How (Not) to Marry a Duke

By Felicia Kingsley

A hilarious romantic comedy perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella, Jo Watson and Meg Cabot.

One minute, Jemma Pears is a struggling theatrical make-up artist in London. The next, she's been left a vast fortune by her estranged grandmother. The catch: she must marry a man with a title to inherit.
Jemma thinks this is truly impossible: she's a romantic, searching for true love, not just a convenient marriage... and besides, where would she even find a titled guy?

Enter Ashford, the new Duke of Burlingham. His legacy: massive debts that he must pay back immediately or risk the bank seizing his assets. Or worse: his mother's wrath!

When their lawyer hears of their situations, a secret match is made despite their mutual hatred of each other: through marrying Ashford, Jemma can inherit and Ashford can pay back his debts immediately. Problem solved. That is, until their marriage is leaked to the press and everyone finds out...

Now they have to play out the charade for at least a year or risk going to jail for fraud!

A hilarious pretense ensues and Jemma must battle against a crazy mother in law, a stuffy aristocracy, and finally, and most surprisingly of all, confusing feelings for Ashford...!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788548427

Felicia Kingsley

Felicia Kingsley is the author of How (Not) to Marry a Duke. She was born in 1987, lives in the province of Modena and works as an architect. Learn more at www.feliciakingsley.com.

Book preview

1

Jemma’s Version

It feels as if I’ve been sitting on this sofa for hours, surrounded by the silence of this waiting room. The coffee table is covered with financial newspapers and old issues of the Law Society Gazette which are of no interest whatsoever – not for me, at least.

They squeezed my appointment in between 1 and 2 p.m., even though I explained I would need to be at the theatre in time for the matinee, but there was no alternative in Derek Wharton’s appointment book.

In all honesty, I have no idea what I’m doing here or why they called me in, and the secretary – or assistant, as she specified – refused to explain.

I hope that my mum and dad haven’t been charged by the Border Force officers for those ‘culinary herbs’ they ordered from India.

At last, with a dull click of the handle, the massive doors open and Derek comes out.

Jemma, please come in, he welcomes me warmly.

Derek has always looked older than his age and, since he took over from his father, this feature has been even more noticeable: he’s polite, kind and always smiling, but he looks like a forty year old. And his classic cut suits and regimental shirts don’t help matters much.

I really wish I had time to chat and ask you about yourself and so forth, but the actors will be on stage in less than an hour and I still have to do their make-up. Adriana will sack me if I’m late again, so let’s just do this, I say, cutting things short.

In addition to having very little time, I’m also quite nervous, so I try to get straight to the point. I want to know why I’m here, given that – thank God – I’ve never needed a solicitor in twenty-five years.

Of course, you must be curious. In short, I called you in for something regarding your grandmother, Catriona.

Derek, I’m not sure if you know, but she died a month ago.

I do know. That’s precisely what this is all about. Some time ago, she appointed my father as executor of her will. In the meantime, I took over and acquired all his clients. He stops to make sure I’m listening. Your grandmother made a will.

I had no idea. I didn’t see much of her for years and, on the few occasions I did, she left such issues out of our conversations.

These matters are quite private and often the beneficiaries are not even informed.

Beneficiaries?

With a hint of a smile, Derek pulls a sheet of paper out of a plastic folder.

For the sake of clarity, your grandmother had disinherited your mother due to the life she had chosen to live.

You make it sound as if she were a criminal. She just decided to marry a man she loved, instead of some guy chosen by my grandparents.

According to your grandmother, Catriona, she was unworthy of the right of inheritance. She would never leave her possessions ‘to a degenerate daughter and that nobody of her husband.’ Forgive me, those were her actual words. He shows me the document. See? She wrote it herself, right here.

I take a look at her handwriting full of flourishes. I’ve always thought that grandma was an adorable lady, I remark sarcastically.

However, Catriona bequeathed everything to you.

My jaw drops open in surprise. My chewing gum almost falls out but I catch it right away and resume chewing.

"

Me

?"

Yes, she appointed you as heiress of her real and personal property.

Personal property? Damn! I live in a studio flat, where the heck am I going to put all her stuff?

It is indeed a significant inheritance. I’ll provide a list when you have more time.

Just thinking about it makes me fidget in my chair as though I were strapped to it.

