How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “You married a goddess! I would be surprised if you didn’t spend every single moment of your day groping her.”

  “It was different at first,” I try to justify myself.

  “Yeah, you looked like a plaster bust from the National Gallery, with that ‘Oh my God, what am I doing here’ kind of expression on your face. It doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Yes, they have. She looks way more confident. And you’re listening to your lower half, at last,” Harring says, pointing his foil below my waist. “I must admit that I had started to fear that you wanted to become a monk, even though you kept yourself busy with Portia…”

  When I hear Portia’s name, I throw the foil to the other side of the room. “Portia,” I mumble to myself.

  “What’s wrong, now?”

  “I’m fed up with you all bringing up Portia. Portia here, Portia there. Did I sleep with Portia? Yes. Did I want to marry her? Not at all. Have we ever been officially engaged? No, I’ve never even considered it! How long will I have to justify shagging her a couple of times?”

  “Parker, take it easy, no one is asking for that. Certainly not me! It was an example. What’s wrong with you?”

  I sit on one of the benches at the side of the platform, and take my mask off. “Yesterday, Jemma asked me about Portia. It’s something we’ve never talked about, but yesterday she wanted to know what happened between us. I felt uncomfortable while I was telling her. She was next to me, naked and beautiful, and all I wanted to do was make love to her again, but I didn’t know if she would still want me after what I told her.”

  “You’re a man, it’s normal that you had other women before her.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t want her to see me as an arsehole who has sex with women just for fun, and then walks away.”

  “Someone like me, you mean,” Harring points out.

  “Exactly.” He pats me on my back. “I love you too, brother!”

  “So, that’s it. If you were all so kind as to file the Portia case once and for all, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Case closed.”

  “Can you believe it? I’m here with you, and I should be involved in a duel to the last thrust, but all I can think of is Jemma: where she is, what she’s doing, what she’s wearing and how long it would take me to rip it off…”

  “It’s normal, it means that everything works here,” says Harring, grabbing his crotch.

  “But it would also be enough to spend a whole day just looking at her! I’m even jealous of Cécile Loxley, just because she’s with her now!”

  “Speaking of Cécile Loxley!” Harring says, jumping up. “What a temper she’s got. I’m starting to wonder what she’s like in bed. I’m sure she’s quite satisfying…”

  “Loxley is asexual, and she’s with that Palo Alto nerd.”

  “Well, never say never…”

  “Are you implicitly confessing that you’re going to make advances to Cécile Loxley?” I ask, confused by what I believe I have just heard.

  “Who? Me? Are you nuts?” Harring looks at me wide eyed. “No, it was just a hypothesis.”

  73

  Jemma’s Version

  It’s another peaceful morning in Denby. I find it hard to let Ashford leave the bed to go and have a shower, but I don’t want to deny myself the vision of his sculpted naked body as he heads to the bathroom.

  I stretch out, sinking even deeper into the feather pillows. How long since I last slept in my room? I can’t say for sure: two, three weeks? A month?

  I don’t know, I decided that I will no longer count the days, partly because it was all so sudden and confusing, partly for luck. In the past, I always kept count of the hours, days and weeks, but it never brought me good luck and, in the end, it always turned out that I was the only one who was emotionally involved; this time, I’m going to live every day to the full as if it were the first.

  “You could come join me,” Ashford invites me under the pounding water.

  I walk to the bathroom and sit in the big wicker peacock chair.

  “What are you doing there?” He asks.

  “There’s a splendid view from here,” I confess, flirtatiously. “If you also turned round a bit, it would be perfect.”

  He obeys, amused. “I am at your command.”

  “Don’t you find it degrading?” I ask him.

  “I’ll tell you this: I’ve always thought that those women who marry rich men to improve their social status can’t have much self-respect.”

  “How about you?”

  “Well, having married a much richer woman and being at her mercy…” he says, walking out of the shower to join me, then spreading my crossed legs and kissing my inner thigh, he finishes his sentence: “… is the most arousing thing that has ever happened to me. Do you know what else I think?” He whispers, with his lips on my skin. “That what fits you best in the whole world is my surname. Nothing else, Lady Parker.”

  As I abandon myself to him again, his mobile starts ringing insistently. Ashford ignores it at first, but it doesn’t stop and he decides to pick it up.

  He disappears into the bedroom, and comes back to me after a short conversation.

  “It was Derek,” he informs me. “He asked if we can meet him in his office today.”

  *

  I did nothing but ruminate on this, but to be honest, I can’t imagine why he called us in; I only hope that there’s no trouble with my money.

  “When a solicitor calls, it’s hardly ever good news,” Ashford observes as we get in the lift.

  Derek knows nothing about our relationship; we didn’t tell him in the same way we haven’t told our families. We don’t want the news to spread.

  Oh my God? Did I call it a relationship? It sounds so strange but, after all, what else can I call it? Look at us: for the whole time we’re alone in the lift, he leans against the wall and holds me close to his chest, with his chin resting gently on my forehead.

