Page 59 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“It is a lot to take in, though I knew in my heart it was the truth. But what is the proof you speak of? If the duke denies it then… oh, there is such scandal attached,” he cried, and his mother rose to her feet.
“I have the proof, I shall show you it,” she said, and hurried from the room.
“My darling, it is all so tragic,” Catherine said, throwing her arms around Ian as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Better to confront it than to be ever wondering,” he replied, and she sat back and took his hands in hers.
“But how did Rickard come to know this? How did my father know it? And what do they expect to do with such knowledge?” she asked, and Ian shook his head.
“I do not know,” he replied.
“But surely the duke’s reputation is at stake if this is revealed,” Catherine remarked, and Ian nodded
At first, he had thought of this misfortune as being only a tragedy for himself. But if Catherine’s father and brother were to reveal the truth about the Duke of Sinclair’s illicit liaisons, then surely it would reflect badly on him, too – scandalously, in fact.
“It most certainly is, and he will surely not wish such knowledge to be made public. It is all a terrible mess, but I will be forever grateful to you, Catherine, for standing by me,” he said.
There had been doubts in his mind at first. He had not known whether to break his rules for Catherine or not. His decision had seemed rash, but now there could be no doubt he had made the right one. He loved her, and though already their love was being tested, he was certain it would be proved.
“You are my husband, and you are the one who has saved me from a far more terrible state than rumor and gossip. Had it not been for you, I would even now be married to the Earl of Westwood, and that is too terrible a fate to comprehend. No, we shall weather the storm, but I wonder if the others will, too,” she said, just as Ian’s mother returned to the room.
She was carrying with her a large box, and she placed it carefully on the table, standing back and looking at it with some trepidation. “I have not opened this box in twenty years,” she said, the layer of dust on the top evidence of the truth of her words.
“What is in it?” Ian asked, and his mother looked at him and sighed.
“Letters, Ian, letters from all those men whom I allowed to overtake my passions in place of your father. It is a vain thing to have kept them. But try as I might, I could not let go of those feelings I once possessed. Some of those men were good and kind, but others were like the Duke of Sinclair, men who were interested in nothing but their own carnal pleasures,” she replied.
Ian was uncomfortable discussing such matters with his mother, but he needed to know the truth, and now she opened the box, searching amongst stacks of letters tied up with red bows. “And this will prove my lineage?” he asked, and she nodded.
“I wrote to him at once when I discovered I was with child. He was dismissive of my plight, though he sent a pitiable sum of money by way of a bounty for my silence,” she said, placing one of the piles on the table.
Ian did not know the Duke of Sinclair well – more by reputation than association, for Nicholas was loath to speak of him in more than passing terms – but from what he did know, the thought of association with such a man did nothing to cheer his mood. The Duke of Sinclair was known as a womanizer, and if it were true that he and Ian’s mother were once romantically involved, then sadly she could not claim to be the only woman with whom the duke had broken his marriage vows. Ian did not like to think of it, and instead, he pushed such thoughts aside, wishing only to establish the facts.
“And why did you keep that silence?” Ian asked, curious at last to know the truth, as much as it pained him to do so.
“For the sake of your father. I was not about to reveal the affair, even if the Duke of Sinclair did nothing to warrant my silence. You will see from our correspondence he had no care for me, nor any interest in you when you were born. Our final letters were exchanged in the days after you were born, and he as much as told me he wished nothing further to do with either me or you,” she said, handing Ian one of the letters.
It was written in a large, curling script, one which Ian recognized in style as being similar to Nicholas Lowood, the Marquess of Somerset, the legitimate son of the Duke of Sinclair, a man now confirmed as his half-brother. The letters were curt and dismissive, their tone smug and superior. The duke admitted his responsibility for the child, though offered little by way of support. He had no interest in being a father to a “little runt,” and closed his final correspondence by indicating that an enclosed sum was sufficient to ensure Ian’s mother’s silence.
“He is a cruel and wicked man,” Ian whispered, tossing aside the final letter.
“As cruel and ruthless in his business dealings as he is in his romantic leanings,” his mother replied.
“I do not know what you saw in him, mother. The man is nothing but a rake, and I do not think he has changed, either,” Ian said, as Catherine reached out to read the letters for herself.
“I asked nothing of him, save acceptance,” his mother said, and again she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“But these letters prove it,” Ian said, pointing to the box.
“But he probably has a dozen illegitimate sons. My folly was to think I was different, that he loved me, rather than merely desired me as another conquest. I was foolish, and I have paid the price for it. But it is not him I wish for, Ian, it is you. All these years I have longed for reconciliation, and for a chance to prove to you that I am not the woman I once was. People think me a formidable figure, cruel and heartless for the pain I caused your father. But it is not true. I have feelings, too, Ian, and I have mourned your loss every day since last we parted,” she said, and now she wept.
Ian glanced at Catherine, and she nodded, urging Ian forward. “Mother… do not cry, there can be reconciliation,” he said, and his mother looked up, her face transformed into a smile.
“There can?” she asked, and he nodded.
Ian was willing to forgive his mother her transgressions. In the years gone by, he had built a picture of her, one which was easy to despise. She had been the adulterous woman, the one who had so destroyed his father, abandoned him, and sought out her own pleasures. Perhaps there was some truth in that – once – but before he saw only a woman mired by regrets, one who had suffered in the hands of men she had fallen in love with, and now lived with the detriment of her long past misdemeanors.
“I was not sure what to expect when I came here, but what I have found is surprising,” he replied, glancing at Catherine, who smiled.
