How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “Yes, she is. By the way, if we want to order, the real waiter is on his way.”

  “He’d better be,” I say abruptly. “I’ll have—”

  Jemma cuts me off: “He’ll have a Chateaubriand, grilled asparagus and truffle mashed potato. A Chateaubriand is a beef steak. The asparagus is just asparagus. And truffle mashed potato is mashed potato with truffle oil,” she mocks me.

  “You have a future,” I hiss, offended.

  “Grilled bass for me,” Derek whispers, embarrassed.

  “Do you have fried chicken wings?” She asks, scanning the menu.

  “If Madam would like some chicken, we have a delicious coq au vin.”

  She furrows her brows and I can hardly keep from laughing. I’m certain that she has never even set foot in a place like this.

  “Would you be so kind to tell me what is so amusing?” she asks, blinking.

  I shrug.

  She decides to ignore me and resumes speaking to the waiter. “That coco thing you said, that will do. With chips, please.”

  After the waiter leaves, we remain silent for a while until Derek decides to break the ice.

  “Jemma is a theatrical make-up artist. She works in a musical.”

  “Fascinating,” I comment, monotonously.

  “She was my ex’s best friend. Do you remember me talking about her? The one who moved to New York?”

  “Not much,” I reply, laconically.

  “You’re great fun, aren’t you, Ashford!” Jemma remarks with sarcasm.

  “And you’re very polite. Your feet should be on the ground, not on the chair,” I say, giving her a look of disapproval.

  “It’s a single foot. And I’m very comfortable like this, cheers.”

  “Please, don’t be childish,” Derek scolds us.

  I’m losing my patience. “Derek, would you tell me why Tarzan was invited to this dinner we arranged to talk about me?”

  Jemma adds fuel. “No, Derek, this is my dinner. And why is the fun police at my table?”

  We’re all sitting tight around the table and we only move to let the waiters deliver our dishes.

  Derek takes his time while he cuts into his grilled bass. “I’ll explain in a second, but let me finish before interrupting me.”

  Jemma and I are silent, we’re all ears.

  “As I mentioned earlier, Jemma is the granddaughter of one of my clients, now deceased. Ashford, my old friend, is the son of Henry Parker, also deceased, who was a client of my father’s. Both of you have very complicated situations that, unless miracles happen, are very hard to resolve satisfactorily. And, in the legal profession, miracles don’t happen, I’m afraid.”

  An alarm rings in my head: why the hell did he text me that he had found a solution if it’s not true?

  “Jemma could receive a significant inheritance: her grandmother’s family worked in the munitions industry, in weapon manufacturing. However, her inheritance is tied. Ashford’s situation is the other way round: he is a legitimate heir but his father, due to some reckless investments, lost most of their fortune and Ashford has to face lots of debts. This is the situation: if Jemma doesn’t get married, she will never inherit her grandmother’s property; if Ashford doesn’t restore his financial situation, his properties will be foreclosed on, and this would dishonour his title. My solution, as I told you, is rather unconventional: in order to receive her inheritance Jemma must marry a nobleman with a title. Jemma, are you currently in a relationship?”

  “Since yesterday, not any more,” she mutters.

  Derek’s introduction sends shivers down my spine.

  Derek continues: “And yesterday, Jemma, were you in a relationship with a man who owns a noble title?”

  “He’s a salsa dancer.”

  “Very well. Jemma can’t inherit anything because she is not married to a nobleman. You, Ashford, have officially been the Duke of Burlingham since the death of your father. However, according to the financial analysis we did yesterday, many of your assets are at risk. Can you confirm it?”

  My head feels heavy. “Yes.”

  “Can you also confirm that you haven’t found the money to repay the banks in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “I haven’t,” I reply, annoyed.

  “Have you at least considered selling one of your properties?”

  “Absolutely not. My mother would die if she knew about any of this.”

  “And can you also confirm that, apart from you, nobody knows about your financial situation?”

