The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter Eighteen
“And the Duke of Sinclair is to finance the entire thing. There is really little risk, Rickard,” Catherine’s father said, as the three of them sat at breakfast the next morning.
“He must want something in return, father,” Rickard replied, and their father smiled.
“He is merely pleased to note that our own business interests are soon to be greatly secured,” he said, glancing at Catherine, who scowled.
She had barely spoken a word since returning from her meeting with Ian. On entering the house, Catherine had hurried up to her chambers and thrown herself on the bed, weeping uncontrollably in the face of the awful blow which her fantasy betrothed had delivered. She had felt such a fool, more than a fool. She felt as though she had been tricked.
There had been no consoling her, and she had dismissed her maid, Jenny, out of hand, dressing herself for dinner before coming to join her father and brother in the dining room, where the talk had been only of business. But she was not about to allow what had happened to be common knowledge, and for the sake of the deception she had composed herself, and resolved to play her part, if Ian was to continue to play his.
“And what interests are they?” she asked, glancing at her father, who sat back and folded his arms.
“That you are to marry the Earl of Westwood, Catherine, and in doing so you will create much by way of opportunity for us all,” he replied.
Catherine rolled her eyes, wondering what it would finally take for their idiotic notions to be laid to rest. Whether Ian loved her or not, Catherine had no intention of ever marrying the Earl of Westwood. The very thought of it made her feel sick to her stomach.
“I am betrothed to Ian Bennet, father, you know that,” Catherine replied.
She was not about to argue the matter, or have her father repeat the same platitudes against him. It seemed he had so far failed to find anything with which to stain Ian’s reputation, and thus, as far as he could know, there was no barrier to her marrying the man she chose. But the clock was ticking for Catherine, and she knew if she did not find a suitable match soon, she would fall into the hands of the Earl of Westwood, just as her father desired, an inevitability too awful to comprehend.
“And what was it I heard you crying over earlier last night when I came to your chambers?” Rickard asked, glancing at Catherine with a smirk on his face.
“I… I was merely upset about something. Is a lady not allowed to have secrets?” Catherine demanded, but Rickard was persistent.
“You have been meeting him in secret. Do not think we do not know,” he snapped.
“He is my betrothed. If I wish to meet him, then I shall meet him. What business is it of yours, Rickard?” she demanded, tossing aside her napkin and rising angrily to her feet.
“Sit down, Catherine,” her father said, and the tone in his voice was such that she took her seat again and sat seething in silence, whilst her brother and father continued.
“He may be a friend of mine, Catherine, but he is not suitable for you. I have said it once, and I shall say it a hundred times. You are not to marry him,” Rickard exclaimed, banging his fist down on the table.
“And how do you intend to stop me? We are betrothed, and whether you like it or not, I have no intention of breaking the engagement,” she said, as her father looked angrily at her.
“I will not rest until I have proved he is nothing but a rake and a philanderer. He is trouble, Catherine, and your persistent efforts to make a fool of your brother and I will not pay off. You will marry the Earl of Westwood, and that is that,” he snarled.
“A fool of you? You have made fools of yourselves, I promise you that. It is only because you fear Ian that you persist in this ridiculous charade. He is a gentleman, and I am in love with him,” she said, folding her arms, and gazing at them both defiantly.
“You may love him, Catherine, but does he really love you?” Rickard asked, and Catherine shifted awkwardly in her chair.
“He… he does, he has spoken of it,” she said, clinging desperately to Rebecca’s words, still longing to hear Ian speak them to her, too.
“Ian Bennet has loved a lot of women, but he has never allowed his own feelings to run away with him. Not since Cassandra, which makes me wonder why he was so eager to allow himself to do so now. What possible cause could there be? It all seemed very convenient, Catherine,” Rickard replied, fixing his sister with a stern gaze.
But Catherine had heard enough, and she rose from her place and fled from the room, her father and brother’s insults following her into the hallway. She snatched up her shawl and bonnet, not even caring if they believed she was going to Ian or to Rebecca, and with tears stinging in her eyes, Catherine left the house, feeling terribly alone, her hope all but gone.
* * *
“Oh. Catherine, I am so sorry, I really do not know what to say,” Rebecca said, when Catherine had explained the whole sorry tale.
“He would not admit that he loved me, not at all. I felt a fool,” Catherine said, as Rebecca put three sugars in her tea and passed her the China cup and saucer.
“Well, at least you did not speak the words that were on your heart… did you?” Rebecca asked, looking warily at Catherine, who shook her head.
“They were on the tip of my tongue, but no, I said nothing of the sort, and I am glad about it. But I do not understand why we should see less of one another. What is he afraid of?” she asked.
