The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter Nineteen
“Did you see that fool, Lord Darnley? “Charlie” as they call him, he made a complete spectacle of himself at the Cutler ball. His breeches were around his ankles, and he was so drunk that the footmen had to carry him away,” one of the women said, and there was a chorus of laughter from the gathered assembly.
It was the evening of the soiree, and Catherine had dutifully made her way to the Somerset residence, joined in her carriage by Samantha, the two women now sitting with Rebecca and half a dozen other women in the drawing room. The evening was presided over by the Duchess of Sinclair and had so far consisted of an almost continuous diatribe against most every man in the ton, their reputations tarnished by spiteful words and scandalous stories.
Catherine had not attended such an evening before. She did not care for such idle gossip, nor did she particularly enjoy the systematic dismantling of the men under discussion, most of whom she knew to be half-decent, if somewhat rakish. There were few men she actively disliked, though unfortunately chief amongst them was the Earl of Westwood, whom she would gladly have heard made the object of vitriol, if only to give her fresh reason against marriage.
“The foolish boy,” the Duchess of Sinclair said, “he will never find a suitable match, of that, I am certain.”
“He tried his best,” one of the women said, “but his best was lacking,” and further laughter erupted around the room.
The company was composed of those, like Rebecca and Samantha, who were already happily married, and those like the woman who had just spoken, who had as of yet no attachment. On Catherine’s arrival, the Duchess of Sinclair had stated that the evenings served as a chance for those with experience of men to impart their wisdom to those lacking in such skill, the implication being that Catherine was amongst them.
“Though you are betrothed, I suppose,” the Duchess of Sinclair had told her, instructing her to listen at first and then join in when she felt she had something meaningful to say.
“I find that men grow swiftly tired of the same woman,” one of the others said, and there was a murmur of agreement.
“I danced with a gentleman three times at a ball last week. He was ever so charming, and complimentary, but when I returned from the refreshment table, I found he was already dancing with another woman. I could find no difference in her, for we were both surely as pretty as one another, save that she was a different woman, and I have no doubt he danced with her but twice before moving to his next conquest,” one said.
“Men are fickle,” the Duchess of Sinclair declared, banging her clenched fist down on the arm of her chair.
She was the matriarch presiding, and Catherine could not help but smile at the sight of her holding court over a collection of frivolous women, for that was surely what all these others were. It surprised Catherine that Rebecca and Samantha had anything to do with such a gathering, though they too joined in with the criticism of men they had observed.
“I remember a man who followed me about,” Samantha was saying, “he would appear at balls, dinners, and so forth, and he was charming, a perfect gentleman. That is, until I discovered he was also doing the same to two other women, too. He would ensure that we would not be at the same balls or parties. He had no intention of marrying any of us. He was merely a rake and out for what he could get.”
Catherine did not like to admit that the words of the other women resonated with her. The behavior of these men was no different from that of Ian. He was a rake, albeit one who had done much to help her. It pained her to admit it, but she wondered if she had been merely the victim of a game, her brother’s words about Ian’s rule foremost in her mind. He had no intention of marrying. He had been clear about that, but she wondered if perhaps there might have been something more between them, a chance for her to prove that not every woman was like Cassandra.
“Men are all the same. Even our husbands can be lacking in the necessary morals,” the Duchess of Sinclair said, tutting and shaking her head.
She knew from bitter experience the manner in which men could treat women. Her own husband, George Lowood, the Duke of Sinclair, had been a notorious philanderer in his youth, and even now, his reputation was far from secure. It was common knowledge that the duke kept a mistress. And listening to the talk around the room, Catherine was beginning to wonder whether any man could be trusted.
“But not Nicholas,” Rebecca interjected, and the Duchess of Sinclair raised her eyebrows.
“Just because he is my son, does not mean I will not suspect him,” she said, and Rebecca winced.
“But not all men are like that,” she insisted.
“And I know Norman has not eyes for any other woman,” Samantha said, nodding, as she and Rebecca exchanged glances.
“All I am saying is that men are fickle creatures, and will be easily seduced. It is not to say that a man cannot be faithful, but he can always be tempted,” the Duchess of Sinclair remarked.
“But is temptation always such a bad thing? If one does not act on it then surely it cannot be considered wrong,” Catherine remarked, remembering her Sunday school lessons.
All eyes turned to her, the women exchanging puzzled glances. “You would not mind if your betrothed were tempted by another woman?” the Duchess of Sinclair asked.
“Is it not inevitable?” Catherine asked, suddenly feeling terribly embarrassed at being the center of attention.
“To be tempted?” the Duchess of Sinclair asked, raising her eyebrows.
“But we are all tempted at times,” Catherine replied, for she did not believe such things were the domain of men.