  “Yes, up until ten minutes ago, when you started giving it all away in front of her, Derek,” I say, pointing at Jemma with irritation.

  “If we really want to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, my situation isn’t much more private than yours right now, is it!” She replies.

  “It doesn’t matter now. In the light of what I explained, if Jemma married you, Ashford, she could have her inheritance and, with part of it, you could repay the banks and get back on track. You would retain your title of duke and all your properties, and nobody would ever know anything. As for you, Jemma, with your inheritance you would never have to work again in your life.”

  Even though I think Jemma is a lunatic, she seems as upset as I am, so much so that we start protesting as one.

  “Hold on a second. Yesterday I told you I needed a solution, not a husband.”

  “The two things coincide, Jemma,” says Derek, straight to the point.

  “You can’t really think that the only way to repay my debts is marrying a stranger for her money!”

  “Sure, Ashford, you can play the lottery if you think you’ll have more luck.” My friend isn’t very gentle with me, either.

  “Derek, I believe in love at first sight, the one that gives you a quickened heartbeat and butterflies in your stomach. I believe in Prince Charming. You can’t just give me a cheque and tell me ‘get married and you will become a millionaire’.”

  “Billionaire,” Derek corrects her.

  “I feel as if I were on sale, or auctioned,” she mumbles.

  My friend shrugs. “I’m not the one who put you in this position, it was your grandmother.”

  “What a nice little family you have,” I can’t help but remark.

  Jemma replies furiously: “Look who’s talking, your father left you broke.”

  “Touché.” The situation has become so absurd that I’ve just decided to laugh about it.

  Derek is expressionless. “I think you should at least consider this opportunity.”

  “Derek, let’s say I accepted: have you seen her? Can you picture her as a duchess?”

  Derek shrugs. “Why not?”

  Jemma is reluctant, too. “No, Derek, let’s say I accepted: have you ever seen a princess rescuing Prince Charming from debt collectors? Never! Besides, what’s in it for me? I marry him, I inherit my money and I pay off his debts?”

  “Jemma, one day, whenever you want, I will give you an inventory of your inheritance. Ashford’s debts are just a drop in the ocean.”

  We remain silent, lost in our thoughts. Derek scrutinises us and waits for our verdict.

  “It’s ridiculous,” I whisper.

  “Totally ridiculous,” Jemma echoes.

  “I should never have come,” I say, getting up from the table.

  5

  Jemma’s Version

  Can you imagine me, married to a guy like that?

  I want passion in my life, not planning and convenience. I want the warmth of a hug, the thrill of a kiss!

  Ashford is not even close. He’s so stiff in his immaculate shirt and constricting tie as he sits according to good manners. No, thank you.

  Besides, I like Latin Americans: dark haired, tanned, with dark eyes, and full of testosterone. I have no use for his brown hair and green eyes.

  I don’t understand how Derek can have thought of such a thing.

  Then, he’s got such a terrible temper! He treats anyone as if they were his servants. If he’s not
arrogant, then I don’t know what arrogance is. He might be a duke, but he can’t treat others as inferiors. I certainly don’t feel inferior.

  I’m not sure if I’m more irritated or disheartened. Yesterday, when I read Derek’s text, I seriously thought that he had found a solution to avoid the marriage issue, but last night I had to deal with disappointment instead. Derek has no other solution apart from marrying Ashford, and that means that I will never inherit a single pound.

  I’m not a greedy person, I don’t think that money makes people happy and I’ve never really considered the hypothesis of becoming rich, but now I can’t help thinking about it. With my grandmother’s inheritance, I could buy a nice flat in the centre of London and a house in the countryside for my parents, with many animals, and a nice car for myself, maybe a Porsche (who knows if they come in pink). I could buy designer clothes, like those I see in Cosmopolitan, be through with flea markets and second hand shops.

  I could go to Arsenal’s away matches every Sunday with all the other fans.

