How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “I know that.”

  Jemma hesitates a moment before saying in a thin voice: “Good value for money.”

  I stop and look at her, intrigued, without understanding what she means exactly.

  “Goodnight, Ashford.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She leaves, closing the door behind her. A little later, I hear the door being closed on her side as well.

  Then I wait a few seconds, but nothing. One minute and, again, nothing.

  She hasn’t locked the door.

  Some sounds have become familiar by now; we rarely open the communicating doors but, when we do, we are very careful to lock them: the handle clicks, the knocker thuds and the key turns in the lock at least twice.

  Tonight, I could only hear the handle click and the knocker thud.

  No key turning. Perhaps she forgot.

  But what if she didn’t?

  What if she hadn’t locked the door on purpose?

  Does she know that I noticed?

  *

  In order to get rid of the confused thoughts that have been nagging me for a week, since the evening of the gentlemen’s auction, I decide to have a swim in the pool and make peace with myself.

  Opening the massive carved oak doors, I realise that my own sanctuary, the last haven of peace left at Denby, has been desecrated.

  Jemma is lounging on an inflatable chair, floating with a foot in the water, a glass of champagne in her hand, and a pair of absurd sunglasses.

  We are indoors. Okay, the glass dome of the pool lets in a lot of light with its ‘sky in a room’ effect but, believe me, wearing sunglasses is really not necessary.

  The swimming pool was my great-grandfather’s idea, he had it built at the beginning of the twentieth century; unlike many houses with tacky and pretentious modern pools, our mansion gains a lot of charm thanks to this old lady.

  “I see you made yourself comfortable,” I observe.

  “I have to make up for lost time.”

  “You get used to luxury rather quickly.”

  Jemma lowers her glasses and shoots me a sidelong glance. “I’m the one keeping the whole thing afloat, aren’t I?”

  “Didn’t we agree to stop bringing up our arrangement?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even,” she says.

  “We will never be even.”

  “Won’t we?” Jemma, with her feet in the water, kicks hard in my direction, wetting my trousers up to my knees.

  “Very mature, congratulations. You happy?”

  She nods, satisfied. As I turn towards the exit, I notice the champagne bucket by the pool. I pick it up and pull the bottle out. “La Côte Faron, Jacques Selosse… I see you have remarkable taste.” I sneak a look at her to make sure she’s within range. “Enjoy the luxury, then,” and I throw the melting ice over her.

  “Very mature yourself!” She protests, sliding down from the inflatable chair to reach the pool ladder. “Damn you, Ashford. You spoilt my meditation!”

  Cursing in a low voice, she goes to the wicker deckchair to wrap herself in a bathrobe.

  While I’m putting the bottle back in the bucket, a forceful thrust hits me and a second later, I find myself in the pool. Jemma snuck up from behind and pushed me in. What a fool I was to put myself in such a vulnerable position! All the years I spent in the army and my strategic studies just went down the drain.

  I hang onto the edge of the pool and wipe the water away from my face, while Jemma laughs out loud at her victory.

  This isn’t over, you little bitch.

  I’m about to get out, but instead of putting my feet back on the edge, I use the momentum to grab the edges of her bathrobe and pull, so that Jemma joins me in the water.

  She doesn’t give up and, even if I don’t see the point in it, she keeps splashing me, raising annoying spurts of water with her hands.

  I grab her wrists, which doesn’t require much effort, but I linger for a moment, just to let her believe that her little battle makes any sense.

  She stiffens, trying to escape my grip, with the result only of getting even closer to me.

  “Who’s in charge, now?”

  “Let go, let go,” she protests, without too much conviction.

  From her fidgeting I understand that she’s kicking underwater as if it might help, so I drag her to a point where the pool is deeper.

  “I said let go of me,” she repeats.

  “All right.” I release her and she sinks up to her eyes, surprised not to touch the bottom.

  I swim towards the ladder, but I feel two slender arms grasping me from behind and encircling my neck.

