The Honeymoon

by Violet Winspear

  The telephone was at the bedside and with a slight groan, but without disengaging himself from Jorja, Renzo reached for the instrument.

  He seemed to listen for a long time, and Jorja couldn't help but realise that whoever was on the line had imparted some information which had effectively cooled Renzo's ardour.

  'Drat the thing,' Jorja muttered, and she meant the telephone. As she lay wondering who could be speaking to him at such length, a sudden shiver ran over her bare body and she drew the sheet around her. Why didn't he break in and say he was on his honeymoon and not to be disturbed? Jorja ran her hand up and down his muscular arm, feeling the tickle of the dark hair against her palm and realising from the face of the bedside clock that they had spent their lunchtime satisfying a hunger of the senses rather than the stomach. She tried to recapture those tempestuous, shameless longings which had been so piercingly pleasured. She was lapped by a more mellow pleasure as her eyes measured the tawny shoulders of the man who could make her abandon all restraint when he took her to bed. The muscles beneath his skin were defined in a Rodin way as he inclined towards the telephone, and then she heard him say:

  'Si, you were right to call me, Flavia. I will indeed pass on to Jorja your sincere regrets. Arrivederci.'

  The ting of the replaced receiver touched Jorja upon a nerve.

  'What is it, Renzo?' Her fingers clutched his arm, feeling the tension in the muscles.

  'Our honeymoon is over.' He spoke with finality. 'I must return to London.'

  'Over --?' Jorja scanned his face and felt as if her heart was beating out a warning.

  'I regret so.' And he explained that a telex had arrived at his office from his sister-in-law, bearing the information that his mother was flying to London to consult a Harley Street specialist. It seemed that her plans had been made all of a sudden, and Monica was anxious that Renzo should be at the airport to meet her. The specialist she would be seeing was a heart man.

  'Of course we must return.' Jorja was instantly concerned for his mother, but it took an effort to conceal her desperate sense of disappointment. She had begun to hope that their stay at Sandbourne would bind them together, so that no one could come between them, but it wasn't to be. Already he was reaching for his robe and wearing a look which excluded her from his thoughts, his brows drawn into a dark concealing arch as he tied the belt.

  'Madre suffered a stroke about two years ago,' he said, 'and ever since she has been on medication. It now seems that she is having bad palpitations and the medicine has become ineffective.'

  He stood there in thought, then raised his gaze to Jorja. 'We must arrange for our belongings to be packed—unless you would like to stay on at Duke's for the rest of the fortnight?'

  'Oh no,' she said at once. 'I want to come with you.'

  'Do you?' He stood regarding her as she knelt on the honeymoon bed with the sheet sliding down her body. 'What of your precious pony?'

  'They'll provide a horse-box when he's fit to travel.' She spoke with certainty because she could see that Renzo was abstracted by his thoughts. They were centred on his mother, the woman he hadn't even mentioned... as if it had always been his plan to keep Jorja apart from the important aspects of his life. Deep inside she was hurt, because there inside he had made her so vulnerable, so that what mattered to him was her concern as well.

  'Darling,' she spoke softly, 'we should eat before we leave.'

  He nodded, then just as quickly shook his head. 'No, we can stop on the way home. The sooner we get started the better.'

  'All right,' she agreed, and though the sun was still shining into the room, Jorja no longer felt a golden glow at the very centre of her being.

  A shadow had come between Renzo and herself, for now he was looking at her with a frown. 'Do get dressed,' he said, and as he turned away from her, he was lighting a cigar, the smoke drifting back at her as he walked into the sitting-room and left her alone.

  For several minutes Jorja gnawed her lip in indecision, for there seemed so much to do all of a sudden. Then she climbed out of bed, dressed quickly in pants and a shirt, and telephoned room-service for a maid to come and do their packing. She next asked for reception and told the young woman to make up their bill as they had been called back urgently to London.

  The remainder of Jorja's honeymoon at Duke's was spent down in the stable where the vet had seen to Patch but was still in attendance upon one of the horses. He assured her that Patch would be bright as brass in a few days. He was a tough little beggar and with some grooming and feeding up he should make a champion pet for a child, if she had one as yet.