  I could go on holiday to the Caribbean! Or, at least, go on holiday.

  These are things I’ve always dreamed of doing, and now that they’re so close, having to give up the idea of them is torture.

  However, if I accepted Derek’s idea, I’d reduce myself to a pound of meat for sale at the butcher’s.

  I want a man who adores me, I want to be the ‘apple of his eye’, not a ‘finger in his eye’. The latter is how Ashford made me feel: useless, unwanted, superfluous and annoying. I dream of a man for whom I’m as vital as the air he breathes.

  I want Rhett, who saves Scarlett O’Hara in danger; I want Jack, who drowns for Rose; I want Romeo, who poisons himself for losing Juliet. I want a fairy tale. I’ve always wanted one and I know that if I don’t stop believing, I’ll have it, one day.

  My parents defied their families to be together and after thirty years they still love each other like they did when they first met.

  Ashford doesn’t need a woman to worship of course, he worships himself already and that’s more than enough for him. What he needs is a beautiful figurine to put on display, a mannequin to show off. Perhaps he is right: I could never be a duchess, I’m too human and I want too many things from life to turn into a porcelain doll.

  At breakfast, while eating the buckwheat biscuits my mum made, I think that my parents would have a good laugh if I told them this story.

  But it’s already 1:30 p.m., so, a little reluctantly, I take off my pyjamas and get dressed to go to my own theatre of horrors. Today, before the afternoon show, there will be a company meeting.

  I hope it’s to inform us that we’ll put on a more cheerful musical next year, meaning new costumes and that I will be allowed to create new, brighter make-up styles. This play, which is about the separation of a family at the time of Spanish flu, is literally killing me, and it’s been running for far too long. I’ve always wondered what drives the audience to come and see it. In all honesty, they don’t exactly queue up at the box office and the reason is not a mystery: a musical play should cheer people up, not depress them.

  For once, I’m almost on time – or rather, I’m a little less late than usual, but being late isn’t totally my fault; I do my best, yet there’s always some trouble with the Tube or the buses.

  Adriana rolls her eyes when she sees me, so I find a seat and sink into it as quickly as possible in an attempt to hide from her.

  As cool as a cucumber, Oliver announces that he’s got a new play in mind: the final hours of Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be given the death penalty in the United Kingdom, back in 1955. The show will focus on the protagonist who will tell the story of her life from her cell. All this, with a bare and minimalist set design. I feel the need to express my point of view: “Ruth Ellis’s life was quite eventful. She was a model, a nightclub dancer, she found herself in a prostitution ring, she had two husbands and many lovers, and she also managed a nightclub herself. In my opinion, a life like hers can be portrayed with a very dynamic and engaging show. Let’s recreate early fifties London, with a fast beat, catchy music that sticks in everyone’s head!” History inspires me a lot, and I’m sure I would be way more motivated in a production like this.

  Oliver doesn’t seem to agree. “I want to focus on the inner drama.” With these few words, he shuts me up.

  No set design, no fast beat music, nothing at all.

  Reason: he feels he urge to pursue something more modern.

  Producer: he backed out, so the show will be self-produced by Oliver, in partnership with Adriana.

  Theatre: the same, but with a higher rent.

  Budget: cut to the bone.

  After the meeting, I pluck up the courage to go and ask Adriana some questions, even though she looks at me absently.

  “Adriana, as you’re the artistic director, and since we’ll have to start working on the new play, I need some indicators for make-up and stage costumes so that I can prepare a few proposals.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, the stuff I’ll take care of, the actors’ make-up and the costumes.”

  “The costumes will be very simple and make-up won’t be required. A face with no make-up expresses the torment of a character much better.”

  “No make-up, no costumes… I’m sorry but, what am I gonna do?

  Adriana drums her fingers on the doorpost. “I discussed it with Oliver, you’re no longer needed in the company. Consider yourself free.”

  “Wait… are you sacking me just like that, out of the blue?”

