How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  As a result of what I said, Harring raises an eyebrow, sceptically. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “She’s a nonconformist and she’s absolutely okay with open relationships. That’s what I mean when I say that nothing has changed.”

  Harring’s sceptical expression becomes incredulous. “Let me get this straight: you got married, you exchanged vows, ‘until death do us part’… and after all that, you’re saying it’s an open marriage?”

  I just nod so as to avoid giving my secrets away. The tiny detail I omit is that we got married for money and actually despise each other, so we don’t share anything, and certainly not a bed.

  “You’re lucky starred, my friend. I don’t know how many unhappy wretches would like to be in your shoes right now.”

  Damn, I must have sounded sincere!

  “Yeah but, Harring, keep this between us, within these walls. There’s already too much gossip about my marriage and I don’t need such details to be disclosed.”

  “Old man, I’m so excited about meeting your wife. I want to see this astounding creature with my own eyes!”

  Astounding creature? I can’t help but think about Harring’s words as I collapse on my bed. Jemma is snoring like a freight train. One of the negative aspects of connecting rooms – assuming that there are also positive aspects – is that there’s nothing but a door to separate me from Jemma and her noisy sleep.

  Harring is excited about meeting her. I already know what he’s picturing in his head, though: a monument to femininity who makes all men turn and stare at her. Not exactly how I’d describe Jemma. She’s as elegant and graceful as a four axle lorry. I can just hope that she will daze Harring with her patter and he will pass out after three minutes and a handshake.

  A moment before sinking into sleep, a terrible thought washes over me: the servants will tidy up our rooms tomorrow. Even though we have separate rooms, they may find it unusual – if not suspicious – that the newly wed duke and duchess sleep in different beds on their first night in the same house. At least, there should be clothes scattered everywhere, sheets dragged to the room corners and more concrete signs of uncontrollable passion. Therefore, one of the two beds should remain pristine.

  I can’t sleep in my bed. It’s so silly, this is my house, and I can’t even have a good sleep in my emperor size bed. This is what I think as I try to get comfortable on the small sofa.

  Jemma and I will have to come to an agreement on this as I can’t spend the next few months sleeping worse than my hounds. We’ll have to take turns: one night in bed each sounds more than democratic.

  At least for the first few weeks, when it’s normal for newly-weds to unleash their passion. Afterwards, an average of a couple of times a week will be totally acceptable.

  At last, now I’ve hypothesised a plausible calendar for our sexual simulations, I can get to sleep.

  *

  They’re knocking on my door, and I can hear it as if they were knocking right on my skull. Fuck Harring and his brandy and champagne mixture, or Brandagne, as he calls it. I must remember to tell him that its taste and name are equally disgusting. I’m not deceased yet, but I know my prognosis is pretty uncertain.

  “Come on in,” I groan. Nothing happens.

  I drag myself towards the door with heavy steps, but there is no one outside. Is my authority so compromised that my own servants play ‘knock and run’ on me?

  The knocking continues and I start thinking it’s only in my head, until I realise that it comes from behind me: from the connecting door between my room and Jemma’s.

  I open it and find her in the compartment which connects the two rooms; a sort of no man’s land which is likely to become our private battle field.

  “You look terrible,” she points out kindly.

  “I have just woken up, I haven’t had a shower yet. What’s your excuse?” I say, noticing her heavy make-up and her overly curled hair.

  “I’m ready,” she replies, without catching my sarcastic remark.

  I shrug. “Exactly.”

  “Well, if I remember correctly, last night you said we’d go down for breakfast together. I’d appreciate it if you kept your promise, because I don’t think I could stand another speech on punctuality, schedules, etiquette, and all the things you noble people like so much.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  I swear on my way to the shower, but I have a moment of intuition a second before I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket: I turn them inside out and scatter them all over the floor of Jemma’s room, leaving a clear trail that leads from my room to her bed.

  “What the heck are you up to?” she spits, ready to start complaining.

  “Where are your clothes from last night? Can you give them to me?”

  “Not unless you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “What do you think?” I say, pointing dramatically at the clothes on the floor.

  She turns her palms up in a gesture of surrender.

  “In a few minutes, the servants will be here to tidy our rooms. If we want to support the story of our marriage at first sight, we’d better give the impression that we had some Cirque-du-Soleil acrobatics. Now, unless you are one of those rare women who have sex dressed like cross-country winter Olympians, would you please give me your clothes?”

  “I’ll do better than that!” Jemma isn’t only scattering her clothes on the floor with mine, but she also starts undoing the bed enthusiastically, ripping off pillows and sheets. If nothing else, she understood. It was hard work, but she understood.

  Wait a second. What is she doing with that sheet? Why is she tying it to the canopy post?

  “Jemma, what the hell is that?”

  “Never heard of bondage?” She replies, in the most natural way.

  “No! I mean I have, but stop!” I protest. “Listen Jemma, I appreciate your effort, but it’s enough that the servants think we had normal sex, it’s not necessary to provide details about our erotic tastes!”

  “No bondage, then?”

  “No,” I just say.

  “What about these?” She asks, swinging two flashy red stilettos.

  “No, no fetish either.”