I called you in to ask you if you intend to accept or to refuse the inheritance.

Do you think I’m crazy? Of course I intend to accept it! Where do I sign?

His expression is suddenly serious. There is a specific provision in the will.

A provision?

"Yes, a legal restriction, a conditio sine qua non," he further explains.

Cut the bureaucratic talk, please…

Your grandmother bound the inheritance to your marriage. You cannot take possession of her property until you get married.

What? Like, Now? Right away?

No, Jemma. You can take your time.

Thank goodness. I’ll have to persuade Alejandro. Actually, we’ve just been dating for almost a month now, but you never know. Love works miracles! I look at the clock on the fireplace, behind Derek. I must go, now. The artistic director is bound to be waiting at the dressing room entrance ready to yell at me. While saying this, I stand up and quickly put on my lilac eco-leather jacket.

Excuse me, Jemma, does this Alejandro have any title?

What do you mean by ‘title’?

Your grandmother specified that you’ll be appointed as heiress only if you marry a gentleman of noble descent with a title.

I’m sorry? I exclaim, shocked.

You’re free to choose your future husband among equals from the United Kingdom… and then, reading from the will: … Belgium and Denmark. France is excluded, given that it’s a republic.

Derek must have gone nuts, or at least that’s what I believe. But for some reason, he looks incredibly serious.

"That means I’ll never be an heiress! Why did you call me in, then? This makes no sense at all."

It was my duty to inform you. There was a 50 per cent chance that you would refuse, but you might also have accepted.

It’s utterly ridiculous! She might as well have disinherited me along with my mum. Why appoint me anyway? Mum refused an arranged marriage – why would I ever accept one?

Your grandmother wanted a different future for you.

Well, to hell with her and this obsession with the aristocracy.

Derek tries to calm me down as he accompanies me towards the door.

The will remains valid until you formally renounce. Take my advice on this one: think it over when your mind is fresh, tomorrow, or the day after…

I say goodbye absent mindedly, while thinking about my grandmother. I would never have expected such a ridiculous situation.

When I finally arrive at the theatre, the actors are rather restless, as I’m over an hour late. Actually, after leaving Derek’s office, the Tube train got stuck for no apparent reason in the tunnel between Embankment and Charing Cross. London is totally unforgiving in the rush hour.

I try and sneak in the dressing rooms but Adriana is right there waiting to give me an earful. She’s the artistic director, and even though she’s from Milan, everyone calls her ‘the fake Italian’: she’s got no sense of humour, she never eats and she’s a real workaholic.

Thank you for bothering to join us. I wish I could let you feel unfit, miserable and incompetent, but the play will start soon and you still have to do the make-up for the whole company. Speed up! And start with Angelique, before she gets a fit of tears and loses her voice.

I’m sorry, Adriana. But she’s already turned her back and is going towards Oliver, the director.

Damn neurotic actors! I did the make-up of all twenty-three of them in record time, the last one just ten seconds before the curtain went up.

I grab my make-up kit and I move behind the scenes, ready for offstage touch ups. After two years in the company with eight performances a week, I’ve literally learned the musical by heart and I know exactly where and when the actors go off stage. The first year was terrific, we had lots of fun, we got on really well and worked amazingly as a team.

Oliver was still married to Medea, the soprano and leading lady of the play; Michael – a wild Scot with a dangerous penchant for alcohol – was the artistic director and Sarah, almost my best friend, was the costume designer.

Then, Michael went into an alcohol induced coma, so Adriana had to replace him permanently. Oliver and Medea divorced. Medea chose another company and her role was taken over by the emotionally unstable Angelique. Oliver fell into depression and, lastly, Sarah decided to try her luck in Broadway and moved to New York.

Unlike all of them, I stayed here, mending costumes in my spare time, with a hysterical leading lady, a ruthless artistic director and a director suffering from panic disorder.

Believing I had gained enough experience, even though I worked in a secondary production, I started giving my

cv

to the artistic directors of the top West End shows, such as Mamma mia!, Les Misérables and The Phantom of the Opera…

I’m still waiting for an answer, but they promised they would let me know. I don’t think my chances will be affected much by the fact that I answered ‘Who?’ to the question: ‘What do you think of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s style?’

