How (Not) to Marry a Duke

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How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 26

by Felicia Kingsley


  As I descend the staircase and make my way to the ballroom, Lance and the servants give me admiring looks.

  I open the doors and what I see is simply spectacular: long drapes of white organza flutter from the balconies, the lighting is suffused and the dim lights of the candelabra are reflected in the polished marble floors.

  At the centre of the room, there’s Ashford, who’s observing the finishing touches. He’s impeccable in his perfectly cut velvet lapel dinner jacket. He’s walking towards me and I can’t help but notice that his intense green eyes are looking straight into mine; his cheekbones and jawline seem carved in marble, his nose is perfectly straight and his lips are… oh, enough!

  He stops right in front of me and pulls out one of his rare deadly smiles. “So? What do you think?”

  “Imp… impressive,” I stutter, losing all the assurance I had up to a second ago.

  And I don’t know if my ‘impressive’ referred to the ballroom or to Ashford; the more I think about it, the more I doubt I was referring to the ballroom.

  “It’s not an amusement park, though.” Ashford sounds as if he were apologising for that.

  “I’ve been to a lot of amusement parks, I won’t miss them this year. But I’ve never had a ball of my own.”

  Ashford offers me his elbow and leads me towards the entrance where the guests are starting to gather; my heart rate accelerates. “It might disappoint you to find out that this ball is my mother’s, rather than yours. She decided to bury the hatchet and use you as a battering ram to penetrate into the Royal Family.”

  Before I can say anything, my parents join us; they’re dressed to impress, and I’ve never seen them like this before. My mother is all jaunty. “Hey cutie, look at us! I haven’t been this dolled up since my eighteenth birthday!”

  “You look amazing, Carly,” Ashford says.

  Well, I can’t deny that, although she’s approaching sixty, my mother still sports a remarkable body, probably thanks to her healthy diet and all the yoga she practices.

  “Guess who’s coming to your birthday party?” Dad cuts in.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Yes, who?” echoes Delphina, in her usual ice cold tone of voice.

  “Amjad!” My parents announce in unison.

  “Are you serious?!” I shout, surprised.

  “Aye, he was passing through town, so he gave us a phone call and we happened to tell him it was your birthday. You were ten the last time he saw you and, since he wanted to wish you a happy birthday, we told him to stop by at Denby Hall.”

  I’m amazed. “That’s awesome!”

  Delphina doesn’t seem to agree and asks: “Would you be so kind as to tell me who Amjad is?”

  “He’s an old friend of my parents, from the days of the commune in Wadi Jalal.”

  “He’s got a natural talent for playing the santoor and his falafels are pure magic,” my father adds.

  “Is he coming here now?” Delphina starts getting nervous.

  “He was in London an hour ago, I’d say that he’ll be here any minute. He’s with his brother Mansour!” My mother informs us.

  “We invited very select few guests exclusively, everything was arranged with surgical precision. Ashford, we can’t let a Bedouin tribe ruin everything!”

  Lance approaches our group with his usual impassive expression. “Lady Delphina, we have just received a call from the orchestra. Their bus suffered an engine meltdown near Winchester, therefore they won’t be able to join us.”

  “You know, mother, I reckon that the Pears’ friends are the least of your problems.” Ashford looks more amused than worried.

  “Margaret!” shouts Delphina while walking away. “My smelling salts!”

  “Don’t worry. Your friends will be more than welcome tonight,” Ashford reassures us.

  The guests are arriving one after the other, so Ashford and I wait for them at the door. As I receive their birthday wishes, Lance and the other servants are busy distributing lots of champagne, hoping to make the lack of an orchestra go unnoticed.

  “It will be a disaster,” says Delphina appearing behind us as we’re welcoming the Davenports. “I called every orchestra in London, but none are available. We must cancel the evening.”

  “Mother, that’s impossible, can’t you see that the hall is already full of guests? If you’re looking for a disaster you can send one hundred and fifty people home,” Ashford replies through clenched teeth. “That gentleman over there looks like Neville, why don’t you send him home first!”

