'Aren't you going to be mother and pour the tea?' he drawled.
'Yes—of course.' She lifted the teapot and by an effort of will managed to pour tea into the cups without spilling it all over the table. She knew that he took a spoonful of sugar but no cream and she inwardly shuddered at the idea of drinking henna-coloured tea. 'There you are.'
'Grazie.' He lounged back in his chair with the cup and saucer, and Jorja noticed that he stretched his leg as if to ease it. 'Do eat a cake or two, they look delectable and I am aware that you ate like a bird at the reception.'
She wanted to beg him not to say that word too loudly. A stout woman in bright pink was seated not far away and Jorja felt certain she was the type to have ears like a bat. Females with dominant noses always seemed to have ears that rarely missed a word of other people's conversations, and Renzo had such a resonant voice that even his accent couldn't blur his faultless English. Over the rim of her cup Jorja could see that the lady in pink had already decided that they were worth scrutinising.
'A good strong cup of tea,' Renzo said approvingly, and he glanced about him. There was a tinkle of piano keys as a sandy-haired young man sat down at the grand piano which stood on a dais. He started to play, and in keeping with the ambience of the hotel the tune was from a lush musical of yester-year. It stole in and out of the rococo archways and ran its soothing touch along the ends of Jorja's nerves.
She took an éclair which oozed rich cream as she sliced into it. The cream and pastry overlaid by smooth chocolate were as soothing as the South Pacific music, and Jorja suddenly felt hungry. She had been too nervous to eat breakfast and had been awake very early in the spare bedroom of Flavia Scott's apartment near Hyde Park. She had stayed several days with Flavia before the wedding, unable to bear the tension at home.
Aunt Beatrice had taken it for granted that Jorja's reserve about the wedding was related to her father's disapproval. 'You should be happy for the child,' she had reproved him. 'Do you want her to end up like those women at the hotel where I've been living? Entirely alone and dependent on the cut-price board and lodging, not to mention the cold cuts for luncheon.'
'Humph!' had been his sole reply. It had been a relief for Jorja to get away to London and she had been happy to accept Flavia's invitation to stay with her. Her apartment was light and modern, with a panoramic view of the park where Jorja had taken walks and pondered the strange turn which her life had taken.
'You are very deep in thought.'
Jorja glanced up from her second cake and felt the usual, deep-centred shock when she met Renzo's eyes. They were a deep grey, darkly shaded by his lashes and framed by bold, straight brows. She was of the opinion that just like Lucifer in the story of the fallen angel it didn't show in that striking face that Renzo Talmonte was a vengeful devil.
'I've had a lot to think about,' she retorted.
'And none of it in my favour, eh?'
'Hardly.' She dabbed her lips with a serviette. 'I can't imagine what you expect from me, Renzo, but if it's smiles and kisses, then you're in for a disappointment. I've done what you wanted, I've married you, but those vows we made are as empty as my heart.'
'Ah well,' he snapped his fingers, 'I've given up believing that a woman's heart can be touched. You looked an ethereal bride but you are now eating cakes with a down-to-earth appetite.'
She flushed and pushed away her plate. 'It was at your suggestion that I eat them.'
'Of course you must eat them.' He pushed the plate back in front of her. 'Don't be so touchy —don't take so personally everything I say. We shall be arguing day and night at this rate.'
'I'm sure of it.' She turned her profile to him and gave her attention to the pianist, who was now playing a selection of tunes from The King And I. 'You took me for a doormat because I stayed at home to take care of my father, but that was my choice. If you think you are going to wipe your feet all over me, Renzo, then think again!'
'Only a fool would allow his feet that kind of privilege.' Renzo shifted his well-shod foot as he spoke and the movement drew her gaze back to his face, where the faintest of smiles lay at the corner of his lips. 'Won't you pour me some more tea?'
'If you wish.' She poured hot water into the teapot and replenished his cup. 'The woman in the pink hat and dress is watching us as if we're a pair of animals in the zoo.'
