said with difficulty, ‘You must be very disappointed.’
His faint smile was as bleak as winter. ‘I think I am beyond disappointment, Marisa. Perhaps we should discuss this—and other matters—in the morning. Now, you must excuse me.’
When he had gone, Marisa sat staring at the candle-flame, sipping her coffee and feeling it turn to bitterness in her throat. Then she pushed the cup away from her, so violently that some of its contents spilled across the white cloth, and went to her bedroom.
She undressed, cleaned her teeth, and put on her nightgown, moving like an automaton. She got into bed and drew the covers around her as if the night was cold. The cramps had subsided long ago, and in their place was a great hollowness.
It’s gone, she thought. My little boy. My little girl. Someone to love, who’d have loved me in return. Who’d have belonged to me.
Except it was only a figment of my imagination. And I’m left with nothing. No one.
Until the next time, if he can ever bring himself to touch me again.
Suddenly all the pent-up hurt and loneliness of her situation overwhelmed her, and she began to cry, softly at first, and then in hard, choking sobs that threatened to tear her apart.
Leaving her, at last, drained and shivering in the total isolation of that enormous bed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AND the following morning she had found that her honeymoon had come to an abrupt end.
Her confrontation with Renzo had taken place, to her discomfort, in the salotto—a room she’d tried to avoid ever since … since that day, and where she’d managed never to be alone with him again.
She had sat. He had stood, his face bleak, almost haggard. The golden eyes sombre.
He’d spoken quietly, but with finality, while she had stared down at her hands, gripped together in her lap.
As they were now, she noticed, while her memory was recreating once again everything he’d said to her.
He had wasted no time getting to the point. ‘I feel strongly, Marisa, that we need to reconsider the whole question of our marriage. I therefore suggest that we leave Villa Santa Caterina either later today or tomorrow, as no useful purpose can be served by our remaining here. Do you agree?’
She hadn’t wholly trusted her voice, so it had seemed safer just to nod.
When he had resumed, his voice had been harder. ‘I also propose that we spend some time apart from each other, in order to examine our future as husband and wife. Clearly things cannot continue as they are. Decisions will need to be made, and some consensus reached.’
He’d paused. ‘You may, of course, take as much time as you need. You need not fear that I shall pressure you in any way. Therefore I am quite willing to stay at my apartment in Rome, and make our home in Tuscany available to you for your sole occupation.’
‘No!’ She had seen his head go back, and realised how vehement her negation had been. ‘I mean—thank you. But under the circumstances that’s impossible. Your father will expect to see us together.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I would very much prefer to go back to London. If that can be arranged.’
‘London?’ he’d repeated. He had looked at her, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief. ‘You mean you wish to rejoin your cousin?’
All hell, Marisa had thought, would freeze over first. But she’d glimpsed a chance of escape, and had known a more moderate answer might achieve a better result.
She’d shaken her head. ‘She’s moving to Kent very soon, so the question doesn’t arise.’ She’d paused. ‘What I really want, signore, is a place of my own. Somewhere just for myself,’ she’d added with emphasis. ‘With no one else involved.’
There had been a silence, then Renzo had said carefully, ‘I see. But—in London? Do you think that is wise?’
‘Why not?’ Marisa had lifted her chin. ‘After all, I’m not a child any more.’ Or your tame virgin, who has to be protected from all predators but you, her eyes had said, and she’d watched faint colour burn along his cheekbones.
‘Besides,’ she’d added, her voice challenging. ‘If you have an apartment in Rome, why shouldn’t I have a flat in London?’
Renzo had spread his hands. He’d said, almost ruefully, ‘I can think of a string of reasons, although I doubt you would find any of them acceptable.’
‘Nevertheless, that is my choice.’ She’d looked down at her hands again. ‘And as we’ll be living apart anyway, I don’t see what difference it can make.’
There had been another pause, then he’d said quietly, ‘Very well. Let it be as you wish.’
For a moment she’d felt stunned. She had certainly not expected so easy a victory.
Unless, of course, he simply wanted her out of sight—and out of mind—and as quickly as possible …
For a moment, her feeling of triumph had seemed to ebb, and she’d felt oddly forlorn.
Yet wasn’t that exactly what she wanted too? she’d rallied herself. So why should she care?
She had looked at him. Forced a smile. ‘Grazie.’
‘Prego.’ He had not returned the smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, there are arrangements to be made.’ And he’d gone.
After that, Marisa recalled, things had seemed to happen very fast.
Renzo, it appeared, only had to snap his fingers and a first-class flight to London became available. Arrangements were made for a chauffeur and limousine to meet her at the airport, together with a representative from the Santangelis’ UK lawyers. He or she would be responsible for escorting her to a suite at a top hotel, which had been reserved for her as a temporary residence, before providing her with a list of suitable properties and smoothing her path through the various viewings. Money, of course, being no object.
In fact, she found herself thinking with a pang, as her plane took off and she waved away the offered champagne, what wouldn’t Renzo pay to be rid of the girl who’d so signally failed him as a wife?
Because this had to be the beginning of the end of their marriage, and his lawyers would soon be receiving other, more personal instructions concerning her.
And she would be free—able for the first time to make a life for herself as Marisa Brendon. Answerable, she told herself, to no one. Least of all to her erstwhile husband, now breathing a sigh of relief in Rome.
Her only regret was that she hadn’t had time to pay a final visit to Casa Adriana and say goodbye to Mrs Morton. But perhaps it was better this way.
Those warm, quiet days in the garden had begun to assume a dreamlike quality all their own. Even when she had been entirely alone there, she thought, in some strange way she had never felt lonely.
She did not believe
