'Yes.' Jorja wondered if her inward flash of pain showed in her eyes as she remembered standing at the altar with Renzo, feeling as if she were awake in a strange and forbidding dream. He had been but a proud-faced stranger to her; an angry man who forced her hand, taking hold of it with iron-hard fingers as he slid his ring into place. Right now she could feel the pressure of his fingers but she had learned that their caress could be more devastating than their cruelty.
'You must have looked very charming, my child.' The Contessa gave her son a reproving look. 'Do you think I am so frail, caro, that I would break into pieces to learn that you had exchanged one sister for the other. I am the mother of two strong-willed sons, who became a widow when I was thirty. I may look as if a wind would blow me over but women are deceptive. They have firm spines even if they lack muscle.'
'Then permit me to apologise, madre.' Renzo gave her a slightly grave smile. 'It would seem that men do have a tendency to misjudge women and I am no exception. Do you forgive me?'
'Not at this moment,' she retorted. 'You should have been married in Italy as Stelvio was, and we could have made it a family occasion. Renzo, caro mio, don't forget entirely that you are Italian, with old Roman blood beating through your veins. My Stelvio would never forget his heritage!'
The words stabbed through Jorja, and she almost gasped with pain as Renzo's fingers crushed hers. She bore the pain for moments on end, until he realised what he was doing and relaxed his grip on her, and as if to mask his feelings drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
'I don't forget my heritage, madonnina,' he said gravely. 'Maybe it is the things in the past which make of us the people we are. Just believe that I had your best interests at heart.'
'Very well.' His mother gave a slight shrug. 'I never pretended to know you as I always knew Stelvio. You were always in some respects an unknown quantity and marriage might make of you a man who shares his feelings a little more. Time will tell.'
'It is now time for you to rest.' He drew Jorja towards the door. 'We shall see you later, madre, and leave you in Cosima's good hands.'
As Jorja walked with Renzo to their own suite she could feel a trembling sense of rebellion in her body. 'It's so unfair,' she exclaimed. 'So wrong that your mother should put you in the dock!'
'What a very British way of putting it.' He quirked a look at her as they entered their sitting-room, then firmly he closed the door behind them and his hands drew Jorja towards him until they touched. He gazed down at her, searching the rebellious blue of her eyes. 'I believe you are hurt for me, donna.'
'Of course I am.' With a fingertip she ironed the tension from his face. 'Your mother's a lovely woman and I do understand why you don't want her to know all the facts relating to our marriage, but it is unfair that she should think of your brother as being a knight in radiant armour.'
'It is because of her fondness for him that I want those misconceptions of hers to continue.' Renzo tucked a strand of Jorja's fair hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering there to fondle her earlobe and the sensitive hollow behind it. 'You have seen for yourself that she is far from well, whereas I have a tough skin and I don't bruise easily.'
'Your bruises don't show,' Jorja murmured, 'but I know you have them.'
'Do you, child?' He bent his tall head and laid his lips lightly, then with a growing urgency upon hers. She surrendered to him instantly, aware of his need to salve those invisible hurts by the simple yet potent remedy of making love to her. Yieldingly she was his to undress and she saw the strain in his face giving way to a more primitive emotion as he took the straps of her slip in his fingers and slid them from her shoulders. As the silky fabric slithered from her body he held her between his hands and silently admired her.
Her pulses were racing madly, and when he spoke her name there was a slur in his voice ... prelude to the unimaginable.
She gasped when he suddenly arched her over his arm and buried his face in her silky body. His lips roamed freely, and hazily she wanted to remind him to lock the door but she couldn't utter a word. He took her into the bedroom, laid her on the cool coverlet and with an almost savage impatience stripped off his clothing.
Her fingers gripped the smooth iron of his shoulders and her body was an object of grace and invitation as she drew him close to her, forgetful of restraint, caring only that she bring him the solace he sought from her lips, drugged by his kisses as he took her with a totality that was painful until it became all at once a delirious pleasure.
