda she wanted no part of sentimental entanglements. Father had never loved another after Mother passed away and Raelyn’s heart seemed devastated beyond repair. Who would invite the painful torment labelled true love?

Now, a random ray of sunlight brightened the room to prove the skies had at last cleared and she huffed a breath of impatience as Father approached with a strained smile.

‘Everything is in order. I have the paperwork in hand for our passage to France. It’s a miracle the ship hasn’t left yet, but in that, the poor weather showed us favour.’ The Earl of Huntingdon dashed a glance in their direction. ‘We haven’t a moment to spare. Follow me. I’ll cut a path through the confluence outside the embarkation area, while the both of you continue to follow behind me. It’s crowded and we’ll need to move quickly. I’ve hired two footmen to facilitate our trunks aboard the ship.’ He motioned towards the door. ‘This way now. France awaits.’

With their paperwork in hand, Father led them wharf-side, a proverbial stone’s throw to the anchored ships awaiting wind to billow their sails. Raelyn straightened her shoulders and stepped before Amanda, two inches taller for the two years she’d lived longer. As sisters, they resembled each other in appearance, but in disposition Amanda and Raelyn couldn’t be more opposed. Raelyn believed in fate and love, instant attraction and a benevolent force greater than herself. She found love often, with an intensity that almost frightened.

Amanda worked with fact and bald scepticism, emboldened by too much bookish education and a discombobulated belief she was better off without the trappings of marriage. She often found herself at the mercy of confusion and mishap, to which she had no ready explanation.

Regardless of these contrary viewpoints, Amanda followed Raelyn and Enid in the shadow of the earl, across the busy thoroughfare and towards the wooden slats of the walkway leading to the docks. The stench of rotten fish, abandoned cargo and assorted rubbish assailed her senses as she neared the embarkation platforms and she turned her head away. As Father had mentioned, the area was overcrowded with pedestrians, travellers, carriages and cattle, though Amanda did her best to keep pace with her sister.

At one juncture, she was jostled so unexpectedly, she glanced over her shoulder to ensure the footmen followed, all at once apprehensive amidst the bustling assemblage. Where were all these people going in such a hurry? Formal travelling habits and uniformed livery became a blur of brown and grey against the drab wooden crates and pilings. A trickle of unease warned she needed to pay attention. Was that an angel whispering in her ear? She liked to believe when a forewarning occurred it was her mother offering wisdom. Amanda should take heed.

Careful to keep sight of the top of her sister’s bonnet as it wove through the press a few yards ahead, she raised her eyes towards the sky. Like looming giants in a fairy-tale story, the enormous hulls of two handsome galleons grew larger with every step. The vessels might have been sisters, much like herself and Raelyn, with only the slightest of differences when one examined each closely. Paused by a sense of awe, the galleon on the left unfurled a huge sail. The white cloth snapped full of wind, the subsequent jolt of the ship against its ropes startling. Best Amanda cease daydreaming and hasten aboard.

Dropping her attention, she searched the crowd ahead, all at once aware she’d become separated from her father and sister by the urgent press of interlopers and travellers. With a quick scan backwards, she noticed the footmen were no longer visible. Stifling a gasp, she hurried along and searched her memory for Father’s description of the ship. Had he mentioned the galleon’s name? Her eyes scanned the gold lettering painted in a flourish across each ship. Alas, their names were in Italian. She wouldn’t find help there. Sidestepping a suspicious-looking puddle, she pushed her boots into motion and scurried towards the gangway, anxious to locate her family and have her journey safely underway.

Chapter Two (#u2b54607f-70a3-52ce-b648-a92d62979884)

‘This seems…’ Antonio Ferrisimo, Count of Este, sliced the air to his left with a sweeping gesture meant to indicate the full-rigged galleon’s main deck. ‘What is the word? What word?’