How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  63

  Jemma’s Version

  That dull blonde is all over him!

  And he says that I talk a lot? Since I’ve seen them, she hasn’t shut up for a second. She probably told him the whole bloody story of her life. And he’s listening to her! I can’t believe he finds her interesting.

  64

  Ashford’s Version

  Jemma is keeping herself busy. On the dance floor, right under her podium, a small crowd of horny chaps has gathered and, I’d bet Denby Hall on this, they’re trying to look under her slip.

  I’d win this bet for sure. I know what men are like.

  She looks pleased, judging by the way she’s smiling. And she knows that I am watching. She’s already looked in my direction several times and, with every single glance, her moves grew sexier. At least I think so. That’s how it seems to me.

  65

  Jemma’s Version

  What a twat! The more I stay here, dancing on the podium, the more he sits on that bloody banquette with that stupid blonde who’s looking at him adoringly.

  And what do these tossers want from me?

  66

  Ashford’s Version

  This girl is a bore, what’s she saying? And what’s her name… Tanya?

  Hey! One of those chaps has just got on the podium, right next to Jemma, and he’s got his hands all over her waist.

  67

  Jemma’s Version

  I don’t particularly like this guy who’s climbed on the podium, and he’s even touching me a little too much.

  I mean, he’s too big, so muscly he almost looks inflated, and he’s artificially tanned, his hair is waxed and his clothes are really too tight for a man. No doubt he’s very coarse, vulgar. But Ashford can see me clearly up here. Well, let him see! He’s the one who’s been flirting with the blondie so far, isn’t he?

  Look here, mister! Take that!

  68

  Ashford’s Version

  To hell with Tamara and this silly challenge. Jemma will not go home with that individual!

  69

  Jemma’s Version

  I make a pirouette to try to get that guy’s hands off me, since I don’t really like his touch, but when I turn round I’m quite surprised to see that Ashford is on the podium, right between the stranger and me.

  “I don’t want to make a scene, but keep your hands off my wife,” I hear him say.

  “Your wife?” The guy replies incredulously.

  For an answer, Ashford raises my left hand and shows him my wedding ring. “See this?”

  “Take it easy, pal. Maybe you shouldn’t leave your wife alone,” the guy protests, while getting off the podium.

  “You can be sure of that,” Ashford replies.

  “Really? ‘Take your hands off my wife’? What a possessive thing to say!” I point out.

  “I hate when others touch my belongings.”

  “I’m not your belonging, and this wasn’t the spirit of the evening,” I protest, somewhat half heartedly.

  “The spirit has changed.” His tone becomes serious.

  “Isn’t your blonde missing you on that banquette?” Something inside me wants to investigate what looked like him flirting with another woman and making my blood boil until a minute ago.

  Ashford pulls me towards him as if he hadn’t even heard my question. “Dance with me.”

  “What?” I couldn’t be more surprised.

  “Dance with me,” Ashford says, and then he helps me off the podium.

  His hand holds mine gently as he leads me to the centre of the dance floor.

  “I felt a little exposed up there,” he points out.

  I don’t know what to say to him. Here, in the crowd, we’re closer than ever before, almost crushed against each other.

  “Do you know what I’d like? To see you do the dance move you did a second ago.”

  Nothing, in my mind there’s nothing. I can barely take my eyes off his, and when I do, it’s just to follow the movements of his lips. “What are you talking about?”

  “This,” he says, as he pulls me against his body so that, thanks to the gentle pressure, my hips start swaying along with his in a smooth slow dance.

  My mouth gets dry. “Ashford, how many gin and tonics have you had?”

  His eyes stare at mine with absolute seriousness. “Not even one. I’ve never been more sober. You?”

  I shake my head in denial. I believe him. He doesn’t smell of alcohol. All I can smell on his neck is his Acqua di Parma cologne and a hint of sweat. No gin. Only Ashford.

  He holds me tight against him, guiding his hands up and down my back, with slow and delicate movements and an ardour he’s never shown before.

  I can’t ignore the explicit words of the song that is playing; it’s as if it were talking to me and, if Ashford is feeling the same, we are one step away from falling into the abyss, we’re this close to jumping into a free fall. Here they are, again!

  “… I want your bite. Wanna feel your teeth on my neck. Wanna taste the salt of your sweat. Gonna rock your body all night. It’s lust at first sight…”

  I want him to stop, but I also want him to go on.

  What he’s doing prevents me from thinking clearly, but I can’t help asking him a question. “What are you doing? You could have any woman you want…”

  “I’m looking at her right now,” and, so saying, he sinks his head into the hollow of my neck. He inhales deeply and then, to my surprise, I feel his tongue moving slowly from my collarbone to my ear, in a moist and sensual caress. My breath gets shorter and shorter.

  “You’re pretty tame tonight, Jemma,” he murmurs.

  I’m overwhelmed. There’s no other way to describe me.

  Ashford isn’t just flirting with me. He’s being pretty explicit. And I’m damn happy about it.