  “What in the name of God are those?” Asks Delphina, indicating the driveway.

  Ten shiny black Maybachs with flags on their bonnets are pulling up outside. As they draw to a halt, just as many uniformed valets prepare to open the car doors and escort a group of elegant and exotically dressed people towards us.

  “As-salāmu ’alaykum,” greets us the tallest and most elegant man in the group.

  “Amjad!” My mother yells, overjoyed. “Wa ’alaykumu s-salāmu!”

  Amjad, my mother and my father greet each other with cheerful hugs while speaking Arabic, until I interrupt them. “Amjad! No hug for me?”

  “For the ninety-nine names of Allah!” Exclaims Amjad, with his strong Arab accent. “Are you really little Jemma?”

  “In flesh and blood!”

  “You are beautiful! The last time I saw you, I told you the stories of the Arabian Nights to send you to sleep!

  “Amjad, this is Ashford Parker, the Duke of Burlingham. My husband,” I can’t deny that I quiver a little while uttering the last two words. “And this is his mother, Lady Delphina.”

  “My name is Muhammad Amjad Rashid Al Thanyan, the first son of Hadi Muhammad Kalil Al Thanyan,” he introduces himself.

  Delphina’s eyes are nearly popping out of her head. “Sh… Sheikh Al Thanyan.”

  “Come on, Delphina, don’t be that formal. Amjad prefers to be treated in a more friendly manner!” My father encourages her.

  “These are Fatima, my first wife – now my second wife – and Lathva, my third wife. And this is my younger brother Mansour Hadi.”

  Ashford gets closer to me and whispers: “Are you telling me that one of the most prominent sheikhs in the Arab Emirates is an old friend of your parents?”

  “He was not a sheikh thirty years ago, at the time of the commune. His father was, but he liked to live freely and unconventionally. They’ve been good friends ever since, and, every time he stops by in London, he comes for a visit.”

  “I hope that my sudden arrival was not an unwelcome surprise,” says Amjad.

  “Absolutely not, it’s an honour and a pleasure, this house is your house.” Delphina takes a deep bow.

  While my parents walk to the salon with Amjad, Delphina looks miraculously heartened. “A sheikh at Denby Hall! Ashford, this event will make history. Lord Neville and a sheikh!”

  “Let me remind you that, until five minutes ago, you were ready to erect barricades and deploy troops to repel Jemma’s parents’ friends. And, by the way, this is her evening, her birthday, remember?”

  Delphina rolls her eyes like the child from the Exorcist, and then she goes chasing after her eminent new guest.

  Ashford looks at me, embarrassed. “I apologise for my mother.”

  “Don’t stress. Your mother is unforgivable, but I accept her the way she is, just as she’s obliged to accept me.”

  “Happy Birthday!” Harring enters Denby with his usual assurance. “After the amusement park, I was hoping for at least a mechanical bull.”

  Ashford shrugs. “My mother took over. As you can see, her signature is quite recognisable.”

  “1997 vintage champagne, heavy-as-hell dinner courses I will probably need two days to digest, and a soporific string quartet…” Harring lists.

  “No string quartet. Luckily, the bus let them down,” Ashford informs him.

  “God exists!” Harring rejoices.

  Just as Cécile enters, we hear the no
tes of Bang a Gong by T. Rex coming from the ballroom.

  “This is music!” she exclaims.

  “You only listen to funeral marches, what do you know about music?” Harring mocks her.

  “The only funeral march I’m interested in is yours. With any luck, I’ll hear it sooner rather than later.” They’re at it again.

  The crowd moves towards the ballroom and I notice that my father is on the balcony; he’s wearing his headphones and is busy playing his records.

  “Your father is a genius,” says Ashford. “He has wired the stereo and the turntable together.”

  “My dad always knows how to save the day.”

  “But we’re running a big risk.”

