How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “Stay here, rest and drink to your health; I will take my horse back to the stables. I’ll be back soon.”

  So saying, he gives me a quick kiss that leaves no doubt.

  He kissed me! It lasted a second, but he did kiss me on the lips with confidence, as if it were totally intentional. He likes me! I was right!

  I remain with a hand on my lips for a while to recall the feeling of his lips pressing on mine.

  A voice in my head is listing all the reasons why Carter is the number one candidate to become my Prince Charming: he’s handsome, clever, he’s a gentleman, he’s gallant, he puts me at ease, he’s witty… he’s just perfect.

  How wicked, though! He left me here torturing myself with my imagination.

  Anyway, his ‘soon’ is getting a bit too long. It’s been almost an hour since he left.

  Limping with the ice in one hand, I drag myself around Avon House, which seems to be totally deserted, looking for Carter.

  Please, don’t let him be on the first floor, I can’t face the stairs!

  I hop in front of a few closed doors, until I hear some voices coming from behind one of them.

  I can distinguish young male voices, and one sounds like Carter’s. They’re laughing heartily. I bend to look through the keyhole and make sure it’s him; in fact, it is. I can see him sitting with his back to the door, but I recognise his messy golden hair. I don’t know the other men who are sitting around a table with him, but I can see that each of them is holding a fan of cards.

  Why didn’t he come back to me?

  I would like to go in but the umpteenth burst of laughter stops me. I decide to listen to the conversation, to understand what makes them laugh.

  Carter is the first one to speak: “… I feel almost sorry for Parker! He’s so attached to his title that he sees nothing else around him.”

  “Then he’s very lucky to have someone who looks after his stuff for him, eh, Carter?”

  “What are you referring to, Wandsworth?”

  The redhead on his left replies, giggling: “To his wife, of course!”

  “Yeah, you’ve been hanging around with her for a while… we didn’t know you had a weakness for married women!” another comments.

  “A weakness? Me? Come on, don’t be silly! Does she look like my type? It seems that you barely know me!”

  “I don’t know if she’s your type, but you are certainly hers. Whenever you show up, she has a look of ecstasy on her face.” Says the man named Wandsworth. I already despise him.

  “Well, you can’t blame her, she married an ice sculpture!” Carter replies.

  “You’re admitting it, then! There is something!”

  “No, I’m not admitting anything, because there isn’t anything. Yes, maybe Jemma has a crush on me. But I just go with the flow, here’s the deal. There’s nothing more satisfactory in the whole world than humiliating Parker, and it wouldn’t be the first time a woman prefers me to him. I’ll tell you this: from what Portia told me, it sounded difficult, yet she fell into my arms straight away!”

  “Portia?” The two friends ask in unison.

  “Yes, we bet on it, but I won’t disclose the details. All I’m going to say is that I was challenged to seduce Parker’s wife, and it seems to me that I’m quite close to the goal.”

  “I would like to be in Parker’s head, just to know how he feels about being cheated on!” The third man laughs.

  Carter is more and more amused by the jokes. “Trust me, you wouldn’t. Sometimes I wonder how the hell he could have married her… a broke make-up artist he picked up in some seedy district. She dresses like those transvestites you see at gay bars in Hackney, and when she talks… boy, I wish I were deaf. If she didn’t have nice boobs, I would have already given up on the bet and let Portia win by default.”

  I feel tears running down my face. But I don’t feel like I did at the polo match. Then, I considered what the Triple Six said just as the slander of envious snobs, but Carter… he seemed genuine to me. I thought he was really interested.

  What did the bet mean? Who the hell is Portia? And what about the other woman he stole from Ashford?

  With my eyes full of tears, I drag myself back to the sofa but first I close the door behind me and turn the key multiple times to make sure that Carter can’t come in.

  34

  Ashford’s Version

  During the hunt, I stopped several times to look for Jemma behind me, but neither she nor Willoughby were there.

