The Honeymoon

  THE HONEYMOON

  Violet Winspear

  THE TWO SISTERS LOOKED ASTONISHINGLY ALIKE

  But that was where the similarities ended. For although Angelica was sensual and sophisticated, Jorja was gentle and meek, accustomed only to the sheltered life in her father's quiet vicarage.

  And now Renzo Talmonte, the man betrayed by Angelica was exacting revenge. He demanded that Jorja marry him instead, and she had no choice but to comply.

  Jorja should have been appalled, but she was not. For Renzo was an intoxicating, exciting man, and she found herself falling into an abyss of passion and love. But one doubt would always remain. Was it Jorja, herself, or her resemblance to her sister that stirred Renzo's desire?

  ...my heart shall grow

  Too close against thy heart to henceforth know

  Its separate trembling pulse ...

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Cut the cake!' everyone chorused.

  And with his ambiguous smile the bridegroom plunged a knife into the white icing of the wedding cake, evoking cheers and laughter from the throng of guests assembled in this hotel reception room overlooking the Marble Arch.

  One person in the room could have hurled the iced cake to the floor and trampled into pieces the silver horseshoe and the bells ... that person was the bride of Renzo Talmonte.

  In her classic gown of satin and lace she looked the traditional bride but inside Jorja was seething with emotion. The Reverend Michael Norman had chosen not to attend the wedding and she felt such a sense of injustice. She was here, with an unfamiliar ring on her left hand, in order to save her father from knowing that his beloved Angelica wasn't the angel he believed her to be.

  When Renzo Talmonte had come to Jorja in the garden of the rectory and shown her the letters which her sister had written to his brother, she could have choked with shame. Their erotica had been mingled with wild pleadings that Stelvio leave his wife and child. Outpourings of passion and possession which drove Jorja to rip the pages into shreds.

  'Those were copies,' Renzo informed her, and there among the roses of her father's garden Jorja saw the ruthless intention in his Latin eyes. 'She has run off with Stelvio, and I intend to be married by the time the affair has burned itself out. I shall be her sister's husband—your husband.'

  His words made no sense at first, then as Jorja felt their impact she backed away in panic from the lean Italian in the well-cut suit. 'You're crazy!' she exclaimed, and found herself flinching when he slightly raised the ebony stick which he carried. It seemed to add menace to his personality that a long-ago accident had left him with a leg which was noticeably less supple than the rest of him.

  When Angelica had brought him to the rectory to meet her family, he had surprised Jorja deeply. She had always known that her sister wanted to marry a good-looking man, but Renzo Talmonte displayed the breeding of a very old name, and it seemed to Jorja that he had a lot more in his head than her sister would ever appreciate.

  Upon being introduced to Jorja he had raised her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips. Their eyes had met and because she was unaccustomed to men of his stamp she could well have betrayed her thoughts. Thoughts she shouldn't have entertained ... that he was far too deep, and possibly too attached to a Latin code of morality to be the right man for Angelica.

  Had he read her eyes that day ... or misread them? Did he imagine that she, the stay-at-home daughter, had developed a hopeless crush on him? Was that why they now stood among the litter of her sister's love letters and he told her so purposely that he meant to marry her?

  Even if she had thought him mentally superior to Angelica, the contrast in their colouring had struck her as rather beautiful. For days the image of them together had haunted her.

  'Think over what I've proposed.' He studied Jorja there among the roses, taking in her sunlit hair, framing casually the reserved charms of her features. His eyes rested on the softly shaded hollow of her throat, where her quickened breathing stirred a slim gold cross on a chain. Her fingers sought the cross, as if for reassurance.

  'In a week's time,' he said, 'you can tell me if I'm to show Angelica's letters to your father. Their salacious detail should come as quite a shock to him.'

  It was a week of unbearable tension for Jorja; she prayed that he would come to his senses and stay away. But on the Saturday morning he arrived as promised and once again they confronted each other, the scent of the roses heavy on the air after a fall of rain.