I’m still in touch with Sarah and she told me that, if she finds something good for me in New York, she’ll let me know. I’d give anything to move there. London isn’t my cup of tea, with its fog, its sombreness and the monarchy… well, of course it’s easier for Sarah, as she comes from a rich family and she can afford a high life in the

us

, whereas I have to watch my pennies here.

I’ve always lived with my parents in a block of flats in Lewisham, an area in South East London which perhaps doesn’t stand among those with the best reputation. If Londoners don’t love going south of the river Thames, well, I live precisely in the extreme south. When I had my first job, I realised that I couldn’t afford to rent a flat closer to the city centre, so my mum and dad agreed with the owner of our flat to tidy up our basement and turn it into a sort of studio flat. It’s not that bad, actually, I even have a window. Yes, maybe sometimes derelicts fall asleep right outside it and there isn’t much sunlight, but at least I have one.

As opposed to mine, Sarah’s place was stunning: a brand new studio – a real one – located in Fulham, where I often stayed for the night, at least until she started her relationship with Derek. Yep, the solicitor. They had been neighbours, as he lived upstairs, and when they became a couple, she moved into his flat, which was way bigger. That’s how I met Derek, who was just a trainee in his father’s office at the time. We weren’t that close, but when Sarah left for New York, he kept on coming to the theatre, maybe by force of habit, and after the performance we often went to the pub for a beer. We also went to the stadium together on Sundays to see Arsenal, but he was later admitted to the Law Society and stopped coming to the matches to avoid being arrested during some stadium fight. Today, I found out he’s also my grandma’s solicitor. It’s a small world, isn’t it?

My grandma. When I’m out in the street, I see lots of lovely grandmas, who take their grandchildren for walks, go pick them up from school and buy them plenty of presents and junk food. Instead, my grandmother Catriona always kept me at a distance. She wasn’t ‘grandma’, she was ‘Catriona’. Full stop.

I didn’t see her much and I spoke to her even less. My mum had me see her the bare minimum, and she didn’t make any effort to stay with me. If there’s a person who spoke to her even less than I did, that is my dad.

From Catriona, I received envelopes at Christmas and on my birthday. They usually contained a parchment card reading a cold ‘Best Wishes’ and a cheque for five hundred pounds. She paid for my braces, causing me to hate her for three years.

The fact that my parents couldn’t afford to pay the dentist’s bill made me so happy. I didn’t care about having crooked teeth if I could keep chewing bubble gum and gummy bears.

But that’s not all. When I was six, Catriona offered to pay the fees for a ‘decent school’, as she called it, and I attended it for four months. Right after Christmas, my parents found out that the board of governors was made up of pro-Thatcher conservatives, so they withdrew me and enrolled me in a state school, to my grandmother’s strong disapproval.

Later on, I met her perhaps once a year, on the occasion of my ‘examination’: how much I had grown up, how healthy I was and if school went well. She was disappointed most of the times and, whenever I opened my mouth, she rolled her eyes.

She lived in one of those monumental houses near Grosvenor Square. If I went there now, I’d probably ring the wrong doorbell, which is more or less what happened on the day of her memorial service. I rang the doorbell of an identical house in the wrong road. Catriona wasn’t that old or ill when she died. One day, all of a sudden, she had a heart attack – or, at least, this is what the maid told me.

I didn’t cry. I tried pretty hard, as I know you’re supposed to do it when your grandmother passes away, but as much as I pictured the saddest possible things in my mind, I wasn’t able to cry a single tear. My mum did cry. She did for days, perhaps because she knew that they would never have a chance to reconcile. She stayed long hours at the service, whereas I left in a hurry because I had to rush to the theatre for the evening performance. Just like I did today.

2

Ashford’s Version

I hate driving in the city. The traffic moves slowly, the roads are packed with road hogs who completely ignore driving laws and I’m forced to close all the windows due to air pollution. Especially in the rush hour.

I clearly asked Derek to avoid crazy hours, because I live outside London and I don’t want to spend endless hours in the car.

Yesterday at 2 p.m. would have been perfect, since I would be in the city anyway for a Parliamentary session, but there was no chance as he had arranged an appointment with another client just moments before I called him.

And so here I am, stuck in noon traffic and counting passers-by while waiting for the cars in front of me to move.