  “What risk, Ashford?” I ask him.

  “This might be the best party ever.”

  *

  At first, the guests are surprised by the way the evening is developing, but no one dislikes this return to the seventies and eighties, so the atmosphere soon heats up and the centre of the room fills with people.

  My father knows his stuff, and plays hits by Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors, Janis Joplin, The Beatles and the best of the rest of his record collection.

  All the gentlemen invite me to dance to wish me a happy birthday, a colossal cake is served and, as a present, Ashford places a gigantic emerald ring – a family heirloom – on my finger.

  Everything is just perfect, and it almost hurts me to think that none of it is real.

  56

  Ashford’s Version

  The party is over, all the guests have left.

  Back in the ballroom, I find Jemma is sitting at one of the tables, with her dress pulled up to her thighs, her shoes off and her bare feet on the floor.

  She looks tired but happy.

  The servants are busy tidying up around her.

  “The party was stunning. It seemed it would all go wrong, yet all the guests loved it. Lord Neville wouldn’t stop paying me compliments,” comments Jemma.

  “And you? Are you happy?” I ask. “It was your birthday, what people think doesn’t matter much.”

  “Yes, I had so much fun. Thanks for letting my dad take care of the dj set.”

  “It was outstanding,” I say, and I really mean it.

  “Yes, my dad is outstanding.”

  “What about your present? Do you like it?”

  She looks at the emerald ring sparkling on her hand. “Yup, it’s great. It’s an important ring, and if I dive in the pool, I’m sure it will make me sink like the Titanic, it’s very nice…”

  “… but it’s not your thing,” I finish her sentence, perceiving a hint of embarrassment in her voice.

  Jemma apologises in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You’re not the type of woman who jumps for joy seeing treasure chests, I know that.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing I thought I would ever have, so I’ve never fantasised much about it. And I confess my ignorance: if it were a fake, I wouldn’t notice.”

  I can’t take my eyes off her. “But you should accept being spoilt every now and then. Men like doing it.”

  I notice a sparkle in her eyes. “Do you?”

  “Sure I do,” then I reach out my hand. “Shall we dance?”

  “We’ve been dancing all evening.”

  “Yes, but we had a hundred people around us.” I nod towards the centre of the ballroom. “Do I have to beg?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I dismiss the servants and put on one of Vance’s vintage records.

  The music starts and I put Jemma’s arms around my neck, while my hands encircle her hips.

  “A Whiter Shade Of Pale, classy choice,” Jemma comments.

  “It’s probably the same record God is listening to right now.”

  “You and my father get on very well.”

  “He’s easy to get along with, very different from—”

  “… me?” She says before I can finish the sentence.

  “No, I was about to say ‘my mother’.”

  “It was easier when you were predictable, you know?”

  “What was easier?” I ask.

  “Hating you,” she admits with a mocking smile.

  “I can make that even harder, you know?”

  “How?”

  I draw her nearer in a very intimate way and I can see she’s almost shaking. “Check my jacket pocket.”

  Jemma hesitates as if I had hidden a mousetrap in it; at last, she pulls her fingers out of the pocket.

  She looks at the tickets for a few seconds before realising what they are. “These are central stand tickets for the first Champions League match against FC Barcelona! In Barcelona! My God, I can’t believe it!”

  “You worked so hard to make my birthday special, I had to find something just as special for you.”

  “I’m lost for words.”

  “No need for words. I can see your gratitude on your face.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ll be honest. Lance kept me informed about the draw results.”

  Jemma shrugs, and she’s almost embarrassed. “I feel really humble right now.”

  “As you can see, I’m not so narrow minded as to believe that an emerald ring can make you happy. I’ve got to know you, for better or for worse, and ordinariness is not part of you.”

  Jemma lowers her eyes towards the minuscule space between my body and hers as we sway gently following the music.

  “Can you lift your face? I’m sure you’re blushing and I don’t want to miss it. It happens so rarely.”