  “You’re so boring!” She complains, tossing them back into the wardrobe.

  “Don’t worry, there are details you’ll never find out.”

  “I hope not,” replies Jemma, cringing.

  “The disgust is mutual.” I descend the stairs before her, and I see Lance waiting for us in front of the door to the winter garden. “Jemma,” I whisper. “Could you please put on a bright smile, as a happy and satisfied wife?”

  “You really need to treat me like I’m stupid to feel like an alpha male, don’t you?”

  Well, I knew this would end up in an argument.

  15

  Jemma’s Version

  This is proving harder than I expected. It should have been nothing more than an extended stay in the privacy of a country house, at a distance from one another, but it is turning out to be a hurdle race, and we’re tied together by the ankle.

  What am I talking about? Being obliged to go on with this farce and pretend to be a happy couple when our demeanour would be more appropriate for a funeral.

  Back home, breakfast is the best time of the whole day: slices of bread with chocolate spread, warm milk with honey cereals, fashion magazines and my tv tuned to the gossip channel.

  Not at Denby, of course. This morning, I found out that they have smoked ham, salmon, carrot juice and wishy-washy coffee. No magazines, just newspapers, and I’m sure that Ashford is using them to make a barricade against me, rather than reading them. Who would? They are so boring, all black and white and without a single picture.

  Delphina is at a safe distance again, and she greets us with a cold ‘good morning’, uttered without raising her eyes from her plate. As soon as we sit down, she pushes it away and stands up to leave the table. Lance enters the dining room with his usual composure and ann
ounces: “Lord Davenport and his wife are here for a visit. May I show them into the blue parlour until you are ready to receive them?”

  Delphina collapses on her chair as though her legs were melting down. “Murray and Audrey Davenport? Are you sure it’s them?”

  “Absolutely. They have just returned from their last cruise and they stopped by for a short visit,” Lance confirms with a small bow.

  “Show them in,” she says in a whisper, then she looks at us for the first time. “I’ll receive them myself. I’ll go to the parlour, I’ll do the honours and tell them a credible story about your marriage. In half an hour, not a minute before, after they have bought every last one of my words, you will join us for a polite but quick greeting, and you will return to whatever you were doing immediately afterwards. You will not spend time with any guest, at least not until we officially introduce you into society,” she says to explain her resolute strategy.

  On his side of the table, Ashford remains barricaded behind his copy of the Times and simply replies with a cold: “Suit yourself.”

  Delphina leaves the room muttering. “Of course I’ll suit myself! I’m the one who has to clutch at straws to solve his problems! I have to extinguish his fires! I have to dam rivers in flood!”

  “When you get to melting polar ice and restoring the ozone layer, the Davenports will have left, Mother,” Ashford freezes her.

  We do have one thing in common: neither of us can stand Delphina.

  I keep watching the show they’re putting on until Ashford folds the newspaper and turns towards me abruptly: “When we go into the parlour, let me talk to the Davenports. You just say hello, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Very well, let me add that to the list of things I don’t give a shit about,” I reply, feigning a smile.

  “Jemma, you’ll have to, eventually. The Davenports are just the first of a long line of visitors, who will come with the excuse of an informal greeting, just to see the happy newly-weds. The Davenports have been friends of our family for years and, trust me, it’s far better for you to meet them in this way, little by little, than at an official reception with hundreds of other strangers parading before you.”

  “Ashford, the deal was that I would live my own life.”

  “The deal is to make this marriage look real. And I must urge you not to bring this up again in the future. There are ears listening everywhere.”

  “I feel like a hostage.”

  “Don’t play the victim, Jemma.”

  “What do you want me to play, the happy bride? Then, you’ll have to avoid talking down to me and treating me like a retard, at least in public.”

  “I don’t treat you like a retard,” Ashford replies, sipping his coffee.

  “You don’t? You just talk to me to criticise me, humiliate me or give me orders, like a dog.”

  “You just tease me and start arguments. It would be much easier if you did as I say without pointless objections.”

  “Pointless obj… very well, I didn’t think I’d have to bring it up this early, but it can’t be helped.” I roll up my sleeves to emphasise what I’m saying. “Ashford, let me remind you that my money is covering your debts, so you owe me some respect.”

  He stands up, sweeping imaginary crumbs from his blue cashmere jumper. “Your money depends on my title, so, if you’re done with the drama, we can go to the parlour. I would appreciate it if you avoided causing the Davenports heart attacks,” he says, and leaves the room without waiting for me.

  In the parlour – which is nothing more than a small sitting room for meeting friends, basically a whole room they use just for chatting, can you imagine that? – Delphina is putting on a show in which she plays the loving mother.

  “And so, when I had finally accepted that he would remain a bachelor forever, he surprised me! Ashford arrived at Denby arm in arm with his bride, smiling like a child on Christmas Day. To tell you the truth, I had noticed a change in him quite a while earlier. He started going to London for no apparent reason, he came home very late at night, always with a sort of mysterious and dreamy aura. A mother notices these things immediately. Yes, I thought he could be having a liaison, but I would never have expected a marriage. She’s such a unique girl. She’s an artist and worked in a theatre company. They cried when they learned that my Ashford was taking her away!”