  Jemma is trying to push me underwater, but I free myself from her grip. “If you play it this way, then I’ll have to drown you.”

  She swims as fast as she can to the inflatable chair, but before she can get up on it, I grab her by the hips and drag her back down with me.

  She struggles in the narrow space left between me and the chair, which I decide to reduce even more.

  We are clinging to each other and panting after the fight and, to be honest, I doubt that either of us dislikes it.

  If it bothered her, she would end it here.

  I realise that we’ve never had so much physical contact.

  She keeps wriggling with less and less conviction, until her legs encircle my waist and her fast movements become gradually slow ones.

  Is it possible that she’s clinging to me on purpose? Or is it just a trick of my imagination?

  I relax my grip, now I’m holding her gently.

  I look at her. The water has washed away all traces of make-up from her face. Although her make-up is no longer as heavy as it used to be, it’s surprising to see her like this, with her cheeks reddened by the heat of this moment and moist lips. This close, I realise how big her eyes are.

  Her face looks so innocent, but there’s a spark in her eyes, a flirty flash that makes it impossible for me to take my eyes off her.

  Her fast breathing makes her breasts raise and lower against me, and this is torture.

  “You… you won,” she says, in a whisper.

  “You fought well,” I answer.

  On paper, this situation would be perfect for a kiss. Just the two of us in a pool, clinging to each other. A textbook kiss.

  But this is Jemma and I, there’s no textbook for us.

  She remains there, as if she didn’t want to do anything else. What if she were waiting for me to do something?

  No! Let’s not be silly, it’s unimaginable.

  And yet… fuck it! I’ll do it. I’ll get closer and see how she reacts.

  I tilt my head slightly, gradually getting closer and closer.

  Wait a second: am I hallucinating? Is she doing the same, as if to humour me?

  I pluck up the courage to get even closer, now we’re just a breath away from each other.

  “Your Grace?” I hear Lance’s muffled voice from the other side of the doors, together with his light knocking.

  Instinctively I release Jemma from my hold and let myself back in the water with two strokes. “Yes, Lance.” In the meantime, she takes the opportunity to run to a deckchair, get a towel and slip out as soon as Lance enters. Not before stopping in the doorway for a second to throw me an enigmatic look.

  53

  Jemma’s Version

  I’ve become a stranger to myself.

  My peace is gone since that afternoon in the pool. Or the evening of the gentlemen’s auction. I don’t even know exactly. What I know is that I feel a sense of restlessness that comes and goes, catches me off guard and makes me feel completely upside down.

  I can’t help thinking about the endless moment in which Ashford and I were clinging together.

  Since then, I just can’t control myself.

  It was something instinctive, wild, to which I could do nothing but surrender.

  I feel as if I were exposed to danger, but a new, completely unknown kind of danger, which attracts me
like a magnet on the one hand and scares me to death on the other.

  I’m always craving to be alone and then, suddenly, I wish to see Ashford enter through the door. And when it happens, my self-control struggles to prevent me from throwing my arms around his neck and holding him just like I did that afternoon.

  My ears raise every time I hear his voice, I’m short of breath when I see him and my heart starts pounding when I hear him enter his room, knowing that there’s just a door separating us.

  Where are my sharp remarks, my comebacks, and the quick wit that used to enliven our conversations?

  I would like to snap myself out of this sort of hypnotic state, but, at the same time, I abandon myself to it more with each passing day.

  54

  Ashford’s Version

  “I’m castling,” announces Harring, moving his king next to the rook.

  “Feel free to amaze me with a move you haven’t done in every single game for the last twenty years,” I mock him. “I don’t know, a Sveshnikov Sicilian, or any strategy that can allow me to consider you a challenging opponent.”

  Haz pours himself another lavish sip of brandy. “Just think of your half of the chessboard.”

  “Well, I still have all my pieces.”

