PRINCE VITTORIO D’MARBURG of Andachstein was fed up. Bored. Even in Venice at the height of carnival season, even on his way to the most exclusive party of the festival, still the Playboy Prince couldn’t ignore the overwhelming sense of frustration that permeated his skin and drilled straight down into his bones.
Or maybe it was just the icy pricks from the February pea soup fog needling his skin that were turning his thoughts from carnival to cynical. It was a fog that turned the magical city invisible, precisely when the calles and narrow bridges were more crowded than ever with waves of costumed partygoers surging to and fro, competing for the available space—brightly garbed men and women for whom the fog failed to dampen the air of excitement and the energy that accompanied Carnevale.
It was if the floating city had been let off a leash and, fog or no, it was going to party.
Vittorio cut a swathe through the endless tide of carnival-goers, his cloak swirling in his wake, his mood blackening with every step.
The thronging crowds somehow parted and made way for him. He didn’t think too much about it. Maybe it was his warrior costume—a coat of mail and blue leather dressed with chain and gold braid—or maybe it was his battle-ready demeanour. Either way, it was as if they could read the hostility in his eyes as he headed towards the most exclusive party of the night.
And they could all see his eyes. Vittorio had given up playing with disguises when he was a child. There’d been no point. Everyone had always known it was him behind the mask.
Before the ancient well in the square that housed the Palazzo de Marigaldi, Vittorio’s long strides slowed. Ordinarily he would have been relieved to reach his destination and escape the exuberant crowds—should have been relieved—except for the fact that his father had all too gleefully shared the news in his latest call, just minutes earlier, that the Contessa Sirena Della Corte, daughter of one of his oldest friends, was opportunely going to be in attendance.
Vittorio snorted—just as he’d done when his father had told him.
Opportunely.
He doubted it.
Opportunistically would no doubt be a better word. The woman was a human viper draped in designer artistry, lying in wait for a royal title—which marriage to him would bestow upon her. And his father, despite Vittorio’s blanket protests, had encouraged her to pursue her desperate ambition.
Little wonder Vittorio was in no hurry to get there.
Little wonder that, despite the assurances he’d made to his old friend Marcello that nothing would stop him attending his party tonight, Vittorio’s enthusiasm had been on the wane ever since his father’s call had come through.
Dio.
He’d come to Venice thinking the famous carnival would offer an escape from the stultifying atmosphere of the palace and the endless demands of the aging Prince Guglielmo, but it seemed they had stalked him here—along with the Contessa Sirena.
His father’s choice for his next bride.
But after the experience of his first doomed marriage Vittorio wasn’t about to be dictated to again—not when it came to the woman who would share his marriage bed.
The crowds were thickening, party deadlines were calling, and their excitement was at odds with his own dark thoughts. He was a man out of place, out of time. He was a man who had the world at his feet, and destiny snapping at his heels. He was a man who wanted to be able to make his own choices, but he was cursed with the heritage of his birth and his need to satisfy others before he could entertain his own needs.
He all but turned to walk away—from his destiny as much as from the party. He wasn’t in the mood for going another few rounds with Sirena—wasn’t in the mood for her blatant attempts at seduction, the pouting, and the affected hurt when her all too obvious charms went ignored.
Except there was no question of his not going. Marcello was his oldest friend and Vittorio had promised him he would be there. Sirena would just have to keep on pouting.
But curse his father for encouraging the woman.
Something caught his eye. A flash of colour amongst the crowd, a static burst of vermilion amidst the moving parade of costumes and finery, a glimpse of a knee, down low, and a hint of an upturned angular jaw up high—like snatches of a portrait in oils when all around were hazy watercolours.
His eyes narrowed as he willed the surging crowd to part. Catching a glance of a dark waterfall of wavy hair over one shoulder when the crowd obliged, he saw the woman turn her masked face up to the bridge, moving her head frantically with every passing costume, scanning, searching through the short veil of black lace that masked the top half of her face.
She looked lost. Alone. A tourist, most likely, fallen victim to Venice’s tangle of streets and canals.
He looked away. It wasn’t his problem. He had somewhere to be, after all. And yet still his eyes scoured the square. Nobody looked as if they had lost someone and were searching for her. Nobody looked anywhere close to claiming her.
He