Like this he was hers, every muscle of him, every black strand of hair, every far-reaching movement, as if with his body he reached into her heart and became part of its frantic beating. She held him, was possessed by him, and not even a shadow could have come between them.
Under the shower she found a love bruise on her left hip, just as Renzo entered the bathroom after making a call on the house telephone. 'Lunch in fifteen minutes ‑' There he broke off, came to her and kissed the bruising until she shuddered from the pleasure of his mouth on her skin.
'Lunch, remember?' She smiled shakily. 'We're having lamb chops and baby peas ‑'
Slowly he licked water from her skin. 'You are my lamb chop,' he murmured. 'With mint sauce sprinkled on you, you would be a feast.'
'You—we ‑' Her fingers were tangled in his hair. 'We must have some lunch.'
He raised his head and his smile travelled up her body, moving sensuously over its curves. 'In point of fact we are still on our honeymoon and entitled to live on lovemaking.'
'I know, but ‑'
'Are you shy, with my mother in the house?'
'I—I suppose I am,' she admitted. 'But I'm glad she's here, so we can take care of her.'
'What a very kind thing to say.' He wrapped his arms about her hips and rested his face against her. In the mirror Jorja could see their combined reflection, they looked like a sculpture of pagan lovers, welded together by the hand of fate.
'I really am quite hungry, Renzo.'
'Earthly wench.' He kissed her navel and rose to his feet. 'I suppose the hors-d'oeuvre has put an edge on your appetite?'
'I suppose it has,' she smiled, her eyes skimming his body.
'Renzo, we do share—something, don't we?'
'You are thinking of what madre said about me, eh?'
She nodded, and they entered the bedroom where she started to collect her scattered clothing. She felt an impulse to straighten the disordered bedcovers, but maids were employed to take care of the bedrooms, and she was well and truly entitled to be made love to in the middle of the day. Renzo might live in England but the tradition of the siesta was in his blood.
Her gaze stole around this room which was their sanctum, admiring the marvellous eighteenth-century bed upholstered in apricot silk and damask of a champagne colour. Beautifully carved posts were curtained in damask to the cornice, and there were fascinating dower chests on lion's-paw feet. One stood at the foot of the bed, the other against a wall, making Jorja think of the story of the bride who hid in such a chest and wasn't found until it was too late.
A shiver ran through her and she hastened with her dressing.
'You ask yourself too many questions.' Renzo buttoned his shirt and watched her as she slid her legs into silk stockings and fastened the little suspender buttons. 'When we are alone with each other we manage to be happy, don't we?'
'Yes, signoresco.' She knew what he meant, that physical passion enabled them to forget the fundamental facts of their marriage, but in the company of his mother they would be constantly reminded of Angelica's seduction of his brother. As she combed her hair at the mirror she couldn't help but see the apprehension in her eyes, replacing the excitement of a while ago when Renzo had been her wildly urgent, tawny-bodied lover.
Now when she turned to him, he looked remote but splendid in his well-cut ivory trousers and silky black shirt. She could see that his thoughts were no longer centred upon her, and it was hard to believe that it was less than an hour ago when
his lips had kissed her so devouringly.
They went downstairs, wrapped in their individual thoughts, and ate at either end of a handsome rosewood table trailed by a sheath of white orchids. Their rack of lamb chops, each bone-tip dressed in a tiny white cap, was delicious. They were served wine in Venetian glasses with coiled serpent tails ... and they didn't seem to know what to say to each other.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Afternoon tea was served in the garden room, upon a curled bamboo table, glass-topped for the tea-ware and cakes. The Georgian silver teapot was pear-shaped and the sunlight flickered in its chasing as Jorja refilled the Contessa's cup and her own. There was a selection of small sandwiches with delicious fillings, and a jam and cream layered sponge-cake, but neither of them felt like eating.
'Grazie.' The Contessa stirred her tea and her eyes dwelt on Jorja as she sat there with the sun on her hair. 'You are so blonde, cara, you would be lost in a wheatfield. Una bionda bella.'