  A roll of thunder makes the windows in the room vibrate. The summer was exceptionally nice and warm but it is drawing to an end now and there’s a violent storm tonight. It is rather cold for the end of August, too.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Haz exclaims. “I’ve just waxed my 911!”

  “You mean you watched someone else do it…”

  Lance enters the room, carrying a tray of canapés and a basket of logs for the fireplace. “Your Grace, Lady Jemma called to let us know that, due to the sudden storm, she will spend the night at Olstrom House, with the Marquise of Hungeford. She will be back tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you worried about Jemma spending so much time with that misfit, Loxley?” Harring asks.

  “I was at the beginning but, to be honest, she looks happy to have found a friend, even if she’s a little odd.”

  “A little odd? She belongs in a mental health clinic!” Haz comments.

  “Jemma isn’t quite conventional either…”

  “Well, she may not be conventional, but she’s a genius! That amusement park party she set up for your birthday was awesome! You’ll have to work quite hard for her birthday!”

  “What?” I ask, dazed.

  “Her birthday, Ash. That thing that everyone has, one day a year?”

  “Shit. When is her birthday?” Haz and I look at each other and remain speechless.

  Lance coughs as if to clear his throat.

  “Yes, Lance?”

  “In three weeks,” he answers, promptly.

  “What?!” I ask, worried.

  “Three weeks. I dare say it’s much longer than Lady Jemma had to arrange that of Your Grace.”

  I’m panicking. “Don’t just look at me like that! Help me! What do you do in these situations?”

  “You wish people a happy birthday?” Haz replies.

  “Any other bullshit to propose?”

  Harring shrugs. “I don’t get why you bother. Do what you always do on these occasions.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  “Nothing!”

  “Although Lady Jemma has not expressed any particular wishes for her birthday celebrations, I’m quite sure that she would appreciate some initiative,” Lance adds.

  “Initiative? What can I do?” I ask again, in panic.

  “Edible underwear,” suggests Harring as if he had found the formula for cold nuclear fusion.

  “When I was dating that actress… what’s her name, the one that starred in that tv series where everyone dies and she is always half naked… you understand, right?”

  I look at him petrified. “No. I don’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Edible underwear. I had found a spectacular pineapple and coconut flavoured thong, and then she poured rum all over herself…”

  “Are you done?” I ask, to cut his crap.

  “Yes,” Haz says, looking at the ceiling before adding: “What a night…”

  “Jemma worked hard to arrange something original for me, and I should do the same, whether she expects it or not. I don’t know: a dinner, a box of chocolates, some flowers?”

  “What a breath of novelty, Your Grace,” says Lance, keeping his composure.

  “Keep your sarcasm to yourself, Lance.” I remark. “Sorry if I’m no expert in women’s birthdays.”

  Haz shrugs. “Well, you dated many women…”

  “Yes, but I’ve always avoided anything that could make them think that something serious was going on.”

  “Such as?” Asks Harring.

  “Such as those three rules that you know perfectly. The Bible! Never let them sleep at Denby Hall. Never invite them to lunch or dinner with my mother. And never ever celebrate our birthdays together!”

  “Amen, brother,” answers Haz.

  “Everyone knows that if you do those three things with a woman, she will automatically think you have a steady relationship, and will start daydreaming about marriage, children, and holidays in Dorset.”

  “Can I stop you for a moment?” Asks Harring, interrupting my monologue. “A: Jemma sleeps here every night. B: Jemma has lived with your mother long enough to suffice for her entire life. C: Jemma is already your wife!”

  “Yeah!” I yell. “And do you know what I hate the most about all this?”

  “What?” Asks Haz, yelling too.

  “That you’re damn right!”

  “Lance! Bring more brandy!” Harring rejoices.

  *

  The night I spent with Harring racking my brain to decide what to do for Jemma’s birthday was completely unproductive. At 2 a.m., we went to the cellars and played bowls with empty Château Latour bottles, at 3 a.m. we ordered take-away pizza and watched Top Gear reruns, and at 5 a.m. we played darts on the portrait of my great-great-granduncle Walter – nobody will cry about this as he wasn’t exactly loved and he died in 1902, anyway.

