The Marriage Contract Read online

  The Marriage Contract

  By

  Susan Alexander

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT

  After the callous way he had disowned her mother, the last thing Rosanna wanted was to have anything to do with her autocratic grandfather. Yet now, if her mother was not to die, Rosanna must do as he wanted, go to Sicily, marry the man he had chosen for her, and give him an heir. Even for her beloved mother, could Rosanna nerve herself to do it?

  Another book you will enjoy

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  SUSAN ALEXANDER

  WEDDING IN THE FAMILY

  Ever since her sister Monica had stolen her fiancé Philip, Davina had virtually been cut off from her family. Now Monica and Philip were getting married, and Davina didn't know how she could face going to the wedding. Would it help to pretend, as he suggested, that her boss Jake Humphries was her fiancé, and take him along for moral support—or would that only lead to more trouble?

  First published 1983

  Australian copyright 1983

  Philippine copyright 1983

  This edition 1983

  © Susan Alexander 1983

  ISBN 0 263 74238 5

  CHAPTER ONE

  The heat slapped against her body like a thick blanket, enveloping her completely as she stepped down on to the tarmac, the hot wind stinging her bare legs and forcing tears to her eyes. Reaching for her dark glasses, she made her way towards the airport buildings with the other half dozen first class passengers.

  'Aeroporto Palermo'.

  In huge letters the sign soared above the building, etched against the unclouded blue of the Sicilian sky. By the time they passed into the cool dark interior, her cotton dress was sticking to her skin. Waiting for her luggage, she wondered if she would be met. There had been no mention of it in her instructions. Should she find a porter? Get a taxi?

  'Signorina Dunham?'

  She turned to see an airport official in impeccable grey uniform bowing formally, his eyes questioning.

  She nodded and he smiled broadly, white teeth flashing, his dark eyes on the blonde of her hair.

  'Please to follow me.' He walked ahead, leading the way out of the building.

  'My luggage…? she queried.

  'Will follow in a moment,' he answered smoothly.

  They emerged into airport reception to a crowd of waiting relatives and friends. Her guide continued without stopping, clearing a way for them both to the exit doors which opened automatically, and once more she was out in the white glare of the midday sun. The forecourt was lined with long sleek coaches waiting for their allotted parties of holidaymakers, brightly uniformed couriers chatting in groups.

  Turning sharply, her guide headed for a large black Mercedes, its dark-tinted windows gleaming in the sun, a small blue and gold flag rampant on the bonnet. A uniformed chauffeur straightened at their approach and saluted smartly.

  'Buon giorno, signorina.' He handed her into the rear of the limousine, taking her coat and bag to put on the front seat. The two men exchanged a quiet word, a porter emerged from the airport buildings with her cases, some money changed hands and the bags were stored in the boot. She smiled vaguely at the farewell salute from the airport official as the car slid smoothly out of the airport and on to the autostrada to Palermo.

  Rosanna leaned back, eyes closed, as the heat receded from her face and body in the cool of the air-conditioning.

  A quiet hum sounded and she opened her eyes to see the glass partition slide down between herself and the chauffeur. In the mirror above his head she could see a dark-eyed Sicilian in his forties, broadly built and darkly tanned with thick black curly hair escaping from under the peaked cap, his smile friendly and impersonal.

  'My name is Enrico, signorina,' he explained. 'Your plane was late and we are a little behind schedule, but I will now try to make up the time. Forgive me if I do not converse. If you wish to speak to me, please use the tube at your elbow.'

  He smiled again briefly and the partition rose once more, shutting her off. She looked down at the old-fashioned tube and glanced round at the luxury of thick carpet and suede leather upholstery. Sudden nausea rose in her throat and she swallowed convulsively as panic threatened. Fighting back to resist it, she determined to remain cool, refusing to allow her imagination to riot away with her common sense. Nothing could be gained if she gave way to panic. Resolutely she looked out at her surroundings.

