Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [135]
The bright sunlight of the following morning forced the reality on Venetia that she would have to make a decision, and she knew what it must be. She couldn’t bear to go on living in limbo any longer. Fitz obviously wanted nothing more to do with her. She would go home. But first she must clear things between herself and Morgan, tell him the truth—that there could never be anything between them. It wasn’t fair not to—and neither was it fair of Morgan to refuse to accept that. They must both be free. She couldn’t wait until she saw him—she would write to him instead.
It was India’s letter that brought reprieve—or rather the excuse for a reprieve. The fact that India was to be married—to a wonderful Italian count whose name was Aldo—and that she would live happily ever after in a palazzo overlooking the Mediterranean, brought the first taste of pure happiness Vennie had known in ages. At least one of Jenny’s girls was getting it together, she thought, reading again India’s looped, American scrawl. She and Paris were to be bridesmaids. It was all to take place in the village church at Marina di Montefiore.
It was too easy to tell herself that as Marina di Montefiore was in the Mediterranean and she was going to be there anyway, she might as well stay with the Fiesta for the summer. After all, why not give it one more chance …
20
Marina di Montefiore had pulled out all the stops for their young count’s wedding. The village was fête, decorated with bunting and streamers, with colored lights strung in the trees and trestle tables set up in the square for the celebration dinner—a gift from Count Aldo and his bride—that would take place that night. Afterward there would be fireworks up at the palazzo and then some serious drinking for the older fishermen and dancing in the square for the younger ones. The local band had put in some hasty practice and were there to serenade the young couple as they left the tiny whitewashed church in a carriage—lavishly decorated with ribbons and flowers, drawn by two matching white donkeys—and made their way back to the palazzo for the reception.
India was a glorious bride, small and slender in creamy silk taffeta designed and made by Paris, with an orange blossom in her hair and happiness in her eyes. Hand in hand with Aldo in her pretty donkey-carriage, she smiled and waved to the crowds that lined the square, tossing flowers to the young girls and laughing as the donkeys stopped for a quick nibble at the juicy grasses growing by the fountain.
It was a true country wedding, simple, informal, and full of the vigorous warmth of the Italian people, and India was enjoying every minute of it. There had been a pang of sadness and regret as she had left for the church on the arm of the Contessa’s brother—it wasn’t that she had no father of her own to escort her down the aisle, she was used to not having a father, but that her mother wasn’t there to see her married. Jenny would have enjoyed a wedding like this—she would have drunk champagne with the guests and danced tarantellas with the fishermen, and she would have been thrilled by her daughter’s happiness.
The palazzo was crowded with Montefiore relatives. Aldo seemed to be related to half of Italy and most of them had decided to come to his wedding. All the grand, interconnecting reception rooms milled with people greeting each other in a flurry of kisses and loud exclamations of surprise and delight. Champagne flowed, as neatly dressed girls in white aprons threaded their way through the throng with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and photographers busied themselves arranging and rearranging family groups until Aldo and India laughingly called enough.
Venetia and Paris found themselves the center of attraction for the younger male guests,