When I finally get to the office, Derek is reading the Times.

Ashford! Come in, please. I’ve been waiting for you.

Tell me about it! I’ve been stuck in traffic for at least forty minutes. Next time, you’ll come to Denby Hall.

Speaking of Denby, how’s everything? Is your mother well?

It’s more or less the usual. My mother, she’s the same old obnoxious person.

As Derek knows my mother, he can’t help but laugh. Time goes by but she never changes!

Never, I agree with him. But at least she’s considering spending a couple of months in Bath, during the midseason.

Bath? She’s going to a spa? That’s brilliant.

Oh no, my mother would never attend a public spa, not even under threat. She will stay in Upper Swainswick, in a house on our Somerset estate.

Derek looks confused. A house in Bath?

Yes, Derek, it’s just three miles from the centre, Georgian building, four acre garden. Remember?

Derek looks panic stricken and leans over his desk, completely absorbed in going through a stack of documents. What did you say it’s called?

Bleech House, I remind him. What’s wrong with him today?

Bleech House… Bleech House… he repeats to himself as a mantra. Then, after a few minutes, he furrows his brows while reading a document. Bleech House in Upper Swainswick?

It’s what I’ve just said, I confirm.

Ashford, are you sure your mother specifically said she’s going to your house in Bath?

It couldn’t be otherwise… I have no idea what he’s babbling about.

I called you in to talk about your finances. When did you last meet your financial adviser? Was it long ago?

His tone is starting to make me nervous, so my voice gets shaky when I answer. The last time I talked to Smith? Six months ago, when my father died. I was going to arrange a meeting in a couple of months for an update.

A worried frown crosses Derek’s face. In a couple of months is too late. Ashford, I understand that delegating the management of your assets to Smith and me relieves you from taking care of them yourself, but I must recommend you make your periodical updates more frequent. Derek stops for a moment and then resumes talking, and now his tone is even graver. I’ve known Smith since we attended Oxford, and we often discuss work matters. He sent me a report to tell me that your situation is getting out of hand and he’s struggling with your accounts. You need to come to an agreement with your bank.

Struggling with my accounts? What are you talking about? There was no struggle whatsoever, six months ago!

Things have changed, Derek looks at me with a dazed look. How’s it possible that you never check them?

"I am not supposed to check them! That’s what I pay Smith for! And I pay you to manage my property! I defend myself. Smith tells me how much I can spend and he takes care of the rest. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what the problem is?"

Okay. When your father died, you became Duke of Burlingham, and you inherited titles, possessions, and so on. Besides, in the last few months, the stocks in which your father had invested pretty much the whole of his capital have been crashing, given that the companies that issued them are collapsing. Now, as your solicitor and in your best interest, I had to take precautionary measures, so I pledged the house in Bath to the bank to secure your overdraft repayment plan.

I hope this is some sort of joke, I say, in disbelief.

I’m afraid not, your accounts are overdrawn.

As my astonishment grows, I look at the negative numbers. Where the heck is the rest of the money? My father can’t have invested every penny!

All your assets generate expenses: taxes, maintenance, advisers, personnel, without mentioning your rather costly lifestyle… the bank let you exceed your limit, but now it’s time to repay.

We’re talking about three million pounds! I complain.

To be more precise, the overdraft amount is five hundred thousand pounds; the rest is the loss which would derive from a possible default of the investments your father made in the past. At the bank, they probably noticed the unstable situation of your investment portfolio – don’t ask me how, just bear in mind that it’s possible. For this reason, they’re asking you to repay the overdraft immediately, and threatening to revoke it and take legal action against you. The alternative is to provide them with adequate guarantees.

Damn it! I utter, restraining myself from slamming my fist on the table.

When you mentioned your mother was planning to go to Bath, I understood that you and Smith haven’t shared information properly. I believe that, among your assets, the house in Bath is the most suitable as guarantee.

I flinch on the chair as if the backrest were burning. It’s not possible! My mother would have a heart attack if she knew we’re broke!

Denby Hall, then, he replies concisely.

Now I know that my solicitor has gone completely insane. Denby? That’s our ancestral family home! Forget it.

Ashford, you need money and you need it now, he insists. You should consider selling some property or the bank might take legal action and even proceed to foreclosure.

Derek, I need time.