  The heat rose in shimmering waves from the tarmac of the motorway, and was reflected back from the white dusty roadway as they turned off towards Palermo. On both sides houses were shuttered and shops empty, spilling their wares on to pavements deserted during the midday heat.

  As they neared the city, the atmosphere changed. Where the big silent car had sped quietly and fast through deserted suburbs, they were now surrounded on all sides by traffic, people and noise. Car windows wound down, drivers were hurling angry insults at each other while hooters blasted, brakes squealed and tiny cars, daring and defiant, whipped in and out of traffic lanes.

  Darkly mellowed stone of square majestic buildings towered above modern, elegant, glass-fronted shops, cars and people reflected in their sparkling windows. Crowds thronged the pavement cafes, sitting in the shade of gaily striped umbrellas, seemingly unperturbed by the frenzy of traffic only a few feet away.

  Enrico continued expertly. Crossing the large square with its ornate stone fountain, he raised his hand in casual salute to the white-helmeted policeman who waved them on from his pedestal, his piercing whistle clenched between dazzling teeth.

  Two more turnings and they were in a tree-lined avenue flanked on both sides by shuttered town villas set back in brilliantly coloured gardens, soaring spiked brass railings guarding the privacy of their owners.

  Enrico swung sharply into a driveway and the gates opened automatically. The big car crunched to a stop on the gravel, and Rosanna had a quick glimpse of the red and gold Orsini crest above the heavy oak front door, before Enrico ushered her out of the car and she walked into the chilly darkness of the house.

  The sudden contrast with the brilliant light outside blinded her for a moment and she didn't see the woman who stood waiting. Nervously she blinked at the cavernous hall with its black ebony panelled walls, huge dark mosaic floor and wide wooden staircase sweeping to the upper stories.

  'Buon giorno, signorina.'

  Rosanna turned. The woman was elderly, dressed in black to the floor, grey hair drawn severely upwards from a smooth round face, the small eyes dark and cold.

  'I am Sophia, the housekeeper,' she said, her voice expressionless. 'Il signore is expecting you.'

  She turned and led the way. Their feet made no noise up the thickly carpeted stairs, and the sombre portraits in their heavy gold frames stared woodenly as the two women climbed. High above in the domed roof hung a large gilded cage suspended from heavy coiled black cabling—a lift.

  On the first floor the housekeeper continued through a maze of windowless corridors, the only sound the faint swish of her dress as it swept the tiled floor, the only light from yellow glass goblets blurred with age, supported against the wall in black wrought-iron holders.

  Sophia stopped at last in front of a double wooden door and knocked. It was opened immediately and, heart hammering, Rosanna stepped across the threshold.

  The room was empty. She turned to see a young man closing the door behind the housekeeper.

  'Signorina,' he said quietly, and bowed. In spite of the intense heat of the day he was dressed in formal suit and tie, his face grave and pale, the eyes hidden behind thick, round steel-rimmed glasses. 'Un momento,' he said. 'I will see if il signore can receive you now. Please take a seat.'

  He disappeared through a far door and Rosanna sat down on the edge of a high backed chair in the middle of the room.

  The silence was complete. No murmur of voices or sound of footfalls reached her. The shutters were closed and in the dim light she could barely see into the dark corners of the ornately furnished high-ceilinged room.

  Her control was beginning to slip, and she could feel the fear crawl along her skin. The urge to run was overwhelming, and she clenched her hands hard, digging her nails into her palms as panic brought the blood rushing to her head and she began to feel faint. She wished she had eaten something on the plane. Suddenly England seemed a lifetime away as she recognised the difference between working everything out calmly and rationally a thousand miles away, and being in this house, waiting to face the man she had come to see.

  'Signorina.' The young man was standing in the open doorway. He gestured for her to come, but suddenly she couldn't move. Fear kept her glued to her chair. She couldn't go through with it. She had to get out of the house, back to the airport and on to the next plane home. Home! There was no home… not any more.