  'No.' She smiled and shook her head ... but inwardly wondered if some fluke of fate meant Patch, the abused pony from the beach at Sandbourne, to fulfil the role of pet to a child she might bear Renzo. In view of the ardour he had lavished upon her there was a good chance of it happening, but as she made arrangements for Patch to be delivered to Hanson Square as soon as he was fit for the journey, Jorja felt lorry to be leaving this big white hotel facing the sea.

  Her honeymoon might have been cut short, but every moment of it had been memorable. She had arrived here an apprehensive girl, and was leaving with a whole new slant on what it meant to be a woman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Renzo didn't suggest that Jorja go with him to Heathrow Airport to meet his mother. His manner at breakfast was withdrawn and she saw a look of worry carved into his face as he drank his coffee.

  'Madre is very fond of white flowers.' He spoke abruptly. 'Be so good as to order a large selection from Gudrun's and have them placed in her bedroom and sitting-room. Also make sure that she has a television set and a radio. If s been some time since the Contessa stayed here, and I only wish that her visit wasn't occasioned by her state of health.'

  Jorja ate another spoonful of grapefruit and felt the sharpness against the edge of her teeth. This morning she felt desperately young and left out of his innermost thoughts. She wore a filmy silk nightdress and wrap, but inwardly she had somehow reverted to the girl whose life had revolved around her father's rectory. Something in Renzo's manner had nipped like frost her budding confidence.

  'I know so little about your mother,' she said, and back into her voice had crept a touch of apprehension.

  'Do men discuss their mothers on their honeymoon?' he asked. 'N-no, I suppose not.' She spoke diffidently. 'But you're so—well, you don't talk to me about your family and I—I need to know a little more than I do. For instance --'

  He raised an eyebrow, seated across from the silver coffee set and the fine china with the golden rims, here in this gracious breakfast-room on the second floor of his Georgian house. 'For instance?'

  'Is your mother a real contessa?' Jorja flushed as she spoke; she didn't want him to think her a snob but it was rather exciting, the thought of having a titled mother-in-law.

  'I sincerely believe so,' he drawled.

  'Renzo,' Jorja felt deflated by his attitude, 'you're treating me as if I haven't any right to mention her. I suppose you are going to introduce the two of us?'

  He frowned and his gaze seemed transfixed by the sunlit glitter of the coffee pot. 'You might as well know that she has no idea I am married. She probably imagines that I am still engaged to your sister. We decided, Stelvio's wife and I, that madre shouldn't be told that he had left home in order to live with Angelica. The condition of her heart had to be borne in mind, and both Monica and I felt that Stelvio's infatuation would be short-lived.'

  Jorja absorbed his words, then felt their impact with a sense of shock. 'I see, Renzo! No wonder you asked me if I'd like to stay on at Sandbourne —I would have been out of sight and out of mind!'

  'For the time being it would have made things easier,' he agreed. 'Eventually I could have explained the true state of affairs.'

  'And now you have to explain why you're married to me instead of Angelica?' Jorja's eyes held fiery blue lights as she gazed across at him. 'What a tangle it all is! Naturally your mother will want to k
now why your engagement was broken.'

  'Of a certainty.' He returned Jorja's look broodingly.

  'And you certainly can't tell her the truth; it would be too much of a shock.'

  'I quite agree,' he said emphatically. 'Stelvio is her golden boy and she would accept his infidelity with great pain.'

  'Then what are you going to tell her, Renzo?'

  'That Angelica decided on a career in preference to being a wife, so I married you instead.'

  'Sounds reasonable,' Jorja agreed, though she was thinking secretly that it placed her in the category where she seemed to belong ... the second-best choice.

  'You haven't eaten much breakfast,' she murmured.

  'I'm not particularly hungry.'

  'You mustn't be too anxious.' Jorja pleated her linen napkin. 'So you are the Conte Talmonte?'

  'I don't use the title. I dispensed with it because I wanted to make my way in the world and the idea persists that the aristocracy are but players of the game rather than hard-headed men and women of business or talent.'

