The Honeymoon Page 4

  'I—I wish you in hell.' Jorja spoke with a breathless intensity, saying things she would never have believed she could say, for she was still the girl from the rectory whose inclinations had never been those of Angelica. She was the girl who lifted worms off the pathways rather than see them drown when it rained. It hadn't mattered to her sister if she walked on those puny little creatures who wriggled in despair of ever finding the warm brown earth again.

  'Hell is easier to find than heaven,' Renzo murmured against her cheek, the chiselled shape of his lips brushing her skin. 'We have both discovered that, have we not?'

  'Yes.' She turned her head to escape his lips but they followed the movement and were suddenly warm against her neck. She shivered with emotions she didn't want to feel, and when he started to unbutton her coat she found herself powerless. He slid the cashmere from her shoulders and it fell to the floor, and when his hands enclosed her waist and she felt herself close against him, her knees went weak as water.

  She hunted wildly around in her mind for the words that would penetrate his shield of indifference towards her as a person whose moral rights he was brushing aside as if they meant nothing at all.

  'Two sisters,' he murmured, his eyelids heavy across the deep grey irises, 'one so eager to explore the pleasures of life, the other so indifferent. Or did you make yourself that way, Jorja, because you were afraid that deep down inside you might want the same things as Angelica? Shall I prove to you, amore mio, that your frosting is only on the surface?'

  'All you are proving to me, signore, is that you want to fantasise.' As she spoke Jorja could feel the disturbing pressure of his hands through the fabric of her dress. They had moved so they were closer to her breasts, and that petrifying weakness in her knees seemed to be spreading over her, as if the throbbing forces which she felt in his body were sapping the resistance in hers.

  'What do you mean by fantasise?' He slid his gaze slowly over her face, taking in the flush that was showing through heroine skin.

  'Y-you want to make yourself believe that you're with Angelica.' Jorja was trying desperately to stay cool in the heat of his closeness. She couldn't bear it that her composure was giving way to confusion. Always he was master of the situation; he knew how to turn every move to his advantage. No matter what she said to him, he seemed not to care ... but there had to be something that would make him care.

  'I would like to drop the subject of Angelica.' A crystal hardness had come into his voice. 'Do you hear me?'

  'You're very audible—oh!' She broke off with a gasp, for his lips were in the V of her dress, and she strained away from him until her spine ached. He wouldn't make her yield to him, and with every ounce of her will she tried not to feel his lips on her skin, nor the pressure of his muscular body.

  'I'm not hurting you, am I?' he breathed warmly into her ear.

  'Y-you know exactly what you're doing.' Insidiously her body was being detached from reason ... it wanted these sensations which Renzo was evoking as he moved his lips along the side of her neck. Even as her senses swam, Jorja could think of only one thing ... Renzo was making believe he held Angelica in his arms. His eyelids were heavy over his eyes and he was seeing only what he wanted to see; he-was holding and touching her sister.

  'Get away from me!' With all her might Jorja thrust at Renzo's shoulders, and as fury rose in her she struck at his face, wanting to hurt him for using her to salve his desire for Angelica.

  'I can't bear you to touch me—get away!'

  Renzo stared down into her blazing eyes and she saw that the edge of her fingernail had torn his cheek. 'Unbearable, am I, Jorja?'

  'Yes.' She spoke fiercely. 'You said you could make me feel like my sister a-and now I do. I feel everything she felt, where you're concerned. We both know why she left you for Stelvio!'

  Her words hung between them, and for just an instant Jorja saw a flash of pain in his eyes, shielded almost at once by his lashes. He drew himself away from her and tightened the belt of his robe, and as she watched him Jorja brushed nervously at the sides of her dress.

  Renzo moved across the room, towards a table where his case of cigars lay on the polished surface. Now he revealed his limp. It seemed suddenly to affect him and she saw him reach out to grip the back of an armchair, his fingers clenching its support until his knuckles showed white beneath his skin.