  She lifted her head and clenched the muscles of her legs, forcing herself to get up and move across the room, hoping her knees wouldn't buckle as she walked slowly past him into the room beyond.

  The first thing that struck her was the heat. The room was stifling, and even the midday sun couldn't account for it. In the silence the hum of a fan heater reached her. The room was he
ated artificially.

  'Rosanna Dunham.'

  It was a statement, not a question, and she swung round towards the voice.

  Seated in a deep winged armchair, supported by cushions, a rug covering his legs, sat Roberto Orsini. The granite face with its halo of white hair, the strong powerful nose and the lipless wide mouth were all strange to her. But the eyes she knew as she knew her own. They were her mother's eyes. This was indeed her grandfather.

  'Well?' The voice was unexpectedly steely.

  She felt her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth and knew if she tried to speak she would stammer. That legacy from her childhood always returned at times of acute stress. So she stood silent as he looked up at her, his glance travelling from the heavy swathe of her shoulder-length blonde hair to the deep almost purple-black of her eyes, down the tall, slender figure in its shabby dress to the long slim legs and cheap sandals on her feet.

  'Sit down,' he commanded.

  'I'd rather stand,' her voice came cool and clear. She sighed with relief, expelling her breath slowly, keeping the stammer at bay.

  He leaned back. 'So you're the only child of my daughter?' he affirmed haughtily. His voice was strong, inflexible, the voice of a much younger man. Rosanna remained silent. 'Well…' he demanded arrogantly, 'are you a Dunham or an Orsini?'

  'Both,' she replied proudly. And suddenly everything clicked into place as memory flooded her mind, driving out nervousness and fear. The reason why she was in this room, the deep fierce hatred she felt for the man sitting opposite, apparently so weak and helpless, yet responsible with his ruthless and vindictive pride for the sufferings of her father and mother.

  He must have seen the thoughts chase across her face. 'So,' he observed harshly, 'you show your hatred and contempt. Are you not afraid I'll terminate the contract before it has begun?'

  'No,' she responded coldly, 'I'm not afraid. I feared you once when you had the power to hurt my parents, but now there's no one left to hurt. There's only me. And you'll never reach me with your cruelty!' Her voice rang young and clear in the darkened room, and the old man reacted to it. His lips twisted and his eyes flashed with anger.

  'So,' he rasped, 'I am the villain still?'

  'I have no wish to argue with you,' she said more quietly. 'I'm only here on business.'

  'On whoring business,' he snarled, and she caught her breath at the contempt in his voice. 'You come here to sell yourself for money, and you dare hurl your pride into my face. Have you no shame?'

  'I'm here to fulfil a simple contract,' she managed with dignity, her trembling hands behind her back, 'but that doesn't give you the right to abuse me, nor am I prepared to listen to your opinion of my morals.' Her cool was beginning to crack and she wished he would get to the end of this interview.

  'Very well,' he agreed more quietly, 'as soon as you sit down, I'll go over the arrangements. You are tall and I don't propose to crane my neck to talk to you.'

  Rosanna sat down on the nearest chair, the wood hard against her legs. They were now face to face, and he looked straight into her eyes as he began to talk, slowly and evenly without emotion. 'It is agreed you will provide me with an heir by the man I have chosen. On the day of your marriage you will receive ten thousand pounds sterling. On the day you give birth to the child you will receive a further twenty thousand. When the child is weaned he will be handed over to me. You will then give up any rights to him, leave Sicily and never see him again. A divorce will then be arranged.'

  Rosanna said nothing. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't know. As the silence lengthened in the heated room, she looked across at her grandfather and found him staring at her intently. Her eyes widened apprehensively. Was there something more, something else she didn't know?

  'Well, have you no questions, girl?' he demanded harshly. 'Aren't you curious? What if I'm marrying you to a monster, a fiend or even a pervert?'

  She clenched her jaw in an effort to control the fear that racked her body at his words. He was touching on the dread of her most terrible nightmares. She swallowed heavily, clearing her throat, fighting for coherent thought, determined he shouldn't see her fear.

