How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “Where will Ashford and I sit, then?” I ask, suspecting that Sophia wants to humiliate us and send us home like unwelcome guests.

  “Here, my dear! I had to rearrange the seats quickly, but I thought it might be very inspiring for you to meet the baron! He’s an eminent guest. Ashford, you can sit there, between Lord Windham and me,” she says, resting her hand on Ashford’s arm again in a rather confidential way.

  I look at the place card on my left, and it reads ‘Carter Willoughby’. Who the hell is Carter Willoughby? Great, I’m sitting between two perfect strangers! I mean, I don’t know all the guests, but I’ve seen the others at least once.

  “Ashford could sit on this bloke’s seat!” I say, indicating Willoughby’s chair.

  “Oh, Jemma! That’s impossible!” Sophia exclaims as though she had just heard a funny joke.

  “Why is it?” I ask, irritated.

  “For etiquette matters, you know…” Sophia looks around for a moment, as if she were trying to avoid my questions. “But let me introduce you to the baron. He’s such an interesting person!”

  Sophia disappears for a second in the crowd, and then she reappears with a tall bald man, whose blue eyes are almost white. “Lassen Sie mich Ihnen die Herzogin von Burlingham vorstellen, die Sie noch nicht kennen.”

  “Die Herzogin von Burlingham! Es ist schön, Sie endlich zu treffen,” says the baron to me, taking my hand with the hint of a bow.

  What did he just say? I look at Ashford in panic, but Sophia has already dragged him away. I understand, now. This is nothing but a strategy: leaving me alone with the baron on purpose, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to say a word.

  The baron looks at me with a kind but questioning air, waiting for my reply.

  “Um… hallo Baron!” Oh dear, what am I going to say, now? All I can say in German is ‘Sachertorte’!

  The butler announces that dinner will be served and, while the other guests are taking their seats, the baron pulls out my chair for me to sit down. “Bitte.”

  I nod my head to thank him. I feel as if I have swallowed my tongue.

  I look for Ashford at the other end of the table, giving him desperate glances to ask for help, but Sophia has engaged him and other guests in animated conversation to make sure he ignores me.

  The baron soon realises that it’s not out of shyness that I’m silent, but because I don’t speak a word of German, so he turns to his other side and starts a conversation with Earl Warlock.

  The dinner is boring, everyone ignores me. The table is so wide that the people sitting in front of me are half a mile away, and there are monumental floral centrepieces that prevent us being able to see one another. The guest on my left, Carter Willoughby, didn’t even show up. I start thinking he’s an imaginary guest invented by Sophia to keep me out of the way.

  26

  Ashford’s Version

  I have a headache. Sophia won’t stop talking and her silly friends burst into high pitched giggles every three words she says. As for the other guests, they’re as interesting as watching paint dry.

  Harring is not here, the race is tomorrow.

  And that sodding ceiling is kitsch beyond belief. A mass of golden decorations in faux baroque style and trompe l’oeils in a late Neoclassical building. I wish I could express my opinion without restrictions, and say that all that golden plaster makes my eyes bleed, but politeness and good manners force me to shut up and smile.

  And nod, pretending I agree with this tedious chatter I’m not even listening to.

  I’m worried about Jemma. She ended up next to Baron von Hofmannsthal and she doesn’t speak German, so I guess she’s struggling.

  After dinner, the men move to the billiard room to drink liqueurs, whereas the ladies withdraw to the private study to taste patisseries while exchanging gossip.

  Thank God I’m not a woman.

  Except for the patisseries. I’d happily taste those.

  Paradoxically, if my mother were here, I would be less concerned, because Jemma would have someone to lead her throughout the evening and keep her on track, but my honourable mother is never there when you need her.

  Due to the uninteresting conversation, and the fact that my enthusiasm for the evening was feeble from the start, I wait for the pendulum clock to strike an acceptable time to leave, then I say my goodbyes and run away to recover Jemma and go back to Denby.

