How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “I knew you were hiding something. You went to London three times in three days. But what happened? Did you fall for some loose woman?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” I don’t know what to tell her, none of this was part of my original plan. And now, my only plan B is to let her cool down.

  “So, did you get her pregnant?” My mother’s investigative inclination is far from dying down.

  “No, Mother. Don’t talk nonsense. Now please, calm down and get ready to go to Bath.”

  “How can you expect me to calm down! Your marriage should have been a social event of primary importance! You should have married a girl from a good, well known family who is suited to being a duchess. It would have been a big event, worthy of your title and your social status…”

  “Listen, Mother, my social status has always been your priority, not mine, and the idea of a big ceremony has always been just in your head! I’m not into all that!”

  “What about Portia, then?” She asks.

  “What about Portia!” I lose it.

  “She would have been a perfect duchess.”

  “For someone else, maybe!” I say.

  “So, according to you, this Jemma is the perfect duchess, is she?”

  “She certainly is nothing like those tarted up mannequins I’m forced to meet at every party, who bow and scrape and flatter me, thinking that they will convince me to marry them!”

  “If nothing else, I know who they are and where they come from, I know their parents and I know they are respectable people,” she yells.

  “Just because you don’t know Jemma’s parents it doesn’t mean they are not respectable.”

  I suddenly find myself defending Jemma, but you know what they say: the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

  “So, that’s it, is it: you fell desperately in love and you got married. Well, now that you have a wife, would you please explain what we’re going to do with her?”

  “What do you mean, Mother?”

  “There are people – friends, acquaintances, people of rank, like us – who will come here, day by day, expecting to see your duchess. What am I supposed to do? How does this surprise marriage work?”

  It doesn’t. It just doesn’t, because there was no afterwards in my plan.

  In my plan there was no bloody spy running to blab everything to the newspapers.

  As I leave my mother’s study, exhausted, my mobile vibrates in my pocket: it’s Derek.

  I don’t even let him say hello. “Will you please explain what the hell happened? It’s in all the newspapers, for God’s sake!”

  “News leak. It was the clerk at the Register Office. She called some gossip magazine saying that she was a witness and she had copies of the documents that proved the marriage.”

  “I’ll be at your office in an hour.” I hang up without further ado.

  9

  Jemma’s Version

  My mum and dad are performing a propitiatory rite for Parvati, the patron goddess of marriage.

  I’m sitting with my legs crossed, blindfolded, holding a candle in my right hand and a feather in my left hand. My parents are revolving around me, following the rhythm of a tambourine my dad plays while my mum burns incense sticks.

  They made me have a purifying bath – well, it was a shower – with essential oils, to ensure a good start to my marital life, so I now smell like a pine tree forest.

  My parents took it well. They’re glad I found my soul mate, even if he’s an aristocrat.

  This surprised me quite a lot: I was sound asleep when they burst into my flat. My mum had been shopping for avocados at Deli’s, which is opposite our block of flats, and the newsagent congratulated her on my marriage, waving the article featuring the certificate Ashford and I signed.

  The fact that they reacted positively is totally irrelevant. Now they know I’m married, they’ll expect me to leave my studio flat and move in with my husband. This is a problem, but since the whole thing wasn’t supposed to come out, I hadn’t thought about it. Let’s see… I could move to one of my grandmother’s houses, or rent a breath taking penthouse overlooking Hyde Park and pretend that my husband is abroad for work. Aristocrats do such things, don’t they?

  As soon as I feel my mobile vibrate and read a message from Derek summoning me to his office, I drop the candle and the feather and rush out of the flat as if there was an earthquake.

  To my great disappointment, Ashford is there, and Derek looks quite embarrassed.

  “I apologise to both for what happened, the news leak jeopardised part of our agreement.”

  “What’s this smell?” Asks Ashford, sniffing.

  “Essential oils,” I answer sharply. “Please Derek, go on. I do wanna hear your apologies.”

  “The employee who stepped in as your witness spoke to the press. Apparently, she’s an avid gossip column reader and when she found herself in front of the Duke of Burlingham signing the paperwork for a top secret, last minute marriage, she could hardly believe her luck.”

  “Derek, due to this ‘news leak’, my mother was almost ready for Bedlam this morning. Not to mention all the people who phoned for the details of a story I don’t want to divulge.”

  “I can imagine that,” Derek comments laconically.

  “We didn’t get any calls,” I say.

  “Well, obviously,” remarks Ashford, in his usual arrogant tone.

  Derek cuts things short. “Here’s the thing: a divorce is out of the question. Jemma has lent you the money and therefore, she’s got some rights, so she could demand everything back with interest, right here and now. It would mean re-mortgaging most of your estates, and we established that we don’t want to do that, even if it is possible. As far as you’re concerned, Jemma, divorcing less than twenty-four hours after a marriage that enables you to receive a billionaire inheritance would be more than enough for any judge to find you guilty of fraud.”

  Ashford mutters to himself. “Here’s another speech and another great idea.”

  “I’m sorry?” Asks Derek, slightly irritated.

  “Never mind, go ahead,” Ashford says, shrugging.