  A terrible thought crossed my mind and brought me out in a cold sweat. I remembered all my past experiences with Willoughby, and I instinctively came to a halt and turned round.

  I handed over the field master’s job to Davenport and went back to look for them.

  I found Poppy in the woods, she cantered towards me with a nasty wound on her belly.

  A thousand dramatic scenarios passed through my mind, so I searched the woods hoping to find Jemma.

  Nothing.

  Finding no trace of her, I went to Avon House.

  Just before going back into the woods, I hear a familiar and irritating laughter: Willoughby.

  I open the door to the games room and find Carter with Wandsworth and Branagh, or as I call them, the Dickhead Society. Willoughby, the biggest one, stands out in the middle, of course.

  The chief dickhead turns towards me with a smile on his face. “Hey there, Parker! Caught up with the fox yet?”

  “Where’s Jemma?” I ask, straight to the point. He’s the last one who saw her, I’m sure.

  “Not with you, of course,” he replies with his usual insolence. “Join us, Parker. There is a free chair and Wandsworth is cutting the deck. Poker.”

  “I don’t play for money. I don’t need to get money out of others, you know.”

  “Are you afraid of losing?” Willoughby challenges me.

  That’s the question which no man can back down when faced with.

  I approach the green table in silence, pull out a chair which scrapes along the floor, and sit down. “I’ll deal.”

  Carter gives a knowing look to his fellow dickheads, then he says, nonchalantly: “So… you’re a happy husband now.”

  “I think I’m not wrong if I say it’s none of your business.” He looks at his cards with total composure and keeps bugging me. “Yeah, technically, it wouldn’t be my business, but it seems that Jemma has a different idea.”

  “I suggest that you stay away from her,” I growl.

  “What will you do to me if I don’t, Parker?” He asks, then he leans forward and hisses: “Nothing, just like every other time.” So saying, he sits back, satisfied.

  It’s true, I’ve let it go so far, because I’ve always considered myself superior to him and I don’t feel the need for revenge.

  “You’re not worth the effort, Willoughby.”

  He keeps showing off. “Take out some money instead of words. Do you want to bet or not?”

  “I’m in,” I say, pushing a stack of chips on the table. “Three thousand.”

  Wandsworth and Branagh have understood they’d better step back, since this is between me and Carter, so they fold and leave the game.

  Chief dickhead pushes his chips into the centre of the table. “I call your three thousand and raise three more.”

  I couldn’t expect anything else from him. “Ten.”

  I don’t like making wild bets, but I have a nice set of cards and I hope that luck isn’t on his side this time.

  “You know what? Raising three by three bores me to death, it could go on forever. Let’s put something more juicy on the table,” he challenges me.

  “You’re really broke, aren’t you, Willoughby?”

  “I need something stimulating. Bet something you care about, you identify with. Something you would never jeopardise.” Willoughby’s tone of voice is very annoying.

  “I have a nice long list, but you… you just care about yourself, and I would never want to win you, not even if you were made
of gold.”

  “Did you come in your Jaguar?” He says, nodding towards the window.

  “Yup.”

  “That’s nice. A 1956 Roadster with 213 hp. It spectacular, it’s got a nice engine, it’s a competition version. For connoisseurs only,” he observes, enigmatically.

  “Not for you, then,” I comment in response to his innuendoes.

  “Not necessarily,” he says, then he looks me straight in the eyes. “Are you in?”

  It’s all between the lines, you just have to know how to read it: do I have the guts to risk losing something I care about, something unique? Yes, we’re talking about my Jaguar, but his insinuation is subtle: he’s also referring to Jemma.

  If I had married her for love, I would not hesitate for a second. Do I really want to do this? And what will everyone think of me if I back out? It’s as if I let Willoughby make a fool of me in public.

  If I accept, I’ll show him that I’m not afraid to take a risk for what I care about, but the risk here is losing my Jaguar and seeing Willoughby drive it could give me a fulminating heart attack.