  'Did Angelica know about your title?' Asking the question was difficult but Jorja was curious about this aspect of his relationship with her sister.

  'She discovered its existence when she met Stelvio. She was, of course, interested in the idea of becoming a contessa but by then I had realised that she was two-timing me.' His lips thinned as he spoke and his eyes were the hard grey that made Jorja feel cold. 'You are my titled lady, are you not, even if I choose to keep the title under the rose.'

  'Under—the rose?' Jorja looked intrigued.

  'Long ago in rooms of secret meetings the ceiling had a rose medallion under which the vow of secrecy was made.' For the first time that morning he smiled, and rising to his feet he came around the table to Jorja, brushed the hair from her brow and pressed his lips there.

  'Is that in place of a tiara?' she murmured, and she admired the look of him in a finely striped brown suit with a wide striped beige shirt. A quiver ran from the nape of her neck to the very base of her spine, for she had grown so sensitive to his touch that the slightest advance from him could fire her with longing. It was, in a way, as frightening as it was exciting to be so aware of a man. He could make her feel a shameless longing with a look. He could make her shameless with just a stroke of his hand, which was happening now as he drew his fingers through her hair and allowed them to wander down the side of her neck to her shoulder in the filmy fabric of her wrap.

  'I have to be going now, donna, if I'm to be on time for madre's flight.' He drew her to her feet as he spoke and held her pressed to him. 'I shall explain matters in a satisfactory way to my mother so don't spend the next few hours in trepidation. Remember the flowers and discuss luncheon with Mrs Alberti the cook. Be firm but engaging with the staff; they expect it of the mistress of the house.'

  'It's a very fine house, Renzo.'

  'It is rather special.' As he spoke he studied her upraised face, framing it with his hands as he slowly kissed her mouth. 'You taste of marmalade, cava mia, and despite the fancy nightwear you look rather like a prim little girl who doesn't quite know where she belongs. Is that the way you feel?'

  'A little,' she confessed. 'I want your mother to like me—do you think she will?'

  'I like you, don't I?' he said casually. He let go of her and shot a look at his wristwatch. 'I must fly! Make yourself at home, Jorja, and do rest assured that the Contessa will find you as charming as I do—in a manner of speaking.' A brief smile flicked his lips as he left Jorja standing in a ray of sunlight through the long Georgian windows. 'Arrivederci!'

  'See you soon,' she murmured, and couldn't help the slight wave of despondency which swept over her as the door closed behind him. Now she was all on her own in a strange house in a city she hardly knew, and she couldn't relax in the assurance that Renzo loved her. Only moments ago he had used a nice enough word, but to be liked by him wasn't the same as being madly adored by him.

  'May I clear the table, madam?' The maid Sylvia had entered the breakfast-room, and bearing Renzo's instructions in mind Jorja strove to look composed, as if she had been dealing with maids and a butler, not to mention a cook, all her life.

  'Yes, I am quite finished, and when I've showered and dressed I'd like to take a look at the Contessa's suite to make sure everything is nice. I'm ordering flowers for her rooms, and my husband is anxious that she should have a television set and a radio.'

  'I'm sure you'll find everything in order, madam.' Sylvia spoke in a slightly distant manner. 'Miss Scott was here yesterday and she gave orders to Torrence that the Contessa was to be made as comfortable as possible.'

  'Good.' Jorja tried not to feel that her presence at Hanson Square was irrelevant. Flavia Scott had proved that she was indispensable to Renzo, but Jorja had doubts about her own place in his life. Especially since he had told her that his mother knew nothing about his marriage, as if it were something that he didn't take seriously ... something that he still looked upon as a means of retaliation; a weapon to be used in his emotional war against Angelica.

  Jorja chided herself for supposing that his sensual enjoyment of her was any indication that she was important to him outside the bedroom.

  And their bedroom at Hanson Square was a beautiful room set in a curving Georgian bay that made time stand still when Jorja walked in through the rosewood doors with their antique fittings. Every item of furniture had been chosen by someone with an intrinsic eye for real beauty and Jorja didn't need anyone to tell her that Renzo had spent considerable time and money on making his London house as superb on the inside as it was mellow and gracious on the outside.