Jorja smiled and tried not to show the anxiety she was feeling for Renzo's mother. After her visit to the specialist, and then various tests at the Regency Clinic, the decision had been made that she should undergo a bypass operation in order to relieve a badly blocked artery in her heart.
She was due to enter the clinic the following day and though she seemed composed, Jorja had noticed that her hands were a little unsteady.
'What a very English house this is, with a very English wife for my son,' she remarked, looking at ease in a dress of pale violet georgette upon the bamboo-framed chaise-longue. 'Renzo is very much a Latin, so it came as a surprise to me that he should want to settle in your country, cara. How do you enjoy being the wife of an Italian? Are you adjusting to—how shall I put it?—his masterful ways? He is not, and never could be, your average type of man.'
Jorja smiled at the very idea. T can only judge him against my father, who has devoted most of his time to his parish in Sussex. I looked after my father's house and had very little time left for a social life.'
'Meaning?' The Contessa raised a fine dark eyebrow above eyes intent upon Jorja.
'I had no men friends,' Jorja confessed. 'I am entirely a novice when it comes to dealing with a man. When I married Renzo I was as innocent, or almost, as a girl from a nunnery.'
The Contessa nodded to herself, as if unsurprised by what Jorja told her. 'It was a life your sister escaped from, eh? She wanted to be of the world?'
'Oh yes.' Jorja hoped she didn't reveal her sudden feeling of tension. All along it had been inevitable that Renzo's mother would want to discuss Angelica, whom she had met in Renzo's company and would have seen, as Jorja had, that her provocative beauty had got under his skin.
'So your sister chose to go on with her career as a fashion model?'
'Yes, madre.'
'And Renzo turned to you?'
Jorja nodded, and remembered vividly the day of his proposal... as unexpected and piercing as the thorns he had removed from her hand.
'I can understand why he did so. Angelica struck me as being rather like a diamond which a man might want to flaunt, but you are more of a pearl. You have a silky fine lustre and you need to rest against a warm skin so your intrinsic self can be expressed.'
A tinge of amusement crept into the Contessa's eyes as a blush ran over Jorja's fair skin. 'Did you think I wouldn't notice that you respond, body and eyes, whenever my son is near you? A glow comes over you, as it overcomes a pearl when close to the warmth of its owner's skin—ah, you catch your breath, Jorja. Is that your Englishness taking affront at the idea of being owned by a man?'
'Perhaps,' Jorja admitted. 'I prefer to think that a marriage could be a deep friendship rather than a relationship based on possessiveness.'
'Latin men are possessive of their women, my child.' The amusement deepened in the elderly lady's fine eyes. 'Perhaps your sister reacted against that, as she has been the one to seek an independent life and a career. Do you think she did? After all, you must know her well as you grew up side by side. There cannot be that much difference in your ages—though obviously your experiences have been of a different kind. I had the impression that Angelica liked to be the centre of attention, but you would be happy to be the centre of Renzo's life, eh?'
'I—I would never be too clinging,' Jorja protested. 'He has his musical career and I realise that he has to give a good part of himself to his work. I would never interfere with that.'
'Ah, but don't be too self-effacing, cara mia. Men take advantage of that in a wife, and you must never permit yourself to be pushed into the background of his career. You are a charming young woman and you must be seen with him at the functions which he attends. You must overcome the shyness which your rectory life imposed upon you—if he had gone ahead with his marriage to Angelica, can you imagine that she would efface herself?'
Jorja shook her head, knowing in her heart just how far Angelica would go in order to be noticed.
'Madre,' her fingers pleated her lace-edged serviette, 'are you disappointed that Renzo married me?'
'Not disappointed,' his mother shook her head, 'but I am going to be candid and admit that I am surprised. Although my son Stelvio is two years younger than Renzo, he was the first to take a wife, an Italian girl of loveliness and character, of whom I am very fond. It seemed to me that Renzo was too wrapped up in his career and his business dealings and I would often ask him if he was ever going to settle down with a wife.'