  She suddenly looks up, and what I see could kill me right here and now: those big blue eyes, so deep and liquid, framed by her long lashes; that angel face lit up by the amber light of the candelabra, and those lips. Dear God, those lips have become my obsession: full, perfectly outlined, and now slightly parted. I would like to kiss her. I could kiss her.

  And she looks as if she is expecting me to. Then, just when I’m a millimetre away from her, the music stops and the loudspeakers make the typical ripping sound of the needle rising from the turntable.

  It’s as if someone had entered to divide us. We pull ourselves together and move away from each other, then she goes back to the table to recover her shoes, whispers me a clumsy goodnight and leaves the ballroom.

  Turn round.

  Turn round.

  Turn round.

  I knew it! She turned round! She did!

  You have the feeling you have left something in here, haven’t you, Jemma? Something suspended in the air between you and me?

  When she turns round again and leaves, it’s as if a part of her remains in the room.

  And I fall again into that hypnotising feeling of déjà-vu, just like that afternoon at the swimming pool.

  57

  Jemma’s Version

  I’m no longer in control of anything.

  I’m in a state of total confusion.

  That kind of confusion that starts in your belly and goes up right into your head.

  You know that feeling of weightlessness you get when you’re in a free fall?

  Once, in an amusement park, I went on a ride which involved the seats going up a tower as high as the top of a skyscraper, then the platform unhooked, dropping the seats. Now I have the same dropping feeling, with my stomach rising up to my brain and bringing my heart with it.

  I tug at my dress until I succeed in making it fall to my ankles. I am so hot I would take my skin off as well if I could. I feel myself burning.

  I open the window and the crisp September air makes the long curtains flutter and touch my skin like a thousand fingers. If only they were Ashford’s.

  It’s all true, then. A part of me likes Ashford.

  Ashford, the smartarse.

  Ashford, the show-off.

  Ashford, the spoilt brat.

  Ashford, the snob.

  Ashford, who was as handsome as a God tonight.

  I still can’t accept it. Bu
t I can’t help it.

  I look at him and I think he’s handsome, I can’t wait for him to speak just to hear his voice and I’m even interested in what he says.

  I can hear noises coming from the next room. It’s him, he’s back.

  I start panicking. I measure the room with long strides, until I end up in front of the connecting door. It’s not locked. I haven’t been locking it for a while now.

  I lean against the door with my hands, arms, chest, stomach, legs, as if I could cross it with my body. The cold varnished wood makes me realise how hot my skin is. How could four minutes of slow dancing reduce me to this?

  Enough. I’m a grown-up, I have to take control of this absurd obsession and put an end to it.

  I need something, or someone, to take my mind off these thoughts once and for all.

  To begin with, I’ll try to avoid Ashford as much as possible from tomorrow onwards, and I’ll speak to him only when strictly necessary. Out of sight, out of mind, and out of any other part of my body that reacts against my will every time he’s in front of me.

  58

  Ashford’s Version

  Since the evening of the birthday party, when we almost kissed, Jemma has become elusive.

  She’s become a kind of presence, here at Denby: I can feel she’s there but I can’t see her; as soon as I enter a room, she leaves by another door. She’s like a poltergeist.

  My mother, for her part, has turned into Vance and Carly’s shadow, she hangs on their every word, hoping to see the Sultan of Brunei or the Emperor of Japan arrive at any moment. All she does is ask them how long it usually is between the sheikh’s visits.

  Kindly and politely, they bear with her.

  Anyway, their daughter is nowhere to be found and I swear I’m going crazy.

  Sometimes, I would like to break into her room while she’s sleeping and shout: ‘Try to escape from me now!’, but that wouldn’t be me. It wouldn’t even be hard, given that she hasn’t locked her door for quite a while now, which is another thing that’s making my brain fizz: is it on purpose? Does she want me to go in?

  It was better when it was worse, when we were engaged in open warfare, because, at least, the boundaries were clear: we lived separate lives and only spoke to insult each other.

 

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