  Anyway, since we want to show ourselves as detached and independent as usual, before the lift dings, Ashford kisses the tip of my nose and lets me go.

  “I tried to figure out what this could be about, but I can’t think of anything,” I sigh.

  “Mr Wharton will receive you immediately,” announces the secretary, escorting us to the office.

  “Jemma, Ashford, take a seat!” Derek greets us warmly. “Jemma, I see you’ve changed your appearance since the last time I saw you. Let me say you look gorgeous. In the end, Catriona’s inheritance benefited you.”

  “Thank you. I worked on myself.”

  “You did a really good job. And you, Ashford, you’re in excellent shape. Sorting out your problems with the banks must have given you back several hours of sleep.”

  “Yes, but not too many. I like to keep myself busy.” So saying, Ashford gives me a suggestive look. “Derek, I have to say that your call was quite unexpected.”

  “And yet, there was a real miracle, so I couldn’t help calling you.”

  “A miracle? Didn’t you say that in the legal profession there’s no such thing as miracles, but only strategies?” I ask, sceptically.

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I correct myself: it was an extraordinary event.”

  “Go on, then,” I encourage him to explain himself.

  “Yes, sure. When we last met, you settled your financial and inheritance issues with your marriage.”

  “So far, so good… what then?” I start getting impatient.

  “Of course, I never stopped analysing the Parkers’ financial situation and, until a few weeks ago, I still found some of your father’s investments very reckless, if not ridiculous—”

  “For example?” Ashford doesn’t seem to tolerate Derek’s digressions, either.

  “For example, sponsoring a bizarre, little known Russian artist in an abandoned school in Chipwick. This artist, Goran Tretiak, died a couple of weeks ago – either by overdose or suicide, it�
�s still not clear – and the value of his works went through the roof in no time. In New York, at Christie’s, one of them was auctioned for five million dollars. Here’s the deal: the duke Henry Parker, your father, was his patron and owned a large number of his works, which now belong to you, Ashford. A prominent London auction house has already come forward for two of the most recent ones.” Derek pauses, to let Ashford take the news in.

  “So?”

  “So, by selling Tretiak’s works, you will be able to repay the money Jemma lent you. You no longer have to carry on with the newly-weds comedy, aren’t you happy? In addition, the returns from your properties are definitely improving; without the holes in your bank accounts, you will be able to afford a more than wealthy lifestyle. It seems that the farce you had to stage will be shorter than expected.”

  “Are you saying that we can bring forward our divorce?” I ask, to make sure I understood what he said.

  Derek raises his hands in surrender. “Now that everything is solved, why not!” A victorious smile appears on his face. “Yes, I know, every time I called you, it was to give you unpleasant news or propose bizarre agreements, but there is no need to be embarrassed, this time. Take it as an opportunity for a fresh start!”

  I don’t dare look at Ashford. I really wish I could look straight in his eyes and read what he thinks, but I don’t have the courage.

  “I’m sure it’s good news for you, that’s why I’ve worked hard to make the procedure as fast as possible, and I’m already drafting your divorce papers. The sooner you go back to your own lives the better, right?”

  “Um… I guess so,” I comment without enthusiasm.

  “It’s really… amazing.” Ashford’s tone isn’t that excited, either.

  Here’s the truth: this came as a cold shower.

  We were so immersed in our ‘honeymoon’ that we had completely forgotten about the expiry date of our marriage, and this divorce thing has just hit me like a runaway train.

  I know I should be jumping for joy, but that’s not how I feel. If I think about divorcing Ashford, a voice in my head shouts: ‘No, please, no’.

  It didn’t start as a love story, we got married for convenience and we lived together under protest, but then something changed. We have changed, and now I can’t think of myself without him. I just don’t want to.

  “Obviously, I’ll do everything to keep this from going public, this time.”

  Ashford nods inexpressively. “Sure.”

  Oh my God, is he okay with this? I’m in panic, I can’t swallow.

  “Jemma, do you have anything to say?” Derek asks me.

  I shake my head, my mouth is too dry to answer.

  “Well, I’ll tell Jane to proceed with your file, then. You can’t even imagine how relieved I am for having solved your situation!”

  “Derek, I think I can speak for both of us if I say that this news took us by surprise. We were not ready for it, and I’m sure you understand that, given that we expected it to last longer, we both arranged our lives to make them work at best. Perhaps, we need some time to implement this solution.”

  Why am I terrified at every word I hear him say?

  “What I’m saying, Derek, is that I really appreciate that you’ve been working to fix this mess, but forgive us if we don’t answer on the spot.”

  Derek looks disorientated, but he tries to hide it. “Sure, of course! Jemma will need time to move to a property of her own, and you will also have some social commitments to attend… it’s most natural. It was my duty to inform you, but, in any case, I won’t proceed until I have official confirmation from you. I’ll wait for your instructions, even if I’m sure it won’t be a long wait.”

  When we leave the office, I can barely wait for the lift doors to close before my eyes fill with tears. I turn my back to Ashford, because I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want him to think I’m sorry.