  She walked through to the bathroom, which in days gone by would have been the room where the master kept his powdered wigs and robes of office, for Renzo had told her that in Georgian times this house had been the home of a renowned hanging judge, feared and admired for the way he dealt with criminals. A painting of him in his scarlet robes still hung in the hall, a further sign, had Jorja needed one, that Renzo believed in stern justice for offenders.

  The bathroom was panelled in ivory tiles, with a deep, sable-coloured tub into which the water gushed from a special fitting which swirled it into a mass of scented bubbles, like a great Roman goblet of champagne, Jorja thought, as she slid into the tub. Why bother with a quick shower when Flavia Scott had already been to the house to ensure that everything was made ready for Renzo's mother? She had all the morning ahead of her, her only task the ordering of the white flowers.

  In fact there was a telephone connection in the bathroom, and feeling like one of those luxurious creatures in a Hollywood film, Jorja dialled the operator and asked for the number of Gudrun's flower shop in the Strand.

  She dallied over the order, listening to descriptions of various white blooms, from huge Chinese chrysanthemums to tiny lilies of the valley. She finally decided on mixed sprays in straw baskets and requested that they be delivered by noon, adding with a touch of pride:

  'The flowers are for my mother-in-law, the Contessa Talmonte, who is arriving from Italy to stay with my husband and myself.'

  She was immediately assured that the sprays would be delivered on time and Gudrun's felt confident that madam would find the flowers beautiful and fresh.

  Jorja lay watching the rise and fall of her slim legs in the bubbly water, a buoyant sensation which mingled with the fragrant aroma of bath essence to make her feel like a houri in a sultan's palace, satin-smooth and glowing for his delectation. Rather naughty thoughts for a rector's daughter, she thought with a smile. Yet the only kind of thoughts it was wise to have in relation to Renzo.

  As the water swirled around her hips she wondered what kind of a woman his mother was. Was she haughty and superbly dressed by a Roman couturier? Was she possessive of her handsome sons and likely to resent a daughter-in-law whom she had never met?

  Tingling all over Jorja climbed out of the sable tub, and as she reached for a huge terrycloth towel and wrapped it around her, she k
new from what Renzo had left unsaid that morning that his mother had met and approved of Angelica. Jorja knew that her sister had charmed his mother, smiling that dazzling smile of hers and showing not a sign of the selfishness which lay at the heart of her like a peachstone in the centre of one of the most luscious of fruits.

  Jorja slowly applied perfumed body velvet, working the lovely Nocturnes scent into her skin. She couldn't dazzle Renzo's mother, or convince her that she was the one and only woman for him, but she could smell nice and look sincere. She couldn't pretend to have the glamour which blinded most people to Angelica's wilful love of herself, and she had already decided to wear a blue cotton-cambric dress with neat pin-tucking on the bodice. She wanted no pretence between herself and the Contessa. They would meet and they would either like or dislike each other. There were no guarantees and Jorja was expecting none, for it seemed as if she walked on a silken tightrope, taking one step at a time.

  After she had dried her hair and looped it casually at the nape of her neck, she put on her blue dress and eyed herself in the Regency pier-glass which stood by the window so that she had a very clear image of herself. Did she look like a wife? Was it believable that she was the mistress of this tall Georgian house in the heart of London?

  Perhaps she would feel more like the mistress after she had taken a look at the various rooms and acquainted herself with the plan of the house.

  She made her way down to the hall where the sunlight through the long, many-paned windows made a checkerboard across the mellow wooden floor. Jorja rested a moment against the balustrade of the stairs, for her gaze had been caught by the portrait of the hanging judge, his eyes dark and pitiless beneath the silvery wig. She didn't think she liked him and felt as if his eyes followed her across the hall and in through the doorway of a splendid room, with bay windows in deep embrasures, and a cool green Adam ceiling with gold-flecked cornices. At the centre of the ceiling hung a chandelier which had to be Venetian, so fabulous was its design. It was like an immense jewel which would glow and sparkle when it was alight.