Page 38 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
Nicholas was under the impression that the betrothal was real, and had evidently been dispatched with this knowledge in mind. Two days previously, Ian had received an invitation to a ball, one which he had suspected was an attempt at further match making. It had come from Samantha, wife of the Earl of Brimsey, inviting him to a ball at the townhouse which served as their place of residence when in town. Ian had declined it, his recent experience of such events enough to make him wary of social gatherings. There was no doubt Catherine had been invited, too, and Ian had no desire to encounter her so soon after their last parting.
“I am sure she does. And she has dispatched her most persuasive weapon in order to achieve her ends. Women are all the same. They get what they want, somehow,” he said, shaking his head.
There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that Catherine had been an excellent pupil. Her skills were such that he had allowed himself to fall under her spell, entirely enchanted by her words and actions. He had fallen in love with her, and in the process, he had broken every rule he had ever imposed on himself.
“But will you not consider it? The whole ton will be there, and Miss Ferguson is so very miserable, by all accounts. I do not know what has passed between you, but surely you wish to save your betrothal. It is why Lady Brimsey has arranged the ball, so that Miss Ferguson might find some happiness,” he said, and Ian looked at him in puzzlement.
“Happiness with whom?” he asked, and Nicholas seemed embarrassed.
“Well, I presume it is to be with you. Do you not wish to marry her?” he asked, and for the sake of the ruse Ian made no denial.
“A mere disagreement, that is all. We shall soon find ourselves at ease again,” he replied, and Nicholas gave a sigh of relief.
“Then I shall tell Rebecca you intend to be present at the ball?” he asked.
Ian thought for a moment. Despite everything, the thought of Catherine at a ball without him caused a pang of jealous longing to jolt him. It was an unpleasant feeling, but to think of her dancing with another man, of flirting, of all he had taught her – it was most unsettling.
“I shall think about it,” he said, though his mind was already made up.
He would go to the ball, he wanted to see Catherine again – there was something about her which drew him to her, a desire to be near her. He knew it was breaking his rules, but somehow, they hardly seemed to matter now.
“I am glad,” Nicholas replied, “I am sure it will be a most delightful evening.”
* * *
That “delightful evening,” was one which Ian thought about a great deal in the hours after Nicholas had left. He had been struck by how forcefully his feelings had changed – he did not want to think of Catherine dancing with another man, or flirting with the aristocrats who would seek to curry her favors. What had started as a game had turned into something very different, and he began to wonder what might be if the ruse were in fact the truth.
“But the rules, Ian, the rules,” he told himself, though what good were rules if they made one miserable?
In making his rules in the aftermath of Cassandra’s ill treatment, Ian had hoped to save himself from future heartache. But now, his heart was aching; not through disobeying the rules, but from following them. He knew he was in love, for he had been in love before, and whilst such a feeling was not new, it seemed far more pronounced than ever he had known it.
He was uncertain what made him do it, but later that night, Ian opened the bureau in his study and took out a bundle of letters. They had been written by Cassandra, and in them she spoke of her love and fidelity to him. At the time he had received them, Ian’s heart had been so filled with love for her he had treasured every word. But in the fullness of time, he now knew that even as she was writing them, her bed was warm from his brother’s presence.
He read them through, hearing her voice, and feeling again that same sense of betrayal. It was as though she were there, repeating her platitudes, knowing just what to say to bring him entirely under her influence. He might even have forgiven her, so deep was his love for her. Tears rose in his eyes, and with a sudden cry, he tossed the bundle of letters into the fire, watching as they burned up in a bright fury of flames. He breathed a deep sigh, sitting back in his chair and shaking his head.
“What a fool I have been,” he said out loud.
He had clung to the letters – for what reason he knew not – and the sight of them burning in the hearth was cathartic, a release from the bonds of the past. The same bonds which had created his rules. Even now, Cassandra held sway over him. But there was a new feeling, too. One which was growing in him, forcing out the poison which was the memory of those tragic circumstances. In Catherine, he had found a new reason for life, one which now canceled out the feelings of the past.
“Why should I deny it?” he asked, gazing into the flames, “why should I deny love when it is true and good?”
At last, Ian felt he had let go of Cassandra’s memory, and broken the tragic memory of all she and his brother had done. He had been in mourning for the past, unable to let go of what had been, and instead building barriers to prevent any future happiness. Meeting Catherine had changed that, and Ian knew that now he could finally look to a new and better future.
“I will be happy,” he told himself, and the “delightful evening,” to come would be the start.
* * *
Catherine, too, had been reluctant to accept Samantha’s invitation. She knew it was well meant, but there could be no doubt about what her friend was attempting to do. After the disaster of the evening spent in the company of the Duchess of Sinclair and the gathered spinsters, Catherine had felt utterly despondent. What man could possibly scale such heights and prove himself worthy of such expectations, she had wondered?
The ball would be attended by all manner of eligible men. It was hoped, Samantha had told her, to be an opportunity for Catherine to step out, to be in the company of men who could prove a foil to her previous experiences. She would practice those things she had learned in the company of Ian, and perhaps she would find a man to replace the attentions of the Earl of Westwood. Anything was better than marrying him, and so, somewhat grudgingly, Catherine had accepted.
“It will do you good, Catherine, truly, it will,” Samantha had told her, and the two of them had visited a modiste on Bond Street and selected new dresses for the occasion.
Now, it was the evening of the ball, and Jenny, Catherine’s faithful maid, was helping her to ready herself, combing her hair and plaiting it into a French bun. “You look very pretty, Miss,” she said, and Catherine smiled.
“It is a beautiful dress,” she replied.
“But it takes a beautiful woman to wear it,” Jenny said, smiling at Catherine in the mirror.