  'You are right,' he flung over his shoulder. 'I never doubted for a moment why Angelica wanted my brother. We are both men of success, but he doesn't need a stick to walk with.' In the silence which followed his remark, Renzo struck a light against a cigar, then as the smoke wafted about his dark head, he said curtly:

  'You had better start getting ready for dinner —I presume you wish to share that with me?'

  'I—I'm not particularly hungry ‑'

  'I am, and I don't intend to eat dinner alone.'

  'You know what I want, Renzo.' Jorja hated the imploring note that wouldn't be kept out of her voice.

  'Do I?' Smoke eddied about his unreadable face, for he had turned to look at her so she could see that nothing was going to sway him. Never had his features looked more chiselled; never had his brows looked more formidably black above the proud Roman nose.

  'If you had an ounce of decency in you, you would let me go home,' Jorja cried across the room. 'I'm not your toy—your object ‑'

  'You are my wife.' He spoke the words distinctly and followed them with a plume of aromatic smoke that drifted towards her. 'You bear my name, and if you dare to make another attempt to run away from me, then I shall go to your pious father and provide him with material for a sermon on adultery. He isn't a very forgiving man, is he, donna. I doubt if he could forgive even his favourite daughter for being an adulteress.'

  Jorja's hands clenched until her fingernails almost drove into the palms of her hands. 'I think you'd like to do that more than anything else —you'd like to see my sister humiliated because you can't bear it that she humiliated you. You'd like to hate her, wouldn't you, Renzo?'

  'As you hate me,' he drawled.

  Jorja flung back the hair from her brow. 'It seems I have no option but to stay with you, but you won't break me, Renzo. I don't break as easily as a doll.'

  'No?' His eyes slid up and down her blue-clad figure. 'How well that colour suits you, cara mia. I married a shrinking violet and find I have a young beauty on my hands—luck of the devil, eh?'

  Jorja flushed, for there was no way she could strike out the memory of her skin's reaction to his exploring lips, warmly searching the contours of her collar-bone, wandering down into the V of her blue dress.

  The French jersey silk seemed to cling to her with a sudden sensuousness and she turned away from him. 'Nothing you do to me, Renzo, will stop us from being strangers,' she said tensely. 'You aren't someone I would choose for a friend.'

  'Do you expect a husband to be a friend?' A note of humour had entered his voice. 'In Latin countries, donna mia, men seek their friends among other men.'

  'But this is England, signore. In this country married couples dare to be friends with each other. The women don't just cook the meals and make the beds, they actually play games as well, and they often win the match.'

  'I detect a concealed meaning in your words, Jorja.'

  'Do you?'

  He laughed softly. 'I might not be your friend, my dear, but it's going to be interesting being your enemy.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jorja drew the comb in long strokes through her hair until it lay smooth on her shoulders, just slightly upcurled. She fitted a tiny cascade of sapphires in each earlobe and regarded herself with dispassionate eyes. Especially the neckline of her dress which fell away softly and revealed her collar-bone ... where Renzo's lips had searched out sensations she couldn't quite forget.

  Her own lips twisted into a smile which didn't banish the gravity from her eyes. She was the original daughter of the rectory who had never been kissed until Renzo pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
r />   The rites of the marriage service had given him the rights of a husband and there seemed nothing she could do to win back her independence. She was here at Sandbourne with a man she feared rather than loved, and this was the eve of their honeymoon.

  The iridescent night-blue silk whispered about her figure as she turned from the mirror, caressing her skin with its silken touch. She was tormentingly aware of every sound, every twitch of a nerve, each movement of her body. She longed to be again the composed young woman who had gone about her tasks at the rectory, but it was all behind her and she faced an uncertain future.

  As the wife of Renzo Talmonte she would live in a genuine tall Georgian house in Hanson Square, an exclusive area of London, yet within walking distance of the Strand and the Embankment. A long way from Sussex, and further still from Italy. But it seemed that Renzo had most of his business contacts in London, not to mention his musical commitments. In various ways he had taken on the aura of a cosmopolitan, but whenever Jorja looked into his eyes she saw not only their Latin beauty but his Latin obduracy where a woman was concerned.