You have to go and talk to the bank manager, he adds.

I’ll think it over, but you must find a solution for me, I reply, before leaving the office.

*

I wanted to go to the club, see who was around, hear some news, but I’m no longer in the mood to go.

I’m poor. The twelfth Duke of Burlingham has the wolf at the door!

How can I show my face?

If they ask me Hello, Parker, how’s life? I can’t reply Awesome, I’m broke!

Not to mention the fact that I can’t even treat my friends to a whisky. What a memorable scene, having my credit card cut in half in front of everyone. It must be a mistake, and there must be a solution.

I step on the gas more than I should, in order to leave London as soon as possible, as though my problems were enclosed by the city borders and I could leave them behind just by driving a handful of miles away.

When I get to Denby Hall, I have a hard time finding one of the servants to open the gates.

Why is this bloody house packed with people who are never there when I need them? Where does all my money go if I have to get out of the car and open the gates myself?

Silly questions. As soon as I get to the front door, I realise that my mother has summoned every single one of them, from the stable lad to the maids, including the cooks, the chauffeur and the gardener.

Good morning, Your Grace. Welcome back home, says Lance, the butler, who is moving what looks like the whole furniture of the east wing.

Lance? Would you explain what is going on with the furniture? I ask him, while the rushing servants almost overwhelm me.

Orders from the duchess.

Indeed, but why?

She will take it to Bath, he replies vaguely.

My ears are hit by the familiar click-clack of heels on the marble stairs of the hall. It’s absolutely necessary to reconsider the furniture and décor arrangements. In Bath and here, utters a despotic female voice coming just from behind me.

I turn round and see my mother standing in the front door archway, with her arms crossed and a defiant expression.

Why would that be necessary?

You are the new Duke of Burlingham, I therefore ordered a complete renovation of the wallpaper and household linen with your initials added below the family crest. Obviously, the change involves the interior décor as well.

I’ve never asked for any of this, I object.

I did. I’ve already called the architect; he’ll join us tomorrow and we’ll start planning the renovation of Denby Hall. Then, in two days I’ll go to Bath, and do the same in Bleech House and…

You can’t go to Bath! I stop her, alarmed.

I beg your pardon? She looks at me as though I had spoken backwards.

Call it off, you can’t go to Bath.

Please God, do something! Paralyse her, strike her with a lightning bolt, but stop her from going to Bath!

She doesn’t seem to take me seriously. I’ve never heard anything more foolish.

What am I going to do now? You cannot. We’re expecting guests and I need you to receive them properly!

You can receive them with Portia, the two of you would make an excellent impression…

No! They’re very important guests, I need your presence.

And who would they be? We haven’t received anyone in six months! she replies, irritated.

Sore point which makes my mother’s resentment grow stronger every day: I’ve been a duke for six months, and we still haven’t received any eminent guests.

I try to buy some time: I cannot tell you, it’s a secret.

My mother rolls her eyes, more and more annoyed. And may I ask when they are supposed to arrive?

No! It’s part of the surprise, I don’t even know myself. They could arrive anytime, that’s why I need you here.

Then, her expression suddenly changes and her eyes are wide open as though she’d seen the Virgin Mary herself. It’s the Queen! Her Majesty the Queen with the whole Royal Family! Now I know why you can’t tell me, it’s confidential!

Oh my, what have I done? At this point, I can just keep on pretending. If I manage to get away with it, I’m God. Um, yes, but please act as if you didn’t know.

Listen to me everyone, stop what you’re doing and put everything back in order. We have a royal visit to plan. Margaret, come with me! She yells, while heading resolutely to her study, followed by her lady-in-waiting and her pack of overweight corgis. I hate those dogs.

Yes, my mother has a lady-in-waiting, but she prefers to call her ‘special secretary’. Actually, despite all her limits, she realises that talking of ladies-in-waiting in the twenty-first century would be rather silly.

It’s unbelievable how I can’t handle her crazy ideas without causing her to come up with something even crazier.

If nothing else, I prevented her from spending thousands of pounds.

Anyway, I have more urgent matters to deal with, right now.

*

I turn my father’s study upside down, trying desperately to reconstruct the story of my finances and figure out how this mess happened. Nothing. There’s nothing at all. All I can find is waste paper, mouldy old documents and a few receipts, but nothing useful. Then again, he always relied on Smith, our financial adviser, that’s why I won’t find anything here.