  Result: on the sheet of paper which reads ‘Jemma’s birthday’, there’s nothing but an illegible line we scribbled while drunk, and Haz is sleeping awkwardly on the chaise longue.

  I’m on the sofa, sleeping fitfully, until the ringing of my mobile suddenly wakes me up.

  It’s my mother. “This is Ashford Parker’s answering machine, I can’t answer at the moment…” I mumble in a drowsy voice.

  “Ashford, I’m coming back,” she says briefly.

  Without checking the time, I go back to sleep, and I wake up again just in time to make myself presentable and reassemble the corpse of Harring before my diabolical parent arrives home.

  “Where is that savage of your wife?” Is my mother’s warm greeting, as soon as she crosses the threshold.

  “She is visiting Cécile Loxley. She will be back later today.”

  “Very well, because we need her.”

  I look at her curiously.

  “I met Lord Neville in Bath. He spent a few days there to recover from an annoying cough. We didn’t talk to each other much, but he asked me for an invitation to Jemma’s birthday party, as he’s very keen to come. He adores her and I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about attending anything here at Denby. Ashford, we’re almost there. We’re getting closer and closer to the Royal Family and, if we manage this very well, we might receive a visit from the Queen before the end of the year.” My mother rejoices.

  “You hate Jemma,” I stress. “You left offending both her and her family.”

  “Let’s forgive and forget, shall we? If I have to accept Jemma for the sake of the royal visit, I will,” she says, waving her hand as if she wanted to erase the past. “I didn’t even know it was her birthday. In any case, I have thought of something magnificent, elegant, very refined…”

  There. If I wanted to arrange something special, I can just forget it. It will be the usual
Delphina style party, and Jemma will accept the situation reluctantly, gritting her teeth.

  55

  Jemma’s Version

  I look at myself in the mirror, satisfied. My hair is up, with some strands falling softly on my shoulders. The dress is a perfect fusion between the my true self and what I’m supposed to be according to good taste and elegance: it was designed by Oscar de la Renta and it costs a year’s salary as a make-up artist; it’s an evening dress with a long voluminous fandango purple silk taffeta skirt and a black strapless sweetheart corset. The shoes are hidden under the hem, but knowing that I’m wearing those glittery Caovilla stiletto sandals makes me feel sexier than ever. I put particular effort into doing a light but impeccable make-up job. Okay, perhaps I would never have dressed like this a few months ago, but the more I look at myself, the more I like it.

  I shoot myself flirty looks through the mirror, because I know that I didn’t just work hard on my dress and make-up, but also on my underwear. I’m wearing a La Perla lingerie set with a beautifully embroidered, strapless push up bra.

  I know that no one will see what I’m wearing underneath my dress, but for the whole time I was getting ready, I couldn’t help thinking about Ashford. And when I looked at myself in the mirror in that lingerie set I thought: ‘If he saw me right now, I would blow his mind’; perhaps that’s also why I walked up and down the room aimlessly in my underwear for half an hour, hoping to hear him knock on the connecting door. Do I want Ashford? No, I don’t! But the idea of teasing him is so tempting.

  Delphina came back to Denby just to arrange the reception for my birthday, would you believe it?

  The whole mansion was turned upside down for the evening. I don’t know, this probably isn’t the way I would have celebrated my birthday, but this is my event, and all the guests will be here for me, tonight. Everything will be done properly and, even if Delphina is an all-Botox-and-bones pain in the arse, she knows what she’s doing. Besides, the fact that she’s bothering so much for me makes me think that, despite everything, maybe she’s starting to appreciate me.

  When the clock strikes, I rush out of my room, bang on time. I haven’t seen Ashford all day, and this makes me feel as if my blood were burning under my skin.