'Perhaps she's awaiting the moment when we actually spring at each other's throats.'
'It could happen,' Jorja said, with dangerous sweetness. At least their manner towards each other ruled out the embarrassment of being thought newly-weds. The confetti which had clung to both of them outside the church had been brushed off with equal impatience inside the car. It was only in a farce that a bridegroom drew a handkerchief from his pocket and scattered paper horseshoes and bells all over the floor.
'Do eat that remaining cake, Jorja.' He spoke in a deceptively soft voice.
'I left that one for you, Renzo.' And she looked at him as if hoping he would choke on it.
'I'm reserving my appetite,' he murmured.
'Really?' Her face was a mask of coolness but something in his voice made the ends of her nerves tingle. When they went upstairs to their suite they would be entirely alone; even more alone than they had been in the rectory rose garden. She glanced at the palm of her hand where the thorns had gone into her flesh; the tiny wounds had left no visible scars, and none were needed to remind her of the way Renzo had imposed his will upon her.
Upstairs behind closed doors he had the right to impose his body upon her, and her gaze raced back and forth across his shoulders, then fell to the lean fingers that drummed the edge of the table. She almost jumped out of her skin when he said, quietly and deliberately: 'I think we'll go to our suite.'
'No --' Jorja pushed back her chair and snatched her coat. 'I'm going for a walk!'
'Don't be a little fool—'
But Jorja didn't hear him or care any longer that he might be angry. She ran from the tea lounge, following the flight of her heart from a man she feared. She thrust her arms into the sleeves of her coat as she hastened across the reception hall to the doors which gave access to the esplanade.
It had stopped raining some time ago but the driveway was still damp and the scent of the sea was strong in the air. A breeze blew across her skin and combed through her hair as she turned out of the hotel gates. If she walked quickly she could get ahead of Renzo—he was hampered by his leg if he did follow her—and she rapidly crossed the road to the beachside and made her way down the steps to the shore.
She felt safe here in the open air, among people who were at Sandbourne on holiday, laughing and carefree. Jorja felt so envious of three girls with linked arms, who strolled along beside the sea, with nothing on their minds but plans for enjoyment. After their stroll they would probably head back for their hotel or boarding-house, shower and change for the evening meal, and then go out to dance or see a show at the Queen's Theatre facing the pier.
Sudden tears trembled in Jorja's eyes and she brushed them away before they became a deluge of self-pity. As Renzo had said, she had been given a choice, and she knew full well that had Angelica been given a similar choice by a man she didn't love she would have sacrificed Daddy's happiness rather than her own.
Oh, why couldn't she be like Angelica in ways as well as looks? But right from small girls they had been rather like a pair of apples on the same sprig, one of them with a tiny worm of selfishness at the core, and the strange thing was that most people had always made a pet of Angelica while treating Jorja as if she was more responsible even though she was eighteen months younger than her sister.
When they were thirteen and fifteen years old and Mummy had died, household tasks had fallen naturally to Jorja. Each day when she came home from school she had to set aside her homework in order to help prepare dinner and tidy up. Their home-help, who had been with them during the course of their mother's illness, was already in her sixties and, in order to console her because she grumb
led about the amount of housework, Jorja had gradually taken on more of the work until, almost naturally, she slid into the role of housekeeper.
It had been different for Angelica. She had a natural gift for sliding out of responsibility; her role became that of Daddy's consolation. With that wide-eyed expression and false smile of hers she would deplore her own cooking and say that Jorja was the better cook. With a helpless sigh she would announce how clumsy she was with a vacuum cleaner, which in her hands had a habit of knocking chunks out of the furniture.
'I'm the artistic one,' she would laugh, and everybody seemed to believe her, including their father. And it was true that Angelica could play the piano a little, sketch dresses she saw in fashion magazines but never design her own, and she even had the reputation of being the beautiful Norman girl even though Jorja was so much like her to look at.
