Page 23 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“But we must be cautious. Your father has already forbidden you from coming here, and do not forget that he has made it his intention to find anything of ill repute he can against my reputation,” Ian replied.
“But he will not do so, for there is nothing in your past which could cause a scandal. You are the innocent party, and a kiss in the park can do nothing to stain your reputation. Lady Millicent is nothing but a silly, ridiculous woman,” Catherine said, rolling her eyes at the thought of the titivation they had caused by merely being alone together behind the rhododendrons in the ornamental gardens.
“Perhaps,” Ian replied, though by the tone of his voice he did not sound entirely convinced.
Just then, a gong rang in a distant part of the house, and Plotinus began to bark excitedly.
“I should leave you to your luncheon,” Catherine said, rising hastily from her chair. “Nonsense,” Ian replied, smiling at her, “if you have gone to all this trouble to come here, the least I can do is offer you to dine with me,” and he held out his arm with a smile on his face.
A moment later, Catherine was walking arm in arm with Ian along a corridor to the dining room. Westwick Manor was a maze of rooms, a hundred and twenty-seven, Ian had told her, and each seemed more magnificent than the last. The whole place was lavishly furnished, filled from top to bottom with exquisite pieces from all over the world. The walls were hung with portraits and tapestries, and every corner turned, brought with it new and interesting sights.
“And this is the dining room,” Ian said, opening the door into a long room which looked out over the gardens.
A table which could easily have sat twenty or thirty people was laid for one, and Ian hastily instructed Redbrand, the butler, to make alternative arrangements, as he and Catherine approached the windows. From there, they could see across the lawns to well-tended flower beds and a magnificent fountain which spurted up in the distance, throwing a cascade of water into the air, which plunged back into a shimmering pool below.
“It is a magnificent dwelling,” Catherine gasped, and Ian smiled, ushering her to the table, where another place had now been laid.
“Westwick Manor is my sanctuary, the one place I can feel truly at home. I have a place in Kent, too, though I am rarely there. London keeps me busy, for my business interests are mainly here, as are my business rivals,” he said, winking at her.
Catherine sat down opposite him, pleased to now gain some small insight into his life. There was so much she still wanted to know, especially about the sad circumstances of his former lover. He had been spurned, that much she knew, but the question of his brother still hung in the air. Certainly, that death had brought with it fortune, and the benefits of a house and title, but she could also detect a note of regret, as though this added responsibility was not entirely to Ian’s taste.
“You are very kind to share it with me,” she said, as the soup course was served.
“The art of dining is a time of seduction,” he said, laying aside his spoon and smiling at her.
Catherine blushed, and suddenly she felt the touch of his foot against hers. It was the lightest brush, but still it sent a shiver running through her, and she smiled at him, a mischievous grin coming over his face.
“Really, you are too much,” she exclaimed, though she found no complaint in his actions.
“I will say it again. The dinner table is the perfect place for seduction. Perhaps we should continue our lessons,” he said, just as the maids brought in a side of beef and steaming tureens of vegetables and potatoes to accompany it.
Catherine had never been aware of the dining room as a place of intrigue, though now she thought about it, Ian was right. In the evening, such places were dimly lit by candles over dinner, the long tablecloths hiding a multitude of intrigues, where hands could be proffered, and legs stretched out so that they might brush against those of others.
“And you are well versed in this art, I suppose?” she asked.
“Quite expertly so,” he replied, still smiling at her.
“I suppose the dinner table is considered a place of safety. No one is alone, one is always chaperoned by others, and so the actions of a man might seem innocent, but be far from so,” she said, and he nodded.
“You are a first learner, Miss Ferguson,” he replied, and Catherine blushed.
“You must call me Catherine, Mr. Bennet… my Lord,” she said, correcting herself.
“And you must call me Ian, for we have already passed beyond intimate terms, surely. Now, imagine the situation. You have arrived with your father at some grand house in the country. There is a man who takes an interest in you. You have already led him a merry dance over sherry in the drawing room and now you come to the dining room. Do you sit opposite him, or do you wait for him to circulate?” he asked.
Catherine pondered this for a moment. She had dined in many grand houses, though she had always tried to seat herself in female company, preferably that of Samantha or Rebecca. There were few women whom Catherine could tolerate, and she preferred the company of those she was already acquainted with, rather than someone new and unfamiliar.
“It depends if one is dining in the French or Russian style, I suppose,” she replied, thinking she had given an intelligent response.
“Yes… I suppose it does, but let us assume it is the French style, for that is surely what we are growing accustomed to. The serving of courses one after the other is surely preferable to the furor created by every dish being placed simultaneously on the table. Besides, the French style is easier for our purposes. Now, you have sat down at the table, and your admirer has sat opposite you, just as we are now. He is interested, that much is certain. What do you do?” he asked, and Catherine pondered for a moment.
She thought back to similar situations. There had been a dinner at her debut, and she recalled a very enthusiastic young man by the name of Henry Lockwood, a Viscount, taking it on himself to escort her to dinner. He had sat down opposite her and done nothing but gaze at her with wide, puppy-like eyes throughout the evening. It had rather put her off her soup, and she had hardly touched her veal. No, the memory was not a pleasant one, and she found it hard to think of any reason she should wish to be seduced at the dinner table.
“I make polite conversation with him, and those around me, to my left and right,” was all she could think to say, and Ian shook his head and laughed.
Catherine had been taught to only speak to those on her left and right, and opposite, and never at the same time. It would not do to shout across the table or lean over her fellow diners to hear something said by another. It was confusing to imagine why any man should do the same, and she smiled at Ian, waiting for him to enlighten her in the manner in which seduction could be achieved in such a situation.
“Imagine we are speaking, just as we are. Will you reach out your leg to caress mine? Think of yourself as two halves. The top half must maintain your image and composure, others are watching you and you are in polite society. But your lower half is beneath the table, no one can see it, and I can guarantee that the other guests are themselves involved in intrigues you yourself cannot know of,” he said, and she startled at the touch of his foot against her own.