  “I don’t know what to say,” are Ashford’s first words.

  “Don’t say anything, then.” I reply, trying to keep my voice from breaking, in order to sound as cold as possible.

  As soon as the lift gets to the ground floor, we storm out. I walk fast and Ashford keeps up with me.

  “It’s over, then.” I say.

  “So it seems.”

  “This is what we wanted, isn’t it?” I try to sound somewhat convinced, but I’m as expressive as a food processor.

  “Since day one.”

  “And we’ve never thought about changing our minds,” I say, lacking conviction.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” he echoes.

  What the hell. We’re back to the start.

  74

  Ashford’s Version

  What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t look happy! Then why did you talk as if this idea of bringing forward our divorce were a blessing?

  I don’t get anything.

  The story of the Russian artist really took me by surprise; it was something I had never even taken into consideration.

  I always knew this day would come, but I thought we wouldn’t have to face this issue for a long time, and I was relying on that time to strengthen the relationship with Jemma, so that we could make a considered decision; yet, Derek dropped this card and turned the game upside down.

  I’m not happy, because I have to reconsider a lot of things; first of all, I’m not ready to let Jemma go, I don’t want to.

  There’s one thing I am relieved about, though: I can repay Jemma and have my dignity back in a blink.

  But what about Jemma?

  Falling in love with her was not part of the original plan.

  Falling in love? Did I seriously say that?

  No, I meant that I like her, I’m attracted to her, I find her sexy and witty; moreover, she’s able to bear the role of duchess way better that I expected, which makes everything more tolerable. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like her. If I had to define her, I would use two words: Big Bang. A perfect and delightful chaos. A devastating explosion that puts everything in the right place. With Jemma by my side, everything makes sense.

  Yet, she’s so enigmatic and distant, that I would give up my title and all my possessions to know where she is. Because she isn’t next to me now, in that passenger seat. Or rather, her body is, but not her mind.

  We spend the rest of the day apart: she’s out riding with her mother while I wander aimlessly around the manor, looking for something to focus on, with no success.

  At dinner, we don’t say a word to each other, and I notice that she barely eats. We’re having fried chicken wings, so that’s not a good sign.

  When we withdraw to our separate rooms, which hasn’t happened for a while, my level of unhappiness goes beyond what I can bear, so much so that I could punch anything close to me.

  I hear muffled sobs coming from the other side of the door. It’s Jemma, who’s trying to conceal that she’s crying, but ineffectively.

  She can say whatever she likes, even that she’s more than glad we’re going to divorce, but her crying clearly means that, just like me, she isn’t happy about it at all.

  I pluck up the courage to end this silly situation. I open the connecting doors between our rooms and I take her in my arms. She’s curled up on her bed, with her face buried by a pyramid of pillows.

  “We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to,” I tell her. “I don’t want a divorce, and if you feel the same, you have to tell me loud and clear.”

  In response, her sobbing becomes louder. “Jemma, Derek updated us on the news, but divorcing remains our choice. If we don’t want to, we won’t do it. I don’t want to, Jemma. Do you?”

  “No,” she whispers while crying. “I don’t. Not now that I’m happy.”

  “This is the only thing that matters.”

  75

  Jemma’s Version

  We’re not going to divorce. We spent the whole night talking about it. We may not be the
perfect couple, our foundations may not be as solid as those of others, there’s no guarantee that our story will last forever, but is there anyone who does have such certainties? However, we’re here and now, we’re real and happy, and there would be no point in changing the state of things.

  I don’t know if I should loosen up, but now that we’ve talked, I see everything in a more mature way.

  Earlier, I deliberately ignored the fact that our marriage had an end date; now I know that we’ll both try to make it work, even though we have our own limitations.

  The high society season is almost over, but tonight we are invited to the umpteenth event: a light installation in the Kew Gardens conservatory.

  I phoned Cécile to ask what she would wear, and ask her for advice on what I could wear, but she didn’t sound very interested and simply said that she wouldn’t even be there. She’s been rather distracted lately, but her mood swings are one her distinctive features, so I don’t ask myself too many questions.

  A few months ago, knowing that she wouldn’t be there to keep me company in the snake pit would have really upset me, but it’s no longer like that.

  Then, I spent my time avoiding Ashford, but now I’m really attracted by the idea of spending the whole evening on his arm.

  *

  The Kew Gardens are stunning, look at all these colourful plants under the glass domes! I’ve spent my whole life in London, but I admit I’ve never been here before. With my eyes wide open, I try and capture every detail, every petal, every shade.

  “You’re radiant tonight,” Ashford whispers.

  “You’re seeing me in a different way,” I reply.

  “Maybe, but you’re shining.”

  “Like radioactive waste?”

  “Stop teasing me, you know I can bite if I have to.”

  “I wanted to make sure you haven’t lost your edge.”

  Ashford comes close to my ear with his lips and whispers: “I’ll show you later,” and he touches my ear lobe lightly with his teeth.

  I freeze, seeing a familiar profile. I’ve seen her only once, but that face is carved in my mind.