  He spits more venom. “It wouldn’t be anything new, if you backed out.”

  If Willoughby has asked for the Jaguar, he must bet its value, at least: he either has great cards, or he’s bluffing.

  He seems to be sure that I will fold; if I do, he will win the pot (now twenty-five thousand pounds) and the Jaguar. Not to mention my humiliation. I know how much he likes taking what is mine.

  I take the keys out of my pocket and throw them on the table. “Let’s see your cards.”

  A five and a six, then a seven, an eight and a nine on the table. He has a straight, just a lousy straight.

  I stand up, tossing my cards on the table. “Full house,” and I get the keys back, feeling victorious.

  Just then I see Jemma, who’s limping near the door. Her eyes are swollen, it’s clear that she’s been crying. “Can we go home?”

  “Yes,” I walk towards her and pick her up, and the ice falls to the floor. “Let’s go home.”

  I give Willoughby one last look before leaving. “Keep the money.”

  *

  Jemma looks pretty shaken. I can see her from the corner of my eye in the passenger seat next to me; she’s sitting strangely properly, almost stiff, looking down and sniffling occasionally.

  While a part of me has already dismissed the whole thing, thinking that she’s probably suffering because of her fall, another part feels that Willoughby had something to do with it, but I don’t feel like asking. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t like her answer.

  All I can manage to say, in a rather cold tone, is: “Hold the ice on your knee, or it won’t help relieve the pain.”

  She does it, without complaint.

  After a few minutes of silence, she asks me a question that almost upsets me. “Are you mad at me?”

  Besides, her subdued tone astounds me, so much so that I find myself almost comforting her. “No. For once, I’m not mad at you.”

  “I shouldn’t have let myself get left behind. And I should have worn the right clothes, like everyone else. If I hadn’t had these stupid boots on, I wouldn’t have fallen off.”

  “You’re a skilled horsewoman, you can ride with any boots.” After a few moments of silence, she surprises me with yet another question. “Why don’t you and Carter like each other?”

  “Saying we don’t like each other is a euphemism. I can hardly stay in the same room with him. I think it’s time to abandon my reticence and tell you about our past, so you can understand what kind of person we’re talking about once and for all.” I notice that she’s listening to what I say, she’s no longer looking out of the window and her head is turned towards me. I resume. “The two of us were friends as kids, we’re talking about our time at Eton. He was a nice rogue, irresistibly smart; Willoughby, Harring and I formed a good trio. Later on, his attitude towards me inexplicably changed. Every time I dated a girl, he would put on a scene to her, like: ‘I’m Parker’s best friend and I shouldn’t do this, but you’re a special girl and you deserve to know the truth: Ashford cheated on you during the summer/Easter/Christmas holidays. He’s dating another girl.” Then he tricked them by playing the shoulder to cry on with bloody Dire Straits in the background. He would put on the Romeo & Juliet record and bam, they slept with him. He played this nice game six times. At first, I didn’t understand why all my girlfriends suddenly disappeared and stopped speaking to me, then Harring caught him in the act with Liza, my last girlfriend, and everything made sense.

  After that, we went our separate ways, until I found him in my division in the army in Kabul.

  He had the task of checking our vehicle before we departed on a mission, we were left on foot because he hadn’t refuelled. We were stuck in that armoured vehicle for a whole day, but then, at night, I crawled like a worm to our base camp and went back to rescue the team with another vehicle. Well, he would have remained in the desert, if it had been my decision.”

  “I could never have imagined it,” she murmurs.

  “I should have told you earlier.”

  “I wouldn’t have listened to you,” she admits. She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand.

  There’s something, but she won’t tell me, and I won’t ask. “Does your knee hurt you very much?”

  She nods. “Yes, very much.”

  35

  Jemma’s Version

  Back at Denby, I’m being looked after like a child by the servants who see I’m hurt.