  However, when I knock on the door of the study where the ladies are gathered, Jemma isn’t there.

  Jesus! Where did she go to make trouble?

  27

  Jemma’s Version

  I reluctantly follow the ladies to the sitting room, where Sophia’s mother enthusiastically offers coffee and chocolates around. I don’t exactly feel like ingesting anything else, though, after all the horrible food I had to eat.

  Damn, it’s the usual rip-off: there are trays of delicacies, but you can’t touch a single thing.

  The guests have already gathered in small groups, and are whispering to each other.

  The Triple Six more than any others.

  In short, I’m left all alone at the end of the convoy which is click-clacking through the hall.

  I instinctively duck out. I don’t want to hole up in a corner and look at the others. I can’t wait for this evening to end.

  I find a secondary corridor, then a big staircase that leads to a gallery. I have no idea where I’m going, but I don’t want to remain in that snake pit.

  I nose around, then I decide to open a random door and hide for a while, on my own. Maybe I’ll take a nap; the dinner was as heavy as hell.

  I enter a room that looks something between a study, a library and a living room. There’s a fireplace, armchairs, tables and display cabinets filled with books.

  If I have learned one thing, it’s that all these manors are full of rooms which are very similar to each other, and their use is often undefined.

  “Good evening.”

  A voice coming from behind the high backrest of an armchair greets me.

  It’s a baritone voice, slightly hoarse, unmistakably male.

  “Oh, um… good… good evening.” Damn! I thought I would be alone.

  “A beautiful funeral wake in the other room, isn’t it?”

  The joke takes me by surprise. Who else could think the same as I do, among those pompous guests? “I’m sorry?”

  The armchair rotates and it’s occupant looks me in the face. “The party. That’s where you came from, right?”

  “Yes, it…” I’m not able to utter the whole answer. I’m impressed, as I didn’t expect to find anyone here, and certainly not anyone that young. Or that attractive.

  He has got magnetic ice blue eyes, his lips are resting in a knowing expression and he’s got sharp facial features. These are framed by shoulder length ash blond hair, with a messy strand that falls over his forehead. His dress is equally original: yes, he is elegant, and his clothes are not from a flea market or some big clothing chain; however, under a tailor made jacket he has left open, he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, and a long silk scarf is wrapped softly around his neck, instead of a formal tie. He’s not sitting straight and stiff in his armchair: his left leg is crossed over the right, his arms are abandoned on the armrests and a cigarette hangs from his right hand.

  “Yes, so boring,” I confirm, trying to get my head together.

  “Exactly, I’m not surprised you ran away.” The stranger gets up and comes striding towards me. “Don’t stay there at the door. Take a seat. This room is neither mine nor yours. Let’s make ourselves at home.”

  He smiles and, running a hand through his blond hair, he nods towards the globe bar.

  “I suppose I should do the honours, being the first one to enter the room. Scotch?”

  “Um…” I can just utter. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I turning into a sort of mechanical puppet? Why can’t I utter a complete word? If not sentences, words at least.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve just
realised that Scotch is not a lady’s drink. A Shirley Temple would perhaps be appreciated more.”

  “Scotch is fine. Double. Neat.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a strong stomach!” He says, and then he starts pouring it into the glass, with ease. “It must have been a really unbearable dinner tonight,” he comments, amused.

  “Weren’t you among the guests?” I ask him, perplexed.

  “Yes, but I decided to change my plans at the very last minute. I preferred my own company.” So saying, he reaches out his hand. “Carter Willoughby.”

  Carter Willoughby! The guest who was supposed to sit next to me!

  “Jemma.”

  “Well, Jemma,” he says, raising his glass for a toast. “To unbearable receptions.”

  “Just out of curiosity: it is your habit to turn up at events and then disappear?”

