Page 33 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“I did not say that, and we must still keep up the pretense for your sake. I will not allow the Earl of Westwood to think that he might still find opportunity to marry you. Do not fear, I will behave honorably in this matter. But I do not think we should continue to see one another, not with the same intensity. It would… not be good for either of us,” he said, and Catherine felt her anger flare.
“For you, perhaps, but not for me,” she exclaimed.
“But Catherine, please, I care very much for you,” he replied.
“Then show it to me, prove to me how much you care?” she cried, no longer interested in their game, her feelings not a ruse but real and raw.
He had broken her heart in one swift move, and now she felt only emptiness and sorrow, cursing herself for allowing her own feelings to run away with her. She had been a fool, and now she was paying the price for it, having allowed herself to become caught up in a fantasy from which the only possible outcome was sorrow.
“I have proved it, have I not? Did I not say I would stand by you and support this ruse? I will do so, but not at the expense of my own well-being. Come now, Catherine, neither of us wish to be carried away in a fantasy,” he exclaimed, and Catherine sighed, knowing that what he said was right, though the fantasy he spoke of had for her become the truth.
“But this is not what we agreed on? What about your help? The lessons?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“I think you have already proved that you are more than capable of seduction. You can have any man you choose,” he said, and Catherine pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
She did not like to admit that he was the man she wanted, not some fantasy of a gentleman with whom she had shared a dance, a dinner, and the corner of some mythical drawing room. That gentleman did not exist, but the man who had so effectively played him did, and it was with the actor, not the character, that Catherine had fallen in love and was now paying the price for a love unreciprocated.
“Perhaps I do not want any man,” she said, drawing herself up angrily.
“Some time apart will do us both good, Catherine, of that I am certain. Now, allow me to escort you back to your carriage, and we shall arrange to meet soon so that the deception may continue,” he said, offering her his arm.
But Catherine did not take it, and she would gladly have dismissed him there and then. He had led her a merry dance, and she wondered if this was how he treated every woman who crossed his path. She knew of his reputation, and it seemed that only Cassandra had called his bluff, a deception which had resulted in him experiencing what Catherine herself was now to know – a broken heart, and a feeling that she would never trust any man again.
“Do you still intend to help me find a husband?” she asked, when they came in sight of the carriage a few moments later.
“I will do all in my power to help you, Catherine,” he replied, opening the carriage door for her.
“Perhaps you have already done enough,” she retorted, and climbing inside, she slammed the door behind her, calling out for the driver to move off as tears rolled down her cheeks.
* * *
Ian watched the carriage leave with a heavy heart. He had not wished to upset Catherine, but he had known the inevitability of his words. There had been much pondering on Ian’s part, but he was too proud to admit that his feelings – his self-imposed rules – had been so easily overcome. He had fallen in love with Catherine, a love he could not bear to make known. It would only lead to hurt, of that he was certain, and the thought of living through such hurt again was unbearable.
He had thought a lot about Cassandra and his brother in the time since he and Catherine had shared their passion. It would be all too easy to give into his feelings, to run headlong into an affair of passion and romance. But he had discovered to his detriment how easily such things could be thrown away. Ian had given everything to Cassandra, trusting her with the most precious gift of all – his heart. But she had shown her true colors and led him to believe he could never again trust a woman with his heart.
Now, he walked ponderously back to Westwick Manor, his heart heavy at the thought of having hurt Catherine, but knowing he had surely done the right thing. It was best for both of them, if only Catherine would at last come to realize that. He pictured her in the moment of passion they had shared, the sincerity of her feelings, the delight in their union. It could all have been his, but something still held him back, a sense of what might be, of the loss he might endure, or the hurt which might be caused.
“I will not allow it,” he said to himself, as much for Catherine as himself.
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.