  Is this real or is he just teasing me?

  There’s only one way to find out: play my own part and jump into this.

  I slowly caress his chest, his shoulders, the rear part of his neck, until my fingers intertwine with his hair. I press my body against his, my face is a breath away from his.

  I’m here, duke. Win or lose. Take it or leave it.

  And he takes it. He takes me completely.

  He kisses me as if he wants to suck my soul away; I kiss him as if I want it back.

  Time goes by and the music continues while the two of us move slowly and envelop each other rather explicitly. Our clothes are the only ephemeral limit between decency and scandal.

  He’s torturing me, because he knows that we are in a public place. His hands rise along my thighs and just stop under the hem of the slip, lightly touching the lace of my stockings. He knows that I would invite him to continue.

  “Hello, wife,” he whispers between one kiss and another.

  I burn up, as if all the blood in my body has risen to my face. I never thought that two simple words could be this erotic.

  “Do you know what we started?” He whispers.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, short of breath.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He grasps my hand firmly and precedes me through the crowd, heading towards the exit.

  We burst into Denby Hall, overwhelmed by uncontrollable passion, barely capable of climbing the stairs without parting from one another, ando Ashford takes me in his arms.

  “Ashford,” I try and stop him as he runs his mouth down my neckline. “Your mother! Delphina’s here!”

  “Delphina is full of Valium,” he replies, continuing to kiss me. “There’s a hundred and fifty rooms. No one will ever hear us.”

  Without further hesitation, I let him pull my slip up to my waist, while I pull his shirt out of his trousers. Once we arrive at the doors of our apartments, Ashford looks at me with a naughty spark in his eyes and asks: “My place or yours?”

  70

  Ashford’s Version

  She’s lying there, on her left side, and I’m right behind, hugging her. I sink m
y face into her hair to kiss her neck. Her skin has a unique scent I would recognise anywhere: it’s sweet, sugary, warm and enveloping. I inhale greedily and kiss her again. If I think about last night, nothing that happened seems real to me. Yet, it’s all true. When we came back home last night, we didn’t seem to be ourselves.

  But it’s nothing like those hungover mornings in which you wake up with a pasty mouth, the aftertaste of vodka still on your palate, a stranger in your bed and, looking at yourself naked, you think: ‘Oh, fuck!’.

  No, we were sober and, just to make sure, we told each other so more than once. We ended up in each other’s arms as conscious and consenting adults.

  And it was incredible. We didn’t fall asleep until dawn. Jemma wouldn’t let me sleep, and neither would I let her. It was like breaking free from all our feelings, on the stairs, on the floor, and in bed.

  Even after these few hours of sleep, which were more like a sort of trance for me, I feel that my desire is still burning and I’m ready to set hers on fire as well.

  She rolls onto her back and we are now face to face, my lips almost touching hers.

  “Good morning,” she whispers in a slightly hoarse voice.

  “Hello, wife,” I let out the two magic words that triggered last night’s explosion.

  We remain silent, stealing caresses which aren’t innocent enough for this early in the morning; in every part of my body that Jemma’s fingers touch, I feel the exact same sensations I felt last night. I had never thought this might happen, but… I want her again and again.

  “I’d stay here all day, and another night,” she sighs, delighted.

  “We can and we will. Your wish is a command. You’re not the Duchess of Burlingham for nothing. You can stay in bed as long as you want.”

  “I’d like to stay in bed all day. With the Duke of Burlingham,” she whispers, sliding over me in order to keep our bodies in contact as much as possible, and I hold her there.

  “May I offer you a delicious breakfast in bed, Jemma?” I ask her, nodding towards a cart the servants have left in the antechamber.

  She answers with an unenthusiastic grimace. “I don’t know. I’m not a fan of having breakfast in bed.”

  I look at her in amazement. “What? I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like having breakfast in bed!”

  “You do it when you’re ill. Like, you eat in bed when you’re in hospital.”

  I grab her by the hips and put her back on the mattress, keeping her down with my weight. “Let me bring you breakfast in bed, and we’ll see if I can change your mind about that hospital thing.”

  She looks at me both curious and amused, as I push the cart laden with all kinds of delicious food to the bed.

  “Why does it feel like you’re up to something?”

  “Because I am,” I reply, in a tone which is anything but innocent.

  I let the silver tray slide along the white Egyptian cotton sheets, then I start dropping a fine trail of honey between her breasts, which I lick away extremely slowly.

  And I gently suck delicious jam from her neck.

  And I nibble small bites of croissant from her stomach, barely touching her skin with my lips.

  71

  Jemma’s Version

  If they had told me a month ago, I would have bet my fortune that it could never happen. And I would have lost.

  Ashford and I.

  We’re anomalous. We’ve never been normal, the number of our flaws exceeds by far that of our virtues. But our virtues…

  We’re totally captivated by each other and out of control.

  Or rather, we are able to control ourselves, at least in public.