  Jorja had no answer for him as he stood waiting for one. 'Don't mistake me,' he stirred fallen rose petals with the ferrule of his stick, 'the original letters are in my car and I'm sure your father will recognise their handwriting. He has a strict code of morals, has he not? Such a pity he failed to impose them upon your sister, though I don't think they've been lost on you. You have your share of the virtues.'

  'Your own virtue seems sadly lacking, signore, when you come here making threats that could break my father's heart.'

  'You can so easily keep it intact, signorina. You marry me!'

  'You're blackmailing me --' In reaching out as if to support a feeling of insecurity Jorja closed her hand on a rose bough laden with thorns. They hurt cruelly as they pierced her flesh, and she had to allow Renzo to remove the thorns with meticulous care, his dark head bent to her fair one. After binding her hand in his speckless handkerchief he took her into the house, and without giving her a chance he told her father they were going to be married.

  'But I don't understand --' The Reverend Michael Norman gazed at Renzo in astonishment. 'First you want Angelica for your wife and now the engagement is broken you want to take Jorja away from me.'

  'You can't keep Jorja always tied to housekeeping in this old house, with no life of her own to enjoy.' As Renzo spoke, Jorja wanted to protest against his every word. She tried to speak but the clamour inside her wouldn't make itself audible.

  'You permitted Angelica to go out into the world,' Renzo said, in the faultless English of the well-bred foreigner.

  'That was different,' Jorja's father argued.

  'How was it different.' Renzo laid a firm hand on Jorja's shoulder and compelled her to remain in the chair where he had seated her. His touch seemed to run down her arm and join the throbbing of her hand within the cool folds of his handkerchief.

  'Angelica didn't wish to remain at home.' The Reverend Michael cast a frown at Jorja. 'Though my daughters look alike, they have always had different ways. Please inform this man, Jorja, that your duty to me comes before marriage to him —the entire idea is untenable. I can't possibly give my permission!'

  'Jorja has given hers.' The lean hand pressed relentlessly upon her shoulder, warning of what he would do if she dared to defy him. With that chin, and those eyes, he looked proud as the Devil and Jorja didn't doubt that his pride had been injured by Angelica's behaviour ... perhaps even his heart, for she presumed he had one.

  She sat there, feeling torn between the will of the two men, biting back the words she was afraid to make audible.

  'You must know of a woman who will come to the rectory to keep house for you,' Renzo spoke to her father. 'Jorja has come to the time when she must live her own life.'

  'Will you please say something.' The Reverend Michael had his eyes fixed upon Jorja, as if compelling her to the obedience she had always shown him. 'You aren't going to leave me—you can't!'

  'Come, cara mia,' Renzo's fingers renewed their warning against the fine bones of her shoulder, 'tell your father that you are going to become my wife.'

  She glanced up at him and saw the threat smouldering at the centres of his Latin eyes. Oh God, she didn't know how to cope with a man so ruthless and determined; her life had been restricted
to a rectory in a country village where the daily pattern of life didn't get disturbed in this way. All she could be certain of was that he would disillusion her father about Angelica if she refused to comply with his outrageous demand on her.

  If she refused him, her sister would be exposed and her father would be bitterly hurt. To all outward appearance Angelica was the living image of their mother, and Daddy had loved her so dearly. Ever since her death he had seen her face and form reflected in Angelica.

  'Yes—I have agreed.' Jorja heard the words as if they came from someone else, for her voice sounded so strained as she spoke them. They were like words spoken in a dream, they were so unreal.

  For long moments her father gazed at her in silence, then at last he spoke, almost as if he were intoning a sermon from the pulpit. 'I would never have believed that a child of mine could betray me as you are doing.'

  'You will not use that word.' Renzo suddenly became angry, so that every feature of his Latin face was even more detailed. His look made Jorja realise that he did have feelings and they were still raw from Angelica's betrayal of him.