  They think I cry for the pain and my swollen knee confirms that.

  Yet, all I can think of is that arsehole, Carter, and all the horrible things I heard him say about me.

  When Ashford told me all those stories about Carter, I realised how stupid I was. I didn’t have the courage to tell him what really happened, and I’m not sure he bought the lie that I was just crying because of the pain.

  Carter! I’m disgusted with myself for even considering falling in love with him. Prince Charming, my arse!

  For the first time, I feel sorry for myself, thinking that someone could talk about me that way. Of course, they never do it in my face, but every time I leave a room, the main topic of discussion is how inadequate I am.

  This was such a miserable day for me that I didn’t even have the strength to argue with Ashford, as we usually do to conclude our social events.

  He wanders around the house looking strangely satisfied (more than usual, I mean) and he has champagne served at dinner.

  *

  If I am to save myself, I’ll ask for help from the only person who speaks my language. That person is Lance.

  It is a secret meeting: I arranged it by exchanging notes under the serving platter during dinner, and I sneaked – as best I could, given my injured knee – in the coat of arms room as soon as Ashford withdrew to the library.

  What I’m doing is neither illegal nor forbidden, but I don’t want to let anybody know about my plans, since everyone seems to want an excuse to criticise me.

  Lance must have heard my footsteps in the hallway because the door opens as soon as I put my hand on the brass knob.

  “Your Grace, please, let me help you lie down.”

  “Lance! Nobody saw you, right?” I ask him, throwing a furtive look around to make sure I haven’t been followed.

  “No, I was very discreet.”

  “I feel almost ridiculed when you all call me Your Grace. I’m twenty-five, but that makes me feel as if I were a hundred!”

  “I’m sorry about how you feel, but that’s the correct form of address for a duchess,” Lance says solemnly.

  “I’ll have to get used to it, then…”

  “Absolutely, because all the servants and all those who come after you will use that form of address.”

  “What do you mean, those who come after me?” I ask, curious.

  “Very well, Your Grace, ‘Those who come after you’ is a perfect way to start our lessons. If you listen t
o me, integrating into society will not be a problem.” Lance starts walking up and down the thick blue carpet with almost imperceptible steps, while I pay attention from the sofa.

  “I learn quickly, as long as you explain things clearly.”

  “The title of duchess, as wife of the Duke of Burlingham, means that you’re more important than every other aristocrat with a minor title. This means, of course, that you’re preceded by those whose titles are more important than yours. But you’re lucky: as a duchess, you’re pretty high in the hierarchy.”

  “How terrific!” I exclaim enthusiastically. “There are people who have to walk behind me because I am a duchess and they’re not!”

  “That’s correct, Your Grace. Quite terrific,” Lance confirms without losing his composure. “But let’s follow an order. An official procession is divided into ranks: the dukes are first, then there are the marquises, counts, viscounts and barons. Obviously, the same goes for their wives.”

  “What about Sophia Skyper-Kensitt? What’s her title?” I ask impatiently.

  Lance reflects for a moment before giving me an answer. “She will be a countess as long as she lives in her father’s house.”

  “Yay! That bitch can kiss my arse! And Linda Rickson? And Julia Bromley?” I urge him.

  “The Ricksons are counts, the Bromleys are barons,” he replies with no hesitation.

  I clap my hands, as I’m happy to have at least some sort of revenge through this title which has done nothing but make me feel uncomfortable so far. All right, it will be like having a brand new pair of high heeled shoes: very painful but so worth wearing.

  “However, there are more important titles which take precedence over you. Being a duchess places you quite high in the hierarchy, but not enough to be the first to enter places. First of all, there’s the Royal Family, followed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord High Chancellor, the Prime Minister, the Lord High Treasurer, and the Lord Privy Seal.”

  I’ve stopped listening to him to think about all the people who have to walk behind me and be respectful.

  “So, as the wife of a Duke of England by hereditary title, I basically come right after the Royal Family!”