  The people around us are used to seeing us maintain respectable, restrained and detached behaviour, so it would be strange if we got all lovey-dovey, used nicknames and exchanged public displays of affection; that’s why we keep acting as the usual, taciturn Parker newly-weds, in love but very disciplined.

  Our composure only increases the tension and attraction between us; as a result, whenever a door closes behind us, we throw ourselves voraciously into each other’s arms.

  We tread a fine line between teen lust and sex addiction.

  At night, however, we have all the time and privacy to abandon ourselves to our fantasies.

  If his bed could talk… and the music room. And his study. And the armoury. And the cellars. My dress is still stained with Burgundy… but who cares! Ashford ripped it off half an hour ago, and now it’s somewhere on the floor. I just want the sheets of his bed on my body. And him, of course.

  I roll over by his side, with my face just a breath away from his, and I keep thinking how amazing it is to look at those beautiful green eyes. He’s handsome. I don’t know if I was blind before, or if I am now. Certainly, I was blinded by all my prejudices and my hatred, but there has always been a large number of girls who fought over him, starting from the Triple Six and that Portia. Portia. I partly forgot about her. Partly, but not completely, and I don’t know if it’s wise to ignore her.

  “Are you happy?” He asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And what do you want to ask me?”

  “What?” I ask, hesitating.

  “I know from your expression. You’ve got something to ask me.”

  I nod and pluck up the courage to do it. “I think the time has come for you to tell me about Portia.”

  “Portia?” He asks, surprised.

  “Derek, your mother, Harring, everyone has talked of her at least once, except for you. And since it has to do with you, I would like to get the full picture.”

  “There’s no picture,” he digresses.

  “Everyone was ready to bet on you getting married. There must have been something…” I say, but I want to make sure he understands that I don’t mean to start an argument, so I rub my face against his neck, inhaling his scent mixed with the smell of the sex we’ve just had.

  “All right, but always keep in mind that everything I will tell you is part of the past.”

  “Got it.”

  “Portia is one of the many people who are regularly invited to the usual receptions, and we’ve known each other for years. By ‘we’ve known each other’ I don’t mean that we are friends or anything, though. There was that kind of familiarity that you can have with people who are in the same environment as you. Then, once she and her friends reached the so-called ‘marriage age’, she started being around more and more often. She served herself on a silver platter, I could say. Harring and I have never been particularly keen on settling down early, and I’ve always preferred to keep my love affairs outside the circle of regular acquaintances, just to avoid fostering gossip.” Ashford pauses to make sure I’m listening. “Anyway, there’s a ‘but’: Portia is an attractive girl and, although I have my self-control, I’m not a saint. A glass of wine too many and a suggestive invitation from her were enough to make me abandon my principles. It went on quite a while, and maybe it escaped my control, even though I thought I could handle the situation. I took advantage of her interest in me just for fun. Besides, she seemed to be okay with it, or so she said. However, we were always together at events and, for some reason, I ended up being her partner at every evening. If you consider that my mother encouraged what she thought was a real relationship, you’ll understand that Portia must have taken this idea of marriage very seriously. And, perhaps, she told many others. I never made her think that it could be a possibility, but she probably had her own strategy: she was trying to make sure that everyone considered us a couple, even if we were not. She believed that, if everyone started telling me: ‘You and Portia are a lovely couple’, ‘Portia is a woman to marry’, or ‘When are you getting married?’ I would eventually drift into it. Her hopes were destroyed of course, when she learned that I had married another woman.”

  Actually, I don’t know if I like what I’ve heard. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it, and thinking that he actually had a rel
ationship with her bothers me quite a lot.

  “Why are you frowning, now?” Ashford asks, lifting my chin with two fingers.

  “Thinking of Portia in your bed makes me uneasy,” I admit.

  “If it makes you feel any better, we’ve never been close enough to share a bed.”

  In my mind, I picture wardrobes, storerooms, the stables, hallways, the two of them standing against a wall, and God knows what else. “No, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Doesn’t the fact that I’m here with you mean anything?”

  “Maybe,” I say, elusively.

  “Any other questions?” He asks, making me straddle him.

  “You don’t miss Portia, then?”

  Ashford presses my hips against his. I can feel his arousal. “What do you think?”

  I lean over him and bring my breasts close to his face. “That you like what you’re looking at.”

  “Let me prove it to you,” he murmurs in a slightly hoarse voice, before sinking into me.

  72

  Ashford’s Version

  “You look different,” Harring comments during our foil practice.

  “It could be because I got a bit carried away.”

  “It was about time! Welcome to the club!”

  “I feel strange, but in a positive way.”

  “Drugs have this effect, at first.”

  “You’re a prick,” I say.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he replies.

  “Apart from feeling as if I had the hormones of a fifteen year old, I would say that everything is more or less fine.”

  “You’re talking to someone who has never really left puberty, so feel free to let off steam.”

  “I would like to stay in bed with Jemma all the time, and when I’m not, I think about when I will be. My thoughts are rather unidirectional.”