  Dismay clutched physically at Jorja. He had lost Angelica not only to his brother, but to Italian principles which were probably more deep in his bones than in Stelvio's. Though Angelica was the substance of his desire, Jorja was there in the flesh, her very attachment to her family making it possible for Renzo to bring about a marriage based on emotional blackmail.

  Jorja glanced from him to her father. The moment was hers, she could spell it all out and she wouldn't have to stand at the altar with a stranger and make vows about honouring and cherishing someone she neither knew nor loved.

  Her lips worked and she heard her own strained voice again. 'Aunt Beatrice will come and take care of you, Daddy. You know how much she dislikes that hotel where she's living.'

  'You are my daughter,' he said sternly. 'I have relied on you.'

  'Daughters are made for more than lifelong duty to a parent,' Renzo said curtly. 'The attitude is a selfish one, that a daughter should be denied a husband and children.'

  Evocative words which made Jorja realise what it would mean to be married to Renzo Talmonte. In no way was he suggesting a platonic relationship. He meant the marriage to be fully realised ... he meant her to be a wife in all that the word implied.

  Her fingers clenched over the hand which had been stabbed by thorns in the garden, and she almost welcomed the pain, for it seemed to numb her fears.

  'What have you done to your hand?' her father abruptly asked.

  'I—I tore it on a rose bush, Daddy.'

  His face registered no sympathy. 'Be warned,' he said, 'thorns will tear more than your hand if you marry this man who has courted your sister.'

  Jorja caught her breath. 'Oh, Daddy --' She desperately wanted him to know that she was protecting his feelings. That she was saving him from ever finding out that Angelica was far from being the angel he liked to call her.

  How unfair it was that love for her father tied her tongue, while Renzo's need for reparation made him so bitterly arrogant, so determined to show Angelica that she could be quickly and easily replaced by her younger sister.

  And six weeks later he had his way, and in the limousine which drove them to the wedding reception he drew Jorja into his arms and showed her with his kiss that even if she responded with no more warmth than a figure of ice, he would melt her when the time came.

  'A pity your father chose not to attend our wedding,' he said. 'I feel certain you wanted him there to give you away.'

  'Did you really suppose that he would attend?' She drew as far away as his strong arm would permit and with cool blue eyes she regarded him in his perfect grey suit. Oh, there was no denying his looks. If today he had married Angelica and she had been a guest at their wedding, then she would have thought him a handsome and distinguished bridegroom.

  To everyone in the church he must have seemed so, and no one who pelted them with confetti had any idea that those delicate rose petals and horseshoes had felt like pellets of ice beating against her satin and lace.

  There at the reception she stood among the wedding guests and felt as if she were alone on an island. The laughter and the speeches came to her from a distance, and if she was deemed a little quiet, then those who knew Angelica supposed that she was thinking of how quickly she had stepped into her sister's wedding shoes.

  'You look in need of champagne.' A flute of the golden wine was placed in her hand. 'I feel I can tell you to drink down every drop as I gave you away to Renzo.'

  She met Bruce Clayton's eyes and managed a brief smile. He and Renzo were both in the business of making films. Bruce directed many of the big productions for which Renzo composed his stunning music. A labour of love for Renzo whose main source of income derived from his investments in film and recording companies. On the surface he seemed detached from the world of commerce, but it was only a facade. His shrewd investments in successful companies had made him a very wealthy man.

  He had made it his business to tell Jorja certain things about himself. He came from an ancient Roman family which in days gone by had lived in palaces on the banks of the Tiber. But the Talmonte fortunes had fluctuated down the years until very little was left in the coffers for Renzo and his brother. Only a trust fund which enabled them to be educated, a few pieces of family jewellery and the remains of a wine cellar.

  The two young men had made their own fortunes. Renzo, with a natural ability to create music, had gravitated towards the composition of it and investment in the industry itself. Stelvio had become a successful lawyer, and it seemed to add to Renzo's bitterness that his brother should risk his career and his marriage, and prove himself less than trustworthy, by indulging in a love affair which had created unhappiness for all concerned.