  “All you can do is make the best of it.”

  We look at him, both very sceptical. “Which means?”

  “Which means this: Jemma, your parents expect you to go and live with your husband; Ashford, you’re surrounded by people who yearn to meet your wife. The only solution is to pretend to live as a married couple for a reasonable period of time and then get a divorce. Let’s say a year from now, by which time your investments will have generated enough to repay your debt to Jemma.”

  We’re speechless. The tension is palpable.

  “Come on, Ashford. Your estate is so huge you could spend days without ever bumping into each other!”

  “Forget about it! I don’t want her in my house!”

  “Fine, that means you’ll have to move in with Jemma in her basement studio flat.”

  “I don’t want to live with him!” Then, lowering my voice, to Derek: “I’m at my sexual peak, I’m not going to live as a recluse for a whole year!”

  Ashford gets closer and cuts in. “Well, the same goes for me. I have a private life and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Don’t make a drama out of it! Your parents lived as strangers for their whole marriage, didn’t they? You should be an expert. Anyway, it won’t be for long, and nobody will be shocked when you simply find out that you were not made for each other in the first place. It’s a last minute marriage, after all. In the meantime you’ll just have to keep up appearances and your reputation will be safe.”

  We take some minutes to think it over, then Ashford announces: “We can do it, but I have conditions.”

  “So do I,” I hasten to add.

  “Separate rooms,” he starts.

  “I will have no obligation to let you know what I do and where I go.” I go on.

  “At public events, you’ll be my wife, in private, we’ll live our separ
ate lives.”

  “I want to feel free to hang out with other men,” I reply.

  “All right, but you won’t do it in my house. I have many servants and I don’t want them to gossip.”

  “Your mother, Lady Bedlam: I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”

  “My mother is already leaving for Bath, so you won’t even see her. If we’re lucky enough, she will stay away for quite a long time after this morning’s angry outburst.”

  “We have a deal, then!” Derek announces. “From now on, you’ll be living in Denby Hall, leading your lives separately, and you will only appear as a couple at public events.” He then looks at both, satisfied. “Once again, we did a great job.”

  10

  Ashford’s Version

  I’ve been trapped. All my plans have gone down the drain.

  I can hardly stop myself from shaking with rage as Jemma is getting in my car to come to Denby.

  I drove her home first where she gathered some of her stuff in a sports bag. She then tossed it inside the car and now she’s sitting beside me in a cloud of incense, smelling like a Shanghai opium den.

  “Do you live far from here?” She asks straight away.

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘far’.”

  “Don’t know, far. Like, far away.”

  “Compared to what?” I insist.

  “Can’t you just answer a question without making a fuss?”

  I ignore her attempt to provoke me but when I turn to look at her, what I see sends a shiver down my spine. “Hey, get your feet off the dashboard, you’ll scratch it.”

  “So much ado for such an old car.”

  Are you kidding me! “It’s classic, not old!”

  Jemma shrugs. “Whatever you think.”

  “I don’t think, it just is. This is a 1956 Jaguar Roadster. There’s a certificate.”

  “Why don’t you buy a new one?” She asks, tediously.

  “Because I like this one.”

  It seems she won’t stop. “How much longer?”

  “Will you keep asking questions for the whole journey?”

  “How do you turn the radio on, here?”

  “Don’t touch anything, let me do it,” I say, pushing away her hand which is way too close to the buttons.

  As if she were a child, she calms down as soon as the music starts. She’s completely mesmerised.

  Why doesn’t she understand that I wish she weren’t here?

  Just before arriving, I feel the urge to make a short introduction. One doesn’t need to be a genius to realise that she’s probably never been in a certain type of environment.

  “Look, Jemma, now we’re almost there, I would like to inform you of a couple of things. First of all, Denby Hall is our family residence, and it comprises of a manor house and a park. Including all the caretakers, gardeners, servants and cooks, there are about twenty people who work for us. This means that we’ll never be alone, and there will be eyes and ears everywhere at all times, so you’d better watch your mouth and be careful what you say. Just know that you’ll have everything you need, you’ll be waited on hand and foot, and you’ll never have anything to complain about. The only thing I ask you is to be discreet and don’t throw tantrums and, even if we don’t get on too well, please, try and keep a neutral profile. Don’t contradict me openly and avoid conflicts, as they would be detrimental to the credibility of the story we made up. Everything will work just fine if we respect each other’s space. I hope you agree with me.”

  I cross my fingers, hoping she understood what I said.

  “Okay, fine, I got what you said about the servants and all that but, hey, ‘throw tantrums’? What kind of person do you think I am?”

  I don’t have the strength to answer.

  However, judging by Jemma’s reaction, it seems that I hit a nerve. “Listen, let’s get this straight: I don’t like you, you don’t like me and, as I see it, I’m doing you a favour, so I’d appreciate it if you cut the lectures.”

  It’s a losing battle.

  From the moment we enter the property, all along the driveway and up to the entrance, Jemma keeps her face pressed against the car window.

  “Blimey! Is this place is all yours?”

  “It is.”