  If deep in his system he longed for Angelica, she was now a woman to be scorned. A woman who had proved to him that she could be any man's, and he was the type of Italian to regard her as puttana even if he went on loving her.

  'And what am I?' Jorja whispered to herself, her hands pressed against her cheeks.

  'Ah, you are ready!' Renzo came in from the smaller bedroom of the big suite which had its own bathroom and balcony. A room of long windows surmounted by carved pelmets and flanked by curtains of oyster brocade. The seats of the chairs matched the curtains, and the bed was of Victorian oak, rich with carving.

  'Yes.' She stood very still as he came towards her, his look of sombre elegance in no way affected by his ebony stick. Indoors he managed without it, but he seemed to find it necessary when he was under surveillance by other people.

  For some reason Jorja winced when she thought of him stumbling and perhaps falling in front of strangers.

  He wore a perfectly cut dinner-suit with a silk-faced collar. There were ebony studs in the ice-white cuffs of his shirt, and a whiff of Eau Sauvage on his skin, which was close-shaved except for sideburns that were intensely dark against his lean cheeks.

  'When I look at you, Jorja, I feel no regret at taking you away from drudgery.' His eyes moved over her very slowly, then he slid his left hand into his pocket and took from it a jeweller's case. He handed it to her in silence, and she accepted it in silence. Inside lay a sapphire and diamond necklace, the blending of frozen-blue fires making her blink.

  'I—I wish you wouldn't do this,' she said at last.

  'I do it to' please myself,' he retorted, and leaning his stick against a chair he took the fiery necklace from her fingers, walked around her and fastened the gems against her slim, bare neck. 'You will play the part of my wife even if you don't feel it, Jorja. I gave you the full script, remember, when we talked together in the garden of the rectory. And in church this morning you spoke your lines with only a few hesitations —look how everyone was fooled!'

  'Not Bruce Clayton.' She fingered the necklace tentatively, as if it might burn her fingertips.

  'What did Bruce have to say to you?' Renzo spun her to face him, and once again she became aware of height and authority, and that whiff of masculine cologne on his skin.

  'Only kind things,' she murmured. 'He sensed that I was—reluctant.'

  'Really?' Renzo's hands tightened on her waist, his fingers pressing through the finely woven silk. 'I value his friendship, donna, so don't make me devalue it.'

  'What do you mean by that?' She looked at him with suspicion.

  'I think you know what I mean, Jorja. When we return to London we shall see Bruce quite often.'

  'And you imagine I'm going to behave like Angelica?' Her eyes took fire from the necklace he had placed around her neck; and she wondered if there would ever come a time when he would look at her and not see Angelica. If she would ever look at him and know for certain that he wasn't comparing her to her sister.

  'Let me give you fair warning,' he held her with hands and eyes, 'if you ever encourage another man and make a fool of me, then I shall make you sorry you were ever born.'

  'Perhaps right this moment I'm already feeling sorry about that,' she retorted. 'I don't really know what you want from me, Renzo, but I can't be bought with jewellery. I'd think more of a flower.'

  'Perhaps so.' He stood her away from him and surveyed every aspect of her face and figure, down to the slim-fitting evening shoes that matched the colour of her dress. His eyes lingered on the necklace that played its subtle fire over her skin. 'If the good folk of Duncton could see you now, they would hardly credit their eyes. And the one pleasure you can't deny me is the pleasure of looking at you.'

  The shaft in his words was that when he looked at her, he saw someone created in the likeness of the girl he both despised and desired. 'I can do without your flattery, Renzo. I find it two-faced.'

  'Grazie, mia donna.' He inclined his dark head and retrieved his walking stick. 'It would seem that you find your pleasure in using those soft lips to say hard things. Come, perhaps a glass or two of wine will mellow the atmosphere between us.'

  'It would take a vineyard,' she rejoined, and swept out of the suite ahead of him, her first few steps taking her in the direction of the staircase, until she suddenly halted and turned towards the lift. Dammit, why couldn't she be as wholeheartedly selfish as Angelica? Why care that it was difficult for Renzo to walk down a flight of stairs? He might break his neck and she would be rid of him!