  Jorja sipped her champagne, which on an empty stomach was making her head go round. Something in the way she looked at him made Bruce Clayton go to the buffet where he took a plate and forked ham and chicken salad on to it. He returned to Jorja's side with the food and insisted that she eat it.

  'I don't think I could ---' She broke off and gave a slight hiccup. 'Oops, I think I'm getting tiddly. The rector's daughter isn't used to ch- champagne.'

  'Come and sit down and eat some lunch.' Bruce propelled her into an alcove where a chair stood vacant. 'You'd better not be tiddly when Renzo finally detaches himself from Connie Caswell. I guess she's pumping him for something she can use in her gossip column.'

  'It would make for gossip, wouldn't it, Bruce?' Jorja pushed the food around the plate. 'Within two months of his broken engagement to a lovely model, well-known Italian composer weds her sister! It's bound to make the t-tongues wag. I bet everyone in this room is thinking that I've worked fast.'

  'A few of us are thinking that Renzo's struck lucky,' Bruce Clayton said quietly. His eyes dwelt on her face, framed by the bridal headdress which brought into focus a certain look which made other women in the room seem jaded and over-painted.

  'The majority are thinking that I've struck lucky,' Jorja murmured, and her gaze dwelt upon Renzo, his free arm in the grip of Connie Caswell's hand, tipped with bloodred fingernails. Renzo leaned on his stick as he listened to the woman's endless chatter, and something in his stance made Jorja wonder if his leg was aching. In brusque tones he had told her about his leg. It had been smashed in a riding accident; the horse had rolled on him and the surgeon had wanted to amputate because the fractures were so bad. He was eighteen at the time and his mother insisted that the broken bones be re-set and the leg put in plaster.

  The results had been less than satisfactory and ever since Renzo had assisted the leg with a walking stick. He had freely admitted to Jorja that as a youth he had hated his disability but the passage of the years had made him more tolerant of it. At least, he said, he didn't have to prove his machismo by competing with the squash players and the joggers. The leg didn't stop him from swimming or playing bridge.

  'Do try and eat a few bites o
f food,' Bruce Clayton urged. 'How about a slice of your own cake—it looks delicious.'

  She shook her head with a shudder. 'It would choke me,' she exclaimed.

  'Look, I'm worried about you.' Bruce hunched down until his eyes were on a level with hers. 'I know it's customary for a bride to be jittery on her wedding day but you seem positively— reluctant.'

  'Do I?' Her gaze wavered away from his; he had observant green eyes and she was afraid he was seeing more than he should. 'I've lived a quiet life, you know, and there must be at least a hundred people in this room. You and Renzo are used to the high life, but all these smart people with their smart talk are confusing to me.'

  'Is that all that's bothering you?' Bruce persisted.

  'Why should anything bother me?' And so saying she speared a piece of chicken and green pepper and forced the food between her lips. 'Apart from the fact that I'm a country girl who has just been married to a sophisticated man. Living with Renzo isn't going to be the same as living in a rectory—you see, I only look like Angelica. We're poles apart in temperament.'

  'Do you really think you look like her?' Bruce gave Jorja an intent look.

  'Renzo thinks I look like her.' With a supreme effort Jorja ate a piece of ham and tomato. 'He couldn't have the original so he's settled for the copy, and as we all know a copy always lacks the true value in the eyes of the owner.'

  'Is that how you think of Renzo, as your owner?' Bruce was frowning and his gaze had settled on the gold wedding band that was gemmed with sapphires, quite obviously chosen to reflect the azure of Jorja's eyes.

  'Look at him, Bruce, doesn't it show that ownership runs in his veins? He's a Talmonte and they trace their line back to the days of Roman supremacy. His name is in the history books alongside the name of Borgia.'

  When Bruce caught his breath Jorja realised that she was giving away a little too much of her feelings, and she forced a laugh. 'I—I suppose I'm a little unhappy because my father refused to attend the wedding. I've always looked after him, you see, and he was hurt that I should leave him. He thought I was content to remain at home --'