Because of all these scintillating virtues which Jorja was presumed to lack, there had been no dramatic protest from their father when Angelica announced that she wanted to go to London to train at the Jean Marshall School of Modelling. Daddy had cashed in a number of his National Savings Bonds and with utter assurance that she would succeed as a model Jorja's sister had gone to London, where her natural assumption that she was someone extra-special had soon brought her to the attention of such magazines as Modiste, Bon Marche and Exclusive.
She photographed with ease and supple grace, displaying a built-in seductiveness that could sell the zaniest garment. When she appeared on the cover of Exclusive, the Reverend Michael Norman carried the magazine about in his jacket pocket and with a touch of shy pride showed it to his parishioners; 'How delightful,' they said. 'It was always a foregone conclusion that dear Angelica would become famous.'
Jorja was looked upon as the Reverend's right-hand girl. Her virtues were less stunning. She was a good child, and one dear old person had assured her that she would reap her reward in heaven.
Oh lord, no wonder Daddy had been so shocked and upset by what he saw as her betrayal of his trust in her. For years he had been listening to people who took it for granted that Angelica should reap worldly success while Jorja baked pies, polished the rectory furniture, cared for the garden, and always made sure that meetings of the Ladies' Guild were well supplied with tea and cakes.
Jorja's thoughts blended with the insistent sound of the surf, the cry of seagulls, the crunch of pebbly sand beneath her shoes. She noticed that the sky above the sea was a stormy gold, and already promenaders were drifting away to their evening meals.
What did she imagine she was going to do? She had run from the hotel without her handbag so she had no money. Right now as she stood almost alone on the shore she had only the clothes on her back and the sapphire ring on her finger.
She studied the ring in the dusky gold of the dying day; it was worth a considerable amount of money but already the shops were closing and she doubted if she had time to find a jeweller who would give her a loan on the ring. She twisted it round and round on her finger and recalled those nerve-racking moments in church, her voice barely audible as she responded to vows that were meaningless. How could she honour a man who blackmailed her? How could she even relate to such a word as cherish when between Renzo and herself there was none of the breathless yearning of people in love?
The sea breeze had turned to a wind which blew her hair back and forth. A shiver ran through her body and she huddled into the collar of her coat... she couldn't stay here, waiting for night to fall. She had to return to Duke's Hotel and try to reason with Renzo. He couldn't be so hard-hearted, so set on revenge that he would cast aside all sense of decency and force her to sleep with him. He was a cultured and gifted man who wrote sweepingly romantic music for films and television drama.
He had to have a soft spot in that armour of his, and with reluctant footsteps Jorja made her way back to the hotel. The foyer was lit up by the chandeliers and she was relieved that Renzo wasn't waiting for her, tall and dark, and leaning slightly on his stick.
There was a lull in activity for most of the guests would be in their rooms, in the midst of their dinner preparations. She climbed the rather grand staircase in preference to the lift, which would be quicker in getting her to the door of Suite 202. She dragged her feet on the carpeted stairs and walked at a snail's pace along the corridor, her heart thumping beneath the soft fabric of her dress and the buttoned-up cashmere of her coat.
There was the door, and there the bell that she must ring. Her finger hovered, then stabbed, and she heard the ringing sound inside the suite. The skin of her face felt cold, and she brushed a nervous hand over her windblown hair. By now her heart felt as if it had lodged in her throat, and she waited, and waited for the door to open.
Perhaps Renzo meant not to open it. Perhaps he meant her to stand here indefinitely, like a naughty child waiting for her punishment to be doled out.
Then the door opened abruptly and he was standing there with a towelling robe loosely tied so Jorja saw the moisture that still clung to his skin. 'Do come in, signora.' He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. 'What's a honeymoon suite without a bride?'
Jorja flushed and walked past him into the sitting-room of the suite, where she immediately smelled flowers and saw them in vases in various parts of the large room. The brocade curtains were drawn across the windows and lamps were aglow near armchairs and a deep couch. In a wall mirror straddled by roguish cupids Jorja saw her reflection and was startled by the look she had of being a stranger in from the street, the collar of her coat still up about her face.