This makes me realise how wrong it was to delegate something so delicate. I thought that if my father had trusted him, then I could trust him myself. Bad idea. From now on, no more advisers: I’ll sit behind this bloody desk.

While I crawl among stacks of yellowed paper spread all over the floor, Lance suddenly turns up, startling me.

I apologise, Your Grace. I saw the light and I thought that someone had accidentally left it on. I had no idea I’d interrupt your work. It’s past 2 a.m.

No worries, Lance, I reply, letting my back collapse against the wall while I rest my elbows on my knees.

You look tired, if I may say so.

I am… Lance, did my father ever tell you about his investments?

Your father used to confide in me, but he never talked about his financial situation. Is anything wrong?

Nothing worth mentioning.

Can I suggest a good night’s sleep? You’ve looked stressed since you came back from London.

I nod, then I dismiss him. I linger a while longer, wondering how my father, such a self-restrained and cautious man, could have been deceived into making a disastrous investment.

An investment which would leave me broke, and with my mother breathing down my neck. I go back to the desk and start racking my brain: I need a plan B.

I could open our gates to tourists. Yet, just thinking of this hurts my heart: one of our points of pride, ever since my family has had the Dukedom of Burlingham, is that we’ve never needed to turn our properties into tourist attractions for fatties in jelly shoes, unlike most impoverished nobles who were forced to do it in order to repair a roof or the heating system.

I evaluate this strategy, but even if it worked, it would take too long: I would have to arrange guided visits for at least six years to collect the money I owe the bank, plus the interest. Too much time, indeed.

I ball up a scribbled on sheet of paper and toss it across the room, on the other side of which it hits the carved wood boiserie.

While I walk through the gallery of portraits which leads to my room, I can feel my ancestors staring at me. Harsh and serious, they look down on me and pass judgement. I know what they think. They think that I’m unfit to be Duke of Burlingham, and that I will cause the decline of the Parker family.

Next time, I’d better walk through the armoury. It’s a longer way, but at least I would avoid the angry faces of my dear departed relatives.

And tonight, I will not sleep at all.

3

Jemma’s Version

I love giving surprises! What I like the most about couple life is celebrating special occasions and planning surprise parties. Who doesn’t, anyway?

What about presents?

And chocolates?

And roses?

I know, every day should be special when you’re in love, not only birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine’s day, but I believe in happy endings and Prince Charming, I believe in fairy tales.

And I believe that Alejandro will rip off my lace lingerie set as soon as he sees it.

I met him at a Cuban club in Camden, exactly a month ago. He asked me to dance salsa and we didn’t stop until the club closed. They kicked us out and we went to my place. Well, we knew we’d end up either at my place or his.

Alejandro is from Caracas. He’s tall, he’s got shaggy long black hair and his dark eyes are so intense that I lost myself inside them when he took me to the dance floor with him. His hands are strong and steady and when he puts them around my waist I feel I belong to him. It’s love, I’m sure. It must be if he makes me feel this way.

Today happens to be the theatre’s day off, so I decided to give Alejandro a surprise: I’m heading to his house sporting a sexy lingerie set under my coat; we’ll eat in bed, enjoying the delicacies I bought at Fortnum & Mason – even though I can’t usually afford them, I can spend some of my savings on special occasions – and then we will do something very romantic, like taking a candlelit bath together. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure he has a bath tub… no worries, though, the shower will do just fine. We’ll also play some sensual background music.

His flat is in Barnet, close to the Tube station. At least I won’t have to walk for long, which is good, because the cold air entering my coat is freezing my buttocks.

There’s a boy going out of what should be the entrance to Alejandro’s block of flats. I ask him, just to confirm it’s not the wrong one. Okay, I have to admit I’ve never been to his place, but we shared a taxi once and it stopped right here to drop him off, before taking me home.

Excuse me, Alejandro lives here, doesn’t he? Tall, Latin American lad with a strong Hispanic accent…

He looks at me and hesitates for a second. I don’t know if his name is Alejandro but there’s a Latin American boy on the fourth floor.

It’s Alejandro, I’m sure.

I climb the stairs fast, risking a fall from my