  As the iron-caged lift lumbered to the ground floor, where the dining-room was situated, Renzo stood looking directly across at her, as if with those mesmeric eyes he was reading her mind and finding things there to amuse him.

  Her fingers clenched her filmy handkerchief. He didn't care if she was distant towards him. He liked the challenge of it. It added that pinch of spice which Italians enjoyed.

  The lift came to a ponderous stop and Jorja braced herself for the ordeal of the evening ahead of her. In front of other people it was necessary to appear civilised ... who among those other diners would believe that the tall, suave-looking man who spoke faultless English and wore faultless clothing was really a devil in disguise? All they saw was his handsome face and his courtesy towards her as they sat down at their table in the spacious dining-room with its Victorian decor.

  The tables were arranged at a discreet distance from each other and the napery, cutlery and glassware were shining and perfectly set. Duke's lived up to every expectation, and Jorja thought with a sigh of those long-ago days when it had been but a dream palace in the eyes of two small girls.

  So much had changed since those days of lemonade and sand-castles. Her father had been a contented man with a loving wife, but with the loss of his wife he had developed into a man whose faith had hardened towards anyone who believed that heaven could be found on earth. His sole weakness was Angelica, and there was no denying her beauty and charm, even if it concealed a streak of recklessness which took no heed of anyone's feelings except her own.

  Jorja opened the large menu-card with a photograph of Duke's on the front of it. She couldn't deny that she felt hungry, for all she had eaten all day were a few pecks of the food Bruce Clayton had insisted she eat, and a couple of éclairs.

  'This all looks very good,' Renzo remarked. 'I am beginning to understand why you wanted to come here, Jorja.'

  'Oh,' she smiled slightly, 'it used to intrigue me when I was a small girl, so large and grand, with guests who came and went in big cars. It was the kind of hotel that we, at our boarding-house, spoke about with awe. Royalty stayed here in the old days, and the porters wore a very distinctive livery. Most people who came to stay at Sandbourne sent home a postcard of Duke's.'

  'And is it living up to your imagined picture of it?' Renzo quizzed her in a slightly amused way, with something questing in his eyes, as if he were trying
to imagine her as she had been at the age of ten.

  'It is rather nice,' she admitted, but kept a look of reserve on her face. She wanted to imply that he was included in nothing which gave her an ounce of pleasure. If he was paying a lot for their suite and surroundings, why should she be bothered? Perhaps the only way to pay him back was to make him spend money on her... she felt certain the necklace of sapphires and diamonds had cost a small fortune, but it could well be that he had originally bought it for Angelica. The sapphires would also match her eyes.

  A waiter came to take their order and she chose buttered sole and broiled mushrooms to start with, going on to breast of duck, broccoli spears, baby carrots and sauté potatoes. 'And gravy,' she appealed to the waiter. 'The brown sort, with that lovely rich taste.'

  'As you wish, madam.' He made a note of her request, then turned to Renzo who chose goose pate to start with, prime roast beef and the same selection of vegetables. 'With the gravy,' he drawled.

  With the waiter's departure he quirked a black eyebrow at Jorja. 'Our choice poses a problem, cara.'

  'The wine,' she murmured.

  'Will you share a red with me, or have a bianco of your own?'

  'Champagne would be nice, Renzo.'

  'Has the girl from the rectory a preference in champagne?' he asked drily.

  'Belle Epoque Rose has an appealing sound.' Jorja had seen it advertised in one of the stylish magazines for which Angelica posed. There were a pile of them at the rectory because Jorja's sister sent them home knowing that their father liked to enjoy her triumphs in the world of fashion.

  'You don't mind a pink variety?'

  'Not in the least.' Jorja glanced round casually and sure enough the stout woman who had watched them so intently at tea was again clad in a shade of pink and seated this evening with a thin woman in ale-coloured lace. There wasn't any doubt in Jorja's mind that the two women were finding Renzo and herself of intense interest. Oh well, perhaps they were both widowed and, like her Aunt Beatrice, wiling away their time in hotels. New arrivals would be of interest to them for a few days.