  “How long does it take to visit it all?”

  “Days.”

  “Don’t worry, Ashford, if you always talk this much, we’ll never argue.”

  Is this our plan, then? Complete silence?

  I give the keys to Paul and he takes the car to the garage. In the meantime, Lance comes running to welcome us.

  “Welcome back, Your Grace. I see you have a guest.”

  With my infamous cheeky face, which I’ve learned to show off pretty naturally in the last few days, I say: “I must correct you, Lance. This is not a guest, but someone who is here to stay. This is Jemma Pears, my wife.”

  “So the rumours I heard were true?”

  “Absolutely,” I confirm boldly.

  “In this case, I bid the duchess welcome,” he says, bowing in Jemma’s direction.

  She doesn’t understand and looks around.

  “Who is he talking to?” She murmurs.

  “You, you’re the duchess,” I whisper.

  “Oh, all right,” she says, reaching out her hand towards Lance. “My pleasure.”

  Lance looks at her in astonishment, then he looks at me questioningly, waiting to be told what to do.

  I nod, so he shakes Jemma’s hand.

  “If you allow me, I will take care of your luggage.”

  “I’d rather not, it’s my stuff and I want to know where it goes. I gave my beauty case to an air hostess once and I never saw it again. I would like to avoid that.”

  “This is not an airport, Jemma,” I point out.

  “Whatever, my stuff goes where I go.”

  Great start, isn’t it?

  The click-clack of heels on top of the staircase takes us by surprise and a familiar voice hits my ear.

  “Ashford, did you give a lift to a hitchhiker? Aren’t you aware that they’re all psychopaths with criminal records?”

  My mother is looking at us from above, and it’s as though God had come down to Earth.

  “Mother! Shouldn’t you be on your way to Bath?” I ask cautiously.

  “Lady Bedlam,” whispers Jemma.

  My mother descends the stairs and once before us she replies: “I thought that leaving your wife alone to settle in the property wouldn’t be wise, considering the royal visit. I decided to stay and instruct her on her duties. By the way, when is she expected to arrive?” She pauses and then looks at Lance, pointing at Jemma. “Is this the new help for the stable lad? Lance, escort her to John, so she can start immediately.”

  “Mother, let me introduce you to Jemma, my wife,” I say impassively.

  My mother’s flawless face falls apart. She has just realised that the woman in front of her is not the stable girl, but the new Duchess of Burlingham.

  “Hey, there,” is Jemma’s opening line.

  My mother looks at her in astonishment without uttering a word.

  People of lower rank greet her with the hint of a bow, while middle class people make a complete bow. Jemma is holding out her hand with her head held high while sporting a cocky smile.

  “Ashford…” says my mother, without knowing how to continue.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “There’s a great deal of work to be done here.” She can hardly restrain herself.

  “Mother…” I say, trying to prevent her from continuing, well aware that an unfortunate choice of words could cause Jemma to explode like a time bomb.

  “It’s quite obvious that she has no idea of her role, or of the position of our family, or of the rules of good behaviour, and God knows what else. I fear this might open a Pandora’s box. Ashford, yours was a very dangerous choice.”

  “Keep going, I’m not even here!” Jemma remarks.

  “Exactly,” is m
y mother’s abrupt reply.

  “Mother, perhaps this is not the right way to deal with this.”

  “I’ll be in my study, waiting to interview her.” That said, my mother turns round and leaves.

  11

  Jemma’s Version

  I feel small. Here, everything is oversized. The place is huge, the house and its rooms are gigantic, Ashford is so tall and his mother is a first class bitch.

  “Welcome to Denby, Jemma,” Ashford announces.

  “Lady Bedlam was not in the deal,” I complain.

  “You will soon notice that I can’t control my mother, which is rather frustrating.”

  “Have you heard her? She said she will stay and instruct me. I didn’t exactly see her jump for joy, and don’t you dare blame arthritis!”

  Ashford shrugs. “I admit her back isn’t what it used to be, but you’ll understand that this must have shocked her.”

  “Well, just as much as it shocked me. Listen up, Ashford: I don’t need or want to be instructed on anything!” I protest, crossing my arms.

  Ashford raises an eyebrow as odiously as usual.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to, but allow me to have some doubts about whether you need to be—”

  Lance perceives the growing tension between us and feels obliged to intervene. “The duke and duchess must be tired from the drive, may I suggest some rest and perhaps a hot bath?”

  With a loud sigh, Ashford says: “Thank you, Lance.”

  Lance nods and invites us to follow him up the stairs.

  Where I live, the staircase is only large enough for one person at a time, the steps are chipped, the handrail is unstable and there’s only one baluster in four left. This one here looks like that of a shopping centre: wide bends, red carpet and sculptures on the parapets. It’s basically a monument.

  “I took the liberty of having the master apartments in the east wing prepared,” says Lance with a hint of pride.

  On the first floor, we walk down a long hallway with a black and white chequered marble floor and I can see a long series of heavily carved doors. I can’t help but think of the castle from Beauty and the Beast. I look at Ashford, who is a step behind me, moody and petulant. Here’s our beast.