Honeymoon Island: Romance and suspense in Malta by Sheila Burns

Author:Sheila Burns [Burns, Sheila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: clean historical romance, clean romance, malta fiction, old fashioned romance, 1930s fiction, classic romance, holiday romance
Publisher: Wyndham Books (Historical Romance)
Published: 2021-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

It was a lovely night for a drive, a night that was pregnant with the scent of flowers and moon-wash, and the first sprinkle of stars in a sapphire blue sky.

She had not gone far before she realized that she was glad that she had started, very glad that she had not stayed behind in the flat. It was not one of those nights when one wants to be alone. She was aching for company. She was glad that she had started.

The car stopped outside the casa near the Citta Vecchian hills, which had always attracted her. The first cool breeze stirred in the darkness of the olive trees, and among the pink-and-white speckled blossoms of the oleanders. Now, she told herself, the thrill had come back, the strangely sweet wine-like thrill which is like the taste of a first cocktail and the exhilaration of a first dance.

The wrought-iron gates were opened wide, and she saw a vista of greenery, and heard the tinkle of the fountain playing sweet staccato music against the crystal rim of the basin. Inside the courtyard somebody had been watering the flowers, for the place was bathed in the delicious perfume of tuberoses and of verbenas.

A maidservant ushered her into the house beyond.

There was a stillness which was full of meaning and of mystery. Something she did not understand. ‘I must not imagine things,’ she told herself.

There had been an air of subtle luxury about the car, with its magnificent appointments. Painted clear white, the fittings were silver. There had been a silver vase full of smilax and tuberoses opposite to her, and a white fur rug flung carelessly across a seat. At her side her fingers had touched a vanity-case and, pressing the opening, she had seen concealed lipstick, powder-puff, eyelash-darkener and cream.

For a moment an idea had squirmed into her brain. Was the Marchese used to having women in this car? Was he in the habit of entertaining them? And, when she came to think of it, perhaps he was a married man!

She should have asked Miss Clinch that, she told herself, as she followed the maid into the casa. Yet surely Miss Clinch would have mentioned it?

She was shown into the library. There Joseppe had been sitting reading. He looked up as she entered. She was a little white ghost in the shadow of that library, a ghost with a gardenia caught in its hair, and the strange perfume moving with her as she walked. A lovely and exquisite ghost.

He got up. He looked taller and slighter in the white evening dress which he wore. His hair looked darker and shone with a gloss which Gavin had said was dreadful. ‘Looks like patent leather, my dear, the worst kind of patent leather, but all these Malts do it.’ His dark eyes smiled at her.

‘Hello, I never thought that you would actually come here tonight.’

‘Why not?’

‘I anticipated that at the last moment some reluctance would come to you. You would think of

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