  “I do it less often than I would like to. Unfortunately, most events require my presence and I have to shake hands and so on, but tonight was a pleasant exception. Even more pleasant, in the last five minutes.”

  I tell him about the rest of the evening. “The gentlemen have withdrawn to the games room for a brandy, while the ladies are having coffee in the study. Which is a mere excuse to gather in groups of three or four and gossip.”

  “Are you part of a group of three or four?”

  “No, but I’m most likely the main topic of discussion of every group.”

  “Not that I’m interested, and I won’t even ask you the reason, but let me tell you one thing: if I listened to everything they say behind my back, I would have already been sectioned and sent to a mental hospital.”

  “I realise that these people are usually bored to death, so I must have brought a breath of freshness into their lives, even if they insist in denying it.”

  Carter stares at me with his big, intense blue eyes. “I have no doubt about it.”

  “Anyway, I should be mad at you.”

  “Really? And why is that, if I may ask?” He says, intrigued.

  “I was sitting between two people, at the dinner table: Mr Carter Willoughby, who did not show up at all, and Baron von Hofmannsthal. I was tongue tied all evening, with the baron who muttered something every now and then, but I don’t understand a word of German.”

  Carter lowers his head, letting a cascade of gold threads fall down on his face.

  “I really regret it. If I had known that I could have had dinner in such pleasant company, I wouldn’t have missed it. I owe you an apology.”

  “And tell me, do I have any hope of meeting you at other similar events?” I can’t help but ask him.

  “Most likely.”

  “Then I think I’ll face these invitations in a different way, from now on. Finding out that someone else is as annoyed as I am was the revelation of the whole evening.”

  Just when we’re about to have another toast, as if to seal an agreement, I hear the door handle click.

  “Jemma, are you…” Ashford asks, entering the room. As soon as he sees me, his question remains hanging in the air. “… here.” And after an even more serious pause, he adds: “Willoughby.”

  Ashford’s eyes move from me to Carter, and scan him with a mixture of coldness and contempt. It’s very strange to see Ashford behaving like this, as he seems to get along with everyone.

  He’s so full of himself.

  “Yes, Ashford, as you can see, I’m right here,” I say, drawing his attention.

  “Do you know each other?” Carter asks me.

  “She’s my wife,” Ashford replies, with his usual unkindness.

  Carter gives me an enigmatic smile, which makes me fear for a moment that his liking has turned into dislike. “If I had known I was in front of the Duchess of Burlingham, I would have used a more deferential tone,” and then he briefly nods his head to say goodbye and leaves the room. “Parker,” he says to Ashford, returning his coldness.

  Ashford doesn’t reply and, once Carter is at a safe distance down the corridor, he turns towards me in an almost angry tone: “It’s late, it’s time to go.”

  “Yes, Master,” I say, heading out of the room.

  As I go out, I feel Ashford grab the hem of my dress and pull it down, muttering: “This fucking dress.”

  John is waiting for us in front of the entrance staircase, and we get in the car to go back to Denby.

  For a while, Ashford is silent and then he blurts out: “What were you doing in that room with Willoughby?”

  “What nobody else wants to do with me: making conversation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you disappeared just after dinner! You could have joined the others and tried to make friends!”

  “I’d be ridiculous? Do you even know what you say? You were at that dinner yourself, haven’t you noticed that I couldn’t talk to anyone because I had an empty chair on my left and a German baron on my right, and I don’t speak a word of bloody German?”

  “Well, then learn it! It’s certainly not my fault if you do not speak it.”

  “Sure, what do you care? You were a mile away, at the other end of the table, with all your snobby friends. That little bitch of Sophia put me there on purpose, just to cut me off. I’m sure!”

  “You always play the victim.” Ashford blames me.

  “I don’t play it, I am the victim! All your beloved high society people do nothing but talking about me, both in my face and behind my back, and try to put me in the most embarrassing situations.”