“Commitment, and of having his heart broken. He thinks that if he and you should begin a true romance, then he will be hurt again, and no doubt the thought of that is unbearable,” Rebecca said, taking a sip from her own cup and sitting back in her chair by the fire.
They were in the drawing room of the Somerset residence, to which Catherine had fled after the cruel words she had endured at breakfast from her father and brother.
“But I do not wish to break his heart, my heart is his if he chooses, and how can we have shared such intimacy, only for him to throw it all away as though it does not matter,” she exclaimed.
“His views must be different to your own. Whilst you see seduction as a means to love, he will see it as a means to… well, pleasure,” Rebecca said, choking slightly on her tea.
“So, all the while he was teaching me the art of seduction, he was in fact seducing me, and now that he has had his conquest that is it?” Catherine asked, feeling a terrible fool for having fallen so easily into Ian’s ploy.
“But it was never meant to be anything more than a mere arrangement, was it?” Rebecca asked.
Catherine sighed. Rebecca was right, of course. It was not. She had never intended the encounter in the library at the Somerset residence to be anything more than a convenience. It had worked perfectly at first, and Catherine had believed she could control those feelings which had risen so forcibly in her heart, but alas, that had not been the case. Matters of the heart have a nasty habit of being less than reasonable, uncontrollable at times, and Catherine had discovered to her detriment that her own feelings had become far from reasoned.
“At first, it was not,” she admitted, “but very soon I came to realize that there was more to him than I realized. He was merely a friend of Rickard’s before, nothing else. But in spending time with him, I have fallen in love – I am not ashamed of it, though it has caused me much heartache now.”
“Because he will not reciprocate?” Rebecca asked, and Catherine nodded.
“I thought he would. I thought it would be easy, you know, like a story. I would suggest I had fallen in love with him and he would tell me he had fallen in love with me, and well… it would all be as it should,” she said, but Rebecca shook her head.
“I am not sure these things work like that, Catherine,” she replied, offering her another cup of tea.
The two friends sat a while longer in the drawing room, discussing the sad outcome of Catherine’s runaway feelings. She had allowed herself to be caught up in the possibility of what might have been, prepared to ignore Ian’s reputation and considering herself to be the one exception to the rule. But it was clear that Ian Bennet was not ready to change – perhaps he never would – and Catherine knew she must resign herself to the inevitability that her heart, though not entirely broken, had been bruised.
“I was too eager to see him as my true savior,” she said, shaking her head.
“You were caught up in the romance of it all. There is no shame in it. But there remains the matter of the Earl of Westwood. Your father will only believe the deception for so long, and if he remains as intent on destroying the betrothal as you say, then it will not be long before the time you have bought for yourself is gone,” Rebecca said.
It was an unpleasant reminder of the precarious nature of her situation. But Catherine knew Rebecca was right. Her father and brother could only be held at bay for so long. The Earl of Westwood was waiting, and soon, Catherine would have no choice but to give into his demands.
“But what am I to do?” she asked.
“Find another man,” Rebecca replied, and Catherine raised her eyebrows.
The solution seemed simple enough. To avoid the inevitability of marriage to the Earl of Westwood, a new play must enter the fray. To find a man who genuinely wished to marry her was the only solution, though doing so would be far harder than mere words made it sound. She had hardly any time to do so, and despite the lessons in seduction she had received from Ian, she really had little experience in the practical art of securing the attentions of the opposite sex.
“If only it were that easy,” she remarked, and Rebecca smiled.
“It would do you good to come to our next soiree,” she said, and Catherine groaned.
Once a month, the Duchess of Sinclair – Rebecca’s mother-in-law – hosted an evening she referred to as her “soiree” – an evening in which a number of women gathered to talk in privacy without the ears of men to listen in.
“But those evenings are always populated by the most awful women. I do not know how you put up with them,” Catherine replied.
“They are not so bad, really. It would do you good. I shall be there, as will Samantha. You may hear tell of a bachelor with whom to make acquaintance, or an eligible widower,” she said.
Catherine smiled. She could not fault her friend on her efforts, and she agreed she would attend the Duchess of Sinclair’s soiree three days later. It would be a welcome change from the company of her father and brother, neither of whom could possibly object to her attending a gathering consisting entirely of women.
“And I will not have to speak if I do not wish to?” she asked, and Rebecca shook her head.
“No, but perhaps you shall want to. They can be rather lively affairs,” Rebecca replied, blushing.
“Then I shall come, but I do not think I shall enjoy it,” Catherine replied, though secretly she thought it might be rather fun, the thought of other women talking freely about men an intriguing notion.