  Adriana’s really got some nerve. “Not at all, ‘out of the blue’ would mean for no reason. I gave you some reasons.” She then disappears into the dressing room, slamming the door in my face.

  I can’t believe what I heard, and my brain refuses to make sense of the information I’ve just received, so I immediately look for Oliver and, when I find him, I start nagging him, getting straight to the point. “Adriana sacked me. She said the two of you talked about it and decided you no longer need me.”

  Oliver nods, shaking his greasy hair. “Yup. You know, you don’t have to be angry. It’s a matter of budget; we had to cut unnecessary expenses…”

  “Unnecessary? Are you saying that I’m unnecessary?”

  “Jemma, let’s face it, your role is not essential to the new play.”

  I point my finger at him but I fail to find any satisfying insults, so I turn my back and march towards the door, but then I turn round and say: “You know what? The old play sucked, and this will be even worse. A great opportunity down the drain. Someone else will soon have the same idea and they will put it into practice way better that you ever could! You’re just another ‘wish-I-could-but-can’t’ type and I don’t even need to hope you fail, ‘cause I already know you will! When was the last time we had more than fifteen spectators, relatives excluded? Are you sacking me? Good! I’m more than happy to leave this morgue!”

  And then I find myself alone on the pavement, under pouring rain. I’m furious. Unemployed. And without an umbrella.

  6

  Ashford’s Version

  Second sleepless night in a row. All I can do is lie in bed contemplating the darkness.

  Bankruptcy is the most humiliating thing that could ever happen to me: I could be expelled from the House of Lords, become the laughing stock of the whole Parliament and, of course, put my own title at risk.

  It’s pretty simple: a title of nobility is honorific, and those who fail to account for their debts result in being dishonoured, because their word has no value.

  If, the other night, the news of bankruptcy made me simply nervous, now I’m really pissed off with Derek. Not only didn’t he find a solution, he didn’t even try. He picked a case which is even worse than mine and simply put it on top of the pile, to wait and see what would come out of it.

  Man plus woman, debts plus inheritance, equals marriage. What an idea! One wouldn’t expect an Oxford graduate to be such a medio
cre solicitor. Watching Perry Mason would probably get him better results.

  How could he even imagine that I would marry that freak.

  Jemma left me literally speechless! What about her table manners? It was like having dinner with a chimpanzee, no offence to them.

  Not to mention her appearance. For all my life, I’ve thought that women care a lot about their looks, but Jemma destroyed all my beliefs.

  Clown make-up, poorly matched clothes – which would be too provocative even for a nightclub dancer – half pink tailbone length hair… basically, a failed Spice Girl.

  The Spice Girls, aka the peak of the nineties’ trashy style.

  Could you imagine any of the Spice Girls becoming a duchess?

  No, you couldn’t. Since Derek has no idea what to do, I’ll have to handle this myself.

  Before breakfast, I put on one of my best designer suits as I’ve decided to visit the banks where my accounts are overdrawn, discuss the situation and find a solution.

  Just as I’m knotting my tie, I notice that someone is knocking insistently on the door: it’s Lance.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but your presence is required downstairs.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m sure that any excuse my mother has come up with can wait.”

  “Actually, Her Grace the duchess is at the upholsterer’s atelier. But there are two visitors waiting for you at the door.”

  I give a snort of irritation while buttoning my cuff. “What a pain. If they were so rude as to turn up without notice and uninvited, then they will wait for as long as I need.”

  “They said they are from the Royal & Treasures Bank.” Lance’s words affect me as an air raid siren would.

  I drop the cufflinks on my bed and rush out of the room, almost knocking my butler down.

  When I see the two bankers at the bottom of the stairs, sporting a solemn expression and a shiny briefcase each, I’m out of breath for a moment.

  “Welcome to Denby Hall, gentlemen. Are you from the Royal & Treasures Bank?”

  The two men exchange a look, then the lock of one of the briefcases clicks and a document comes out of it.