  “If you don’t do your part to integrate yourself, nobody will ever accept you, when will you understand this? You keep staying in a corner hoping that someone has mercy on you and comes to talk to you! Flash news for you, lady: nobody gives a shit about your discomfort!”

  “And a flash news for you, young man: Carter does!”

  “Forget Carter!” He says disdainfully.

  “You’d like it if I did, eh? Are you jealous? You envy Carter, because he doesn’t give high society the same importance you give it, but believe me, he lives much better than you in this world.”

  “Look, Jemma, you know nothing of what you’re talking about.” He says sharply.

  “This is your typical attitude: when you have your back against the wall in an argument, you just close it there.”

  “We’re done talking for tonight.” Ashford is facing the window and so am I, so we both end up arguing with our reflections.

  “Believe me, I’m more than okay with that!” I don’t want to go on fighting with this billy goat.

  “Not as much as I am. Maybe you’ll shut up for once.”

  “You really want to have the last word at all costs, eh?”

  “I’m not the only one here.”

  “Good.” I growl.

  “Good.”

  28

  Ashford’s Version

  Willoughby. Again. Fuck it.

  29

  Jemma’s Version

  Yet another reception tonight. I still don’t get their purpose, though.

  I always go reluctantly but this time the evening will be more bearable: there will be Cécile, at least I won’t be a wallflower.

  And then, who knows? Maybe Carter will be among the guests. I can’t get his clever piercing eyes out of my head.

  The evening will be held at Earl Warlock’s residence and, as far as I understood, there will be a performance by a Russian soprano, Olga Vishnevskaya. I wrote her name on my hand, so that I don’t make a mistakes if someone asks me.

  We arrive at the residence and, for once, we’re welcomed quite warmly; I can’t help noticing that all the guests in the hall fall silent when Lord Neville – my good old friend Cedric – comes to say hello and have a chat.

  “I’m not in the mood for a screaming Soviet hen, after a terrible week like this,” he mumbles.

  “Neither am I. Losing the Champions League final still stings like hell. Everyone at Denby was ready to celebrate the victory! We never thought they would kick us out with a 3-0 score. Lanc
e and I had been fantasising about this big Arsenal-Real Madrid final for months. We had prepared such powerful stadium chants that we could have swept Denby Hall away,” I agree.

  “How’s old Lance?”

  “He hasn’t recovered yet,” I comment, shaking my head.

  “Excuse me, I think I’d better join my wife now. If she doesn’t stop swinging her fan to summon me, I fear she might behead someone.”

  While Ashford and I are walking toward the seats, we hear a voice calling from behind.

  “Parker! Did you bring razor blades?” It’s Harring, who throws an arm round Ashford’s shoulders. “In case we want to slit our wrists tonight!”

  I spot a familiar curly red head, and I start waving in the crowd. “Cécile!” I beckon her to join me.

  She is wrapped in a long black evening dress – by now I understood that it must be her typical style.

  “Speaking of suicide…” Ashford says in a low voice, speaking to Harring.

  “Cécile, this is my husband Ashford and his friend Harring,” I tell her, introducing the two men.

  Nobody says a word. Except for Harring. “Hey, old witch! Came out of your crypt for an evening stroll?”

  Ashford elbows Harring in the ribs, but the latter does not understand. “I see that you came to bring a breath of joy as usual.”

  “And you brought a breath of ignorance,” she replies, ice cold.

  “Do you know each other?” I ask, surprised by their banter.

  Ashford cuts in to explain: “See, we were born and grew up in the same places, we did the same things and attended the same schools. It would have been impossible not to know each other.”

  “Or to avoid each other,” Cécile comments.

  “I see you’re still a sociopath!” Says Harring, with his typical light-hearted smile painted on his face.

  “I see you still lack self-control,” my friend hisses.

  Harring seems more and more amused. “That’s one of my best imperfections.”

  “He’s also modest,” Ashford observes with irony. “These two can’t stand each other. They’ve been in open war since middle school.”