After closing the door Renzo had followed her, and she could feel him watching her, waiting for her to speak ... to explain. At last she dared to look at him and she saw his black hair meshed damply on his forehead, and when she met his eyes they glittered like slithers of steel.
'How dare you run out on me!' There was a chiselled edge to his voice that matched the steel in his eyes. 'I don't care to look a fool in front of other people.'
'I—I just had to get a breath of air.' Her hands clenched inside the pockets of her coat. 'You don't seem to realise what a nerve-racking day this has been for me. I don't know how I've gone through with it.'
'It isn't yet over,' he took a step towards her, 'and you did go through with it, to the extent that you accepted my ring on your finger and signed the register with me. Whether you like it or not, cara mia, we are man and wife for better or worse.'
'T-the situation can only get worse,' she said with a rush. 'Don't you see, Renzo, we were never meant to be married. No matter how Angelica has treated you, you love her, a-and it would be so wrong for you and I to—to --'
'Don't stop there.' There was a sarcastic look on his face as he regarded her. 'Don't be coy about what you have in mind, we are both adults and we both know what happens at the end of the wedding day.'
'Oh—damn you!' Jorja backed away from him, for in his bathrobe there was a different look about him ... it brought to the surface a sensual look which his impeccable suits toned down. Also, without the ebony cane to hand, he seemed a younger man than she had supposed him; a virile man with the male ability to feel desire without love.
'Does this farce have to go any further?' Jorja took another step backwards, stealthily, as if she were backing away from something untamed. 'You've done what you wanted, you've put up a barrier against Angelica in case she tries to come back to you. Isn't it enough?' Do you really need to drag me in any further?'
'My dear girl, you knew what you were getting into, but do be careful in taking yet another step away from me. On a table just behind you there's a vase of yellow tulips and red roses and you are in danger of knocking them to the floor.'
Jorja turned to look and instantly he took advantage of her hesitation and grasped her by the arms. 'You never were a match for me.' His mouth was shaded by a mocking smile. 'You ran from the hotel without your handbag so I had no need to follow you. Without money what else could you do but come back to me?'
'I came back in t
he hope that we could talk rationally about our marriage.' She tried her hardest to pull free of his hands but they were inescapable, giving her a hint of the strength which his air of breeding and his lameness were inclined to conceal. She looked into his face and his dark good looks seemed devilish to her. 'We don't care about each other, Renzo. I'm not your kind of a girl—I never could be. We're oil and water—we just don't mix.'
'I know exactly the kind of girl you are.' His eyes raked over her face and hair. 'If you were spared any time at the rectory, then you buried your haughty little nose in romantic novels and gleaned from them the idea that love is from the heart and the soul. An emotion so refined and spiritual as to be close to heaven.'
He paused and his eyes dwelt upon her lips. 'It's about time you faced the truth, cara mia. You will only find heaven on earth when you give your body --'
'I—I'd sooner let a truck run over me!' She strained away from him but felt him pulling her to his big warm body that was so bare beneath the bathrobe. 'L-let me go ---!'
'Afraid of me, little one, or just being coy?' His face drew near to hers and she felt his warm breath on her skin. 'I find it truly amazing that you grew up side by side with Angelica. You read her letters and they shocked you, but can you really say that you have never once given a thought to having a lover's lips on every part of you?'
'I'm not Angelica.' Jorja's nerves fluttered wildly at his words and the images they evoked. 'Y-you want to impose her upon me so you can pretend—I've just told you, I'd sooner die than give myself to you!'
'My dear young wife, you say the most amusing things.' It seemed that her words had brushed off his skin and left no impression at all. 'I happen to be your husband, and I also happen to know that if I waited for you to give yourself to me, hell itself would freeze over while I waited.'
The Honeymoon Page 3