The Contessa gave a very Latin shrug. 'He would placate me and gay that one day, if he ever fell in love, he would relieve my anxiety that he would end up a bachelor, alone among possessions and without a son and heir. Then one day he came to Florence and your sister was with him. They were engaged and they seemed ideally suited, not only in looks but in their ability to walk into a room and be at once the centre, the focus of attention. They would never overpower each other. She would scintillate at his side, for at that time I believed Renzo needed that kind of a wife.'
The Contessa paused and seemed to consider her words as she studied Jorja. 'I believed he needed a public wife rather than a private one, as he has chosen to associate himself with the world of film-making, and when I met Angelica she seemed to have everything he could possibly need. You see, Renzo has never been, as boy and man, easy to estimate. He never had the spontaneous nature of my younger son and seemed to keep his feelings to himself. Consequently, I thought him proud and aloof, and I never made the attempt to delve into his personality.'
Again a pause and the Contessa rested her head against the cushions of the chaise-longue. Her gaze had drifted from Jorja to the garden and there was a reminiscent look in her eyes. 'I have always thought Renzo more clever, more talented than Stelvio, but he has never been so easy to love. Do I shock you, cara?'
'No.' Jorja spoke quietly, for she had shared the Contessa's opinion of Renzo ... still, in some respects, shared an uncertainty about the man whose intimacy with her did not extend beyond the door of the bedroom. She, too, had felt him withdraw into a proud, hard shell when the kissing and the passion had been sated, and she had tried not to be hurt by him.
But love, she was discovering, was many-faceted and some of those facets had a chilling surface, as if it were wiser not to attempt to scale the peaks where in unseen chasms everything could be lost. She clung to what she had and didn't look upward at the glorious and dangerous heights.
Giddy heights, where on love's summit a person could see all the world and not want it because heaven was within reach.
'I think,' the Contessa murmured, 'that in our individual ways we both care for Renzo but find him elusive. Do you plan to have a child, Jorja?'
'I haven't made any plans,' Jorja smiled, 'but I shan't mind in the least if it happens.'
'I think your sister would have minded, eh?'
'Perhaps.'
'She has such a perfect figure and will want to retain it for as long as possible.' The Contessa indicated the delicious-looking jam and cream sponge which neither of them ha
d yet touched. 'I am sure you haven't a care in the world about your figure, cara, and Renzo's cook might be offended if neither of us eats a slice of her cake. Do eat a slice and enjoy it for me. I confess to being a little nervous about tomorrow and I have no appetite, but you are young, and in love, I think, and love needs to be fed.'
'All right, you've tempted me.' Jorja took hold of the silver cake-slicer and the jam and cream oozed against the silver edge as she cut into the sponge-cake. From inside the house there was a sound of music,, for Renzo was working on a theme for a new film, and Jorja suspected that he needed to work in order to keep at bay his anxieties about his mother's operation.
The specialist had been reassuring, but he had also made it plain that if the Contessa didn't have the operation she would become very ill and another attack might end her life.
'I expect you find life in London a whole lot different from life in the country, is that not so, Jorja? Noisier, faster, the very air tainted by the motor vehicles which pass back and forth through the city. You look to me as if you enjoy the green fields and the smell of smoke and apples in the autumn. You look the kind of girl who belongs among wheatfields rather than brick buildings, so being with Renzo must matter to you a great deal?'
'Yes, madre.' Jorja spoke the simple truth. In the beginning it had been a kind of nightmare, being forced by him to leave the green and pleasant hills of Duncton, but by some alchemy he made this Georgian house in London seem the only place that mattered. She could hear his music, share his life, and walk in the rooms and the garden which were his domain.
Renzo mattered more than she cared to admit, even to herself. Perhaps there was a primitive part of her that responded to the ruthless way he had made her a part of his life. Perhaps, secretly, she had wanted someone like him ... or no one at all. Proud and defiant of the new rules which were being laid down by the feminists, who were contemptuous of women who dared to love a man who was master in the home and in the bedroom.
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