  'Since you want an heir of your own blood you aren't likely to pick a maniac for his father,' she managed at last.

  'Mighty cool,' he sneered.

  Rosanna spoke quickly. 'What if the baby is a girl? What will happen to her? Will you ignore her, tyrannise her as you did my mother, so that she too will do anything to get away from her unhappy life?'

  She saw the terrible anger in his face before he spoke. 'You are insolent!' He was breathing with difficulty. 'And about things you don't understand. If the child is a girl she will be my heir and brought up to it… just as your mother was.' The raw anger changed to a grunt as he bent across his clenched hands, doubled up with pain. Reaching for a small bottle from the table at his side, he opened it and swallowed some of the pills. Rosanna watched, impassive, as the colour returned slowly to the ashen skin. Only a slight tremor of her mouth revealed a moment's compassion as she watched his desperate fight for breath. She was determined there would be no emotion between them, and there was no pity in her eyes as she waited.

  At last he sat up, his head resting against the high back of the chair, hands gripping his knees through the heavy blanket.

  'Tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock you will meet here in this house with Don Carlo and the contract will be signed.' He paused, his breathing still painful, and Rosanna felt an overwhelming urge to leave… to get away from the suffocation of the room. She got up.

  'Very well, I'll be here. I'll leave now and find myself a hotel.'

  'No!' he thundered at her. 'How dare you suggest that an Orsini bride will go to her wedding from a hotel? You'll remain in this house until you remove from it to the house of your husband. A suite of rooms has been prepared.' His voice sank with exhaustion. 'After tomorrow there will be no need for us to… meet again.'

  She turned to leave.

  'Your mother…' his voice stopped her. 'She is dead?'

  Rosanna quivered with feeling. This was the test. She must not give herself away. Slowly she turned back to him. 'Yes,' she said baldly.

  'Where is she buried?' he asked quietly.

  'It is not part of my contract to furnish you with information,' she replied coldly.

  He sighed. 'You are not like your mother.'

  'No,' she said clearly, 'fortunately for us both.'

  For a moment they stared at each other, exchanging looks almost of recognition, as of enemies sizing up their opponents. Rosanna thought she saw a fleeting look of some emotion in his eyes. Was it admiration? And then it was gone and she knew herself to have been mistaken.

  Suddenly the door opened behind her and a plump, middle-aged nurse in white starch hurried past her to the old man.

  'That's quite enough damage for one day,' she said severely in Italian. 'Back to bed immediately. Please go now, signorina,' she added coldly and dismissively over her shoulder.

  Rosanna woke to a darkened room wondering for a moment where she was. Then memory returned. Sophia had led her from her grandfather's suite to the floor above where she found a sitting room, bedroom and bathroom had been put at her disposal. Her clothes had been unpacked and looked particularly insignificant in the vast mahogany wardrobe. Heedless of the heavy luxury of her surroundings or the cold lunch set out for her, she had lain down on the bed to fall immediately asleep. She stretched pleasurably, her head clear, the ache of tiredness gone from her eyes. In her robe she padded across to the shutters and opened them wide, to find herself at the back of the house. Down below the garden was surrounded by a tight high fringe of dark cypresses that cast their shadows over the brilliant blue of the swimming pool. The heat was muted and the shadows lengthening, and Rosanna felt a sudden urge to walk to lose herself among people, away from the heavy oppressiveness of the house.

  Ten minutes later she let herself out, the movement of the heavy bolt on the massive front door the only sound in the silent villa.

  Back in the main thoroughfare she had crossed earlier in the day the atmosphere was very different. Shops were open and doing brisk business. Pavements were crowded with people moving at leisure and enjoying the balm of early evening. There was still traffic, but moving slowly, the chatter of drivers friendly and cheerful as they waited for the jams to ease. The fountain in the centre of the square was alive with children, their excited cries to each other punctuated intermittently by the shrill warnings from their watching mammas.