  The woman sitting next to Delphina on the sofa holds her cup of tea without drinking any. “And yet, we would all have bet our fortunes on Ashford marrying Portia.”

  “I wonder how that’s possible!” My mother-in-law comments – what a liar! – and then she goes on with her version of the story. “Ashford is quite picky and sometimes I find it hard to understand him myself, but as far as Portia… no. They’ve been friends for so many years, they’re more like brother and sister,” and she bursts into laughter that sounds fake to me. Then, she turns around, and sees us standing just inside the room. “Oh! Here are the newly-weds! Ashford, Jemma, come and say hello to our guests!”

  Bloody Delphina, she’s doing her best to look like the perfect mother-in-law. At least, she’s able to pretend. Ashford is hopeless, or rather, he’s making no effort.

  He puts a hand behind my back without touching me, but close enough to give the impression that he’s gently leading me across the room. I wonder what would happen if I took a step backwards and his hand touched my back. I’m sure he would hit the ceiling, screaming in panic!

  “Audrey, Murray, what a surprise!” Ashford greets them warmly.

  “You’re the one talking about surprises, young man? We got back from India and found out that my dearest friend’s son had got married!”

  “Let me introduce her to you, then. This is my Jemma,” he invites me to step forward with a nod.

  “Hi!” I say, but there must be something wrong, because I notice that Ashford and Delphina look shocked.

  “You’re supposed to say ‘I’m honoured’,” Ashford hisses.

  “I’m honoured,” I repeat, giving a curtsy, like actresses do after their performances.

  Ashford grabs me by the elbow to return me to an upright position. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he keeps hissing.

  Lady Davenport readjusts her glasses on her nose. “What a peculiar girl.”

  “Absolutely, there aren’t too many… specimens like her. It’s clear that you’re an artist,” continues Murray. “Do you think you’ll miss the theatre?”

  I try to hold back a big laugh and stick to Delphina’s version. “It was part of my everyday life and I’m still not sure if quitting was the right thing to do. It will be up to Ashford to prove to me that I made the right choice!” I turn towards my husband and wink at him.

  His face though, remains unemotional. “I think I’ve already proven it, darling.”

  “You can do better,” I hiss.

  Murray looks at us, perplexed, and brings us back to theatre. “Did you work on some play we might have seen?”

  It depends. Do you have manic depressive tendencies? No, I can’t say that. “Well, I worked in several socially involved niche plays with gritty themes…”

  My vague answer is followed by a brief moment of silence, then Audrey asks another question. “Will you soon leave for your honeymoon?”

  “Yes,” Ashford says.

  “No,” I say.

  Murray clears his throat, as if he wanted to conceal our ambiguous answer. “Have you already decided where you will go?”

  “Cuba,” I resolve.

  “Athens,” Ashford declares simultaneously.

  Delphina cuts in to sweep the whole thing under the carpet. “They haven’t decided yet, they were talking about it at breakfast. The truth is that they would like to see the whole world, they just don’t know where to start from,” and another false laugh closes her speech.

  “They’re right. You know, Audrey and I love travelling. We’ve been married for more than thirty years, and we’re not tired yet of planes, trains and time zone changes.�
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  “How did you two meet?” Asks Audrey, to change the subject.

  “At the theatre,” Ashford answers.

  “On the dance floor,” I answer.

  Murray, Audrey and Delphina are bewildered. Ashford goes for a quick fix. “I went to the theatre and then I visited a friend in the dressing rooms.”

  I continue to support his story. “Yes, but you can’t say that we really met, then. I mean, we saw each other and we were introduced, but it was only when someone suggested going for a drink at the Argentinian restaurant that we actually met. We talked, laughed and danced tango.”

  The three seem to recover from the moment of confusion resolved by our explanation.

  Murray in particular. “Ashford! Are you a tango dancer?”

  “Quite surprising, isn’t it, Murray?”

  “I wish my husband could dance tango!” Sighs Audrey.

  “My darling, I try to make you happy, but I’m hopeless at dancing!” says Murray, before turning towards me again. “Where are you from, Jemma?”

  “From London. My mother is from London, but my father is—” I say, but before I can finish the sentence, Ashford grabs me by the elbow again and pulls me towards the door.

  “We should get going, now. We need to talk about the details of our honeymoon.”

  I can barely catch the last words of the conversation.

  “Her father is…?” Audrey asks.

  “Dead,” says Delphina. “A bad story, a terrible loss. But let’s not be saddened on such a happy day. Would anyone like more tea?”

  16

  Ashford’s Version

  I wish I could go into a coma and wake up tomorrow morning. Or fall into a kind of trance. Anything that could help make me unconscious for the next four hours.

  No, the Armageddon is not coming. It’s even worse. What is coming, is the official dinner to introduce Jemma and me, aka the Duke and Duchess of Burlingham, into society.

  I look down at the staircase and I’m strongly tempted to attempt a triple pike dive, but I would land exactly outside the parlour, among the guests my mother is entertaining while waiting for us. Jemma’s nowhere to be found. I go and knock on her door. Nothing, no answer.