Page 11 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“Because, Catherine, I am your father, and I know what is best for you. The word is “infatuation,” that is what you are, infatuated, and the sooner you realize that, the better. Now, go and contemplate what I have said, and think again about this foolish engagement which will only lead to unhappiness,” he said, turning to glare at the maid, who hurried to the sideboard to bring his breakfast.
“Unhappiness for whom, father? You?” she demanded, and her father banged his fist on the table.
“He is only doing this to spite me. We are rivals in business, you know that well enough, and he is the sort of man who would do anything to gain the advantage,” he replied.
Catherine stormed out of the room. She was angry with her father for the cruelty of his words, but more so, she realized their implications for Ian. If he did have some scandal from his past, then her father was bound to discover it, and if that was the case, then their harmless ruse would soon become a tragic legacy.
She did not want to cause any difficulties for Ian, and was resolved to prevent such a thing at all costs. Now, she took up her shawl and bonnet, and hurried from the house, intending to pay a call on Ian and tell him everything which her father had said.
“I hope that Ian does gain the advantage,” she said to herself, as she tied the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin, “it would serve my father right.”
“And where do you think you are going, Catherine?” her father demanded, emerging from the dining room, and fixing her with an angry stare.
“Out, father,” she replied, and he shook his head.
“Not alone, and not without a chaperone,” he exclaimed, before returning to the dining room.
Catherine sighed and summoned one of the servants – her maid, Jenny – to accompany her.
“Tell no one where we are going,” she instructed her, as they left the house a few moments later, “this must be a secret.”
Chapter Seven
Ian had risen late that morning. It had been a long night at the Somerset residence, and he and Rickard had stayed drinking with Nicholas into the early hours. The Duke of Sinclair had joined them, along with several other gentlemen, though Ian had offered no acknowledgement of him. As far as Ian was concerned, the duke was merely an acquaintance, one with whom he wanted as little to do as possible.
Now, he was reading in his library, a pot of coffee at his side, and the periodicals of the day spread out on the floor in front of him. One of his dogs was dozing by the crackling fire, and Ian was stretched out on a chaise lounge, enjoying the benefits of bachelorhood. The events of the previous evening had really been as nothing, and he was content with the memory of the kiss and happy to be of some assistance to Catherine, whose predicament he had sympathy with.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” his butler, Redbrand, asked, as he set a glass of brandy next to the coffeepot.
“Nothing, thank you, Redbrand, I will be quite content here for the rest of the morning until luncheon. It is surely one of the benefits of bachelorhood that a man may lie undisturbed the whole morning,” he replied, and the butler bowed.
“As you say, sir,” he replied, and bowing, he left the room.
The dog rolled onto his back, and Ian leaned down to rub his stomach, smiling at the animal, who lolled back and forth, barking, before getting up and running to the window. “Oh, not a visitor, is it, Plotinus?” Ian asked, rising from his place and going to the window.
Ian’s home, Westwick Manor, was a sprawling pile set behind high walls, a little out of the hustle and bustle of the city. The gardens were extensive, and Ian had fond memories of his father telling him how no other than Capability Brown himself was responsible for their design. A wide drive led across a fishing lake, surrounded by tall oak trees, the landscape blending into the woods which surrounded the estate, giving the illusion of countryside, when beyond the walls lay the sprawl of the capital on one side and the River Thames on the other.
The house was a refuge from the outside world, a place where Ian could forget his troubled past and indulge in his scholarly pursuits. He was not used to being disturbed and now he wondered who it was who could be calling on him and had caused such excitement to arise in Plotinus.
But it was to his great surprise – and somewhat trepidation – that he now saw Catherine hurrying up the steps. She must have walked from Mayfair, for the hem of her dress was dirty with the mud of the streets, and now, Ian straightened himself up, waiting to receive her, and wondering what it was she wanted.
“Miss Catherine Ferguson, sir,” Redbrand announced, as he entered the library with Catherine’s card on a silver tray.
“Very good, Redbrand. You may show the lady in,” Ian replied.
The butler raised his eyebrows. He was well aware of Ian’s rules regarding women and must have thought it odd to find his master so willing to receive a lady into his private domain. Usually, Ian would have no qualms in sending a visitor away, or of dismissing any attempt at contact from a woman such as this. But her intentions intrigued him, and besides, she was Rickard’s sister, and it would hardly do to treat her badly.
A moment later, Catherine appeared in the drawing room, accompanied by a woman who was introduced as her maid and who took a discreet seat at the far end of the library. Catherine really was very pretty, and Ian’s mind turned immediately to the events of the previous evening. The thought of the kiss they had shared rousing the most delightful memories. He imagined their lips meeting again and wondered if she too was thinking the same thing. But it would not do to break his own rules, though perhaps they might be stretched a little if circumstances allowed.
“Catherine, I was not expecting to see you,” he said, after Redbrand had been dismissed, and the two of them sat opposite one another by the fire.
“I had to come,” she blurted out, and now Ian realized that there was a look of anguish in her eyes, a pain even, and he wondered what could have upset her so.
“What is wrong? Has something happened? Is it the Earl of Westwood? He should leave you alone. He cannot force you to marry him,” Ian exclaimed, but Catherine shook her head.
“No, it is my father, and I feel terrible for I fear I am to drag you into a muddy quagmire and cause a terrible mess for you,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes.
Ian was surprised to see tears there. He had thought her to be a strong and determined woman, not easily upset by anything, and yet this morning her demeanor had entirely changed. She seemed terribly agitated, and he rose from his place opposite her and came to sit next to her, taking her by the hand and fixing her with what he hoped would be a reassuring look.