Women too could be tempted, women could be the seducers, and men could take women from their husbands. If Ian had taught her one thing, it was that a woman could have what she wanted, too – she did not need to wait for a man to make her his plaything. That had been her mistake with Ian – she had allowed him to seduce her, and in doing so, she had been hurt when what she believed to be true, seemed far from the truth.
“I suppose we are,” the Duchess of Sinclair replied, and the conversation swiftly turned to other matters.
Catherine did not expect to be invited to return to the soirees. She disliked the other women and their naivety in matters of romance. To them, men were meant to play their role in the seduction, but when a man should step out of that expectation, he was branded as something wicked. They believed they should wait for a man to come to them, and then they were surprised when he grew tired of their foolish ways. This was not how Catherine wished to behave, though she now realized she too had been foolish in allowing Ian to entice her so readily.
“Did you enjoy the evening, Catherine?” Rebecca asked, as they bid goodbye to her and Samantha.
“Not really. I feel so terribly sorry for all those women. They have nothing better to do than speak of scandal and find fault in others. They are surely doomed to unhappiness if they continue in their ways,” she remarked, and Rebecca looked somewhat shocked.
“I see…” she said, glancing at Samantha.
“You have had a terrible shock recently, Catherine,” Samantha said, for Catherine had explained everything to her during their carriage drive to the Somerset residence.
“And so, I am supposed to indulge myself in this nonsense,” Catherine replied, glancing across the hallway to where the gaggle of other women were still in high-pitched conversation as to the failings of men.
“No, but surely you can see you have allowed yourself to be carried away by Ian, who had no real intention of anything more than assisting you in your plight,” Samantha said.
“I fell in love with him. Is that such a mistake? He was tempted, and gave into that temptation, as did I. I am as much to blame, more so, perhaps, because I allowed my feelings free reign,” Catherine replied, and Samantha patted her arm.
“My dear Catherine, whatever are we to do with you?” she said, as the sounds of their carriage pulling up came from outside.
They bid Rebecca goodnight and left the other women behind. Catherine gave a sigh of relief when the carriage door was closed, determined never to indulge in such silliness again.
“I think I shall remain a spinster,” she said, as they set off.
Samantha laughed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, the carriage lit by an oil lamp hanging from the doorframe.
“I do not think you would be in the least bit happy, Catherine. Surely these words come as a reaction to Ian’s treatment of you. Do not be despondent, perhaps Rebecca’s invitation – though well meant – was not the most sensible,” she said.
Catherine smiled. If anything was meant to put her off the idea of marriage, then the hours spent in the company of women who seemed only to delight in the follies of men was it. She had come away feeling utterly despondent, convinces that every man given over merely to base pleasures and the satisfaction of personal ego.
“But surely some men are decent,” she said, and Samantha nodded.
“They are, as I tried to say, though the Duchess of Sinclair is unfortunate in having had a husband whose infidelities are well known. I think she likes to surround herself with those for whom the criticism of men comes naturally. I assure you though, I have no doubt about Norman. He has a past, of course, just like any other man. But I know he loves me, and I love him. It is as simple as that,” she said, smiling at Catherine, who nodded.
“Perhaps in Ian I have merely misjudged the character, even though I knew of his reputation,” she replied.
“It is entirely natural for us to believe we can change a man. We look at them and say to ourselves, “this man can be what I want him to be,” just as men look at women and believe they can manipulate them into doing as they please. But love does not work like that, it must be mutual, and each party must desire the same end – the happiness of the other. I have no doubt Norman is tempted at times, a stray look or a flirtatious word, but he is faithful, of that I am certain,” she said.
“It is not that I do not wish to be married,” Catherine said, for in truth, the thought of eternal spinsterhood was hardly attractive, “but I feel I have been hurt – prematurely, perhaps – and I can hardly see a way out of that hurt.”
“Poor Catherine, it is a terrible blow. We must find a way to raise your spirits,” Samantha said, as the carriage pulled up to drop her home.
“I am open to suggestions,” Catherine replied, and bidding Samantha goodnight, she stepped down from the carriage and waved her off.
The evening had been an endurance, and Catherine was pleased it was over. She could not be so cynical about men, believing that there was surely some hope in a man who would not behave as those foolish women had assumed. But try as she might, Catherine could not rid herself of thoughts of Ian, as hard as she was trying. A feeling gained is not easily cast aside, and having fallen in love with him, she could hardly prevent such feelings from still overwhelming her.
“The Earl of Westwood was here this evening, Catherine, you have just missed him,” her father said, emerging from his study as she entered the hallway.
“What a pity,” she said, and her father smirked.
“He is waiting, you know, and I have reassured him his wait will not be in vain,” he replied.
Catherine turned to him, fixing her father with a hard stare.
“Then he will wait an eternity, father, for I have no intention of marrying him. Not now, or ever,” she said, and though her words were forceful and heartfelt, Catherine could not help feeling her time was running out and that soon she would have no other choice but the man she so despised.
