How to Ruin a Reputation
‘No, dear, Henry had an appointment to dine with the Brownes at the vicarage,’ Leticia offered.
Genevra furrowed her brow, trying to recall the appointment. ‘Mr Bennington didn’t say anything yesterday about it when we went out walking.’ Nor had Vicar Browne when they’d stopped by to deliver some items for the sewing circle.
Leticia waved a hand in airy dismissal. ‘He said it came up rather suddenly this afternoon. But our Ashe is here now.’ There was no chance to say more. Gardener announced dinner and there was a potent moment when Genevra thought the dark god at the fireplace was going to offer her his arm to go into supper. Instead, he turned to Leticia. ‘Shall we, Aunt?’
The regal Leticia giggled for a moment like a young girl. ‘It’s been an age since anyone’s taken me into supper, young scamp.’ She took his arm and said with a wink, ‘You have two arms, don’t you, my boy?’
‘Mrs Ralston, would you do me the pleasure?’ He was all polished English manners in his dark evening clothes, but the eyes that held hers weren’t mannerly in the least. Those eyes seemed to be studying her from the inside out, a decidedly uncomfortable predicament that left her feeling as if she was standing there naked.
The Bedevere dining room was turned out in its best; the long dining table was set with the Bedevere china and crystal and a vase of hothouse flowers graced the centre, courtesy of Lavinia’s greenhouse efforts.
In the friendly light of candles, one could forget the worn surroundings. There was a whisper of Bedevere’s past glory here, of what it must have looked like in more prosperous, happy times, Genevra thought. Mr Bedevere seated them all, giving her the spot on his left and Leticia the seat on his right. At least the devil had manners aplenty, she’d give him that. But manners and good looks made her wary. Philip had had just such a way about him and, in the end, he’d not been so very fine.
‘Are you enjoying Seaton Hall, Mrs Ralston?’ Mr Bedevere enquired politely after a creamy bisque had been set down in front of them.
Genevra smiled. Seaton Hall was one of her favourite topics. ‘Very much. There’s been quite a bit of work to do on the gardens, but I hope to have them finished in time for summer.’ The gardens were the first stage in a much larger plan she had to turn Seaton Hall into a tourist business. If Mr Bedevere was willing, she could do the same here and help the estate generate funds. He really shouldn’t object. The estate was in need and his ten-year absence made it plain that he didn’t live here. The experiment would hardly inconvenience him.
Bedevere cocked a dark eyebrow her direction. ‘Won’t you be going up to London for the Season in a month or so? I would have thought the entertainments of the city would be vastly more appealing, especially after a long winter in the country.’
There was no question of being in London. There was too much work to be done here. It was an excuse she’d long relied on and in time it had become the truth. Besides, the only reason to be in London was to catch a husband. In London, she would attract too much attention and someone was bound to dig up the old scandal. Genevra shrugged and said with a great show of nonchalance, ‘London holds little allure for me, Mr Bedevere.’ London could keep its prowling bachelors. Her brief marriage had not recommended the institution worth repeating.
He held her gaze over the rim of his wine glass for a second longer than was decent, long enough to cause a note of silence. When he spoke, his words were deliberate and commanded everyone’s attention. ‘Why is that, Mrs Ralston? London is generally held to be one of the finest cities in the world. For myself, I’ve lived there for several years and have yet to grow bored with it.’
Genevra had the vague feeling she was being quizzed, tested. There would be more questions she’d rather not answer if she didn’t take the offensive now. She shot him a quick smile, ‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? We can’t all live in London. Someone has to hold things together in the country.’
There was the slightest movement of his dark brows in acknowledgement of her sweetly delivered barb. ‘Touché, Mrs Ralston,’ he murmured for her ears alone, leaving Genevra to wonder if her subtle attack had done her more harm than good.
Genevra turned her attentions to the aunts. It was far easier talking to them than it was their nephew, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of Mr Bedevere’s eyes on her, seeking answers as if he intuitively knew the answers she’d supplied were blithe smokescreens for the truth. It was impossible. He’d only just met her. He couldn’t possibly guess she was here because this was her refuge, because the rural backwaters of Staffordshire was one place where scandal couldn’t find her.
The rural backwaters of Staffordshire were full of surprises these days, not the least of them the elegant young woman on his left with her piles of dark hair and exquisite figure shown deliciously in a gown of gunmetal silk.
Ashe decided by the fish course that Mrs Ralston would have been a pleasant delight under other circumstances. Watching her converse with his aunts about their watercolours and embroidery had pleased him.
By the time pheasant was served, however, all that pleasantness had begun to work against her. Her answers about her presence here had been vague earlier and far too non-committal for his tastes combined with the fact that she was almost too good to be true.
Ashe watched her with stealthy objectivity as she cut into her pheasant; here she was, beautiful, rich, apparently disposed to a genteel temperament that pleased his aunts, and living practically next door precisely when he needed an heiress to save Bedevere.
His father’s intentions couldn’t be more blatant. The only thing more transparent was his aunts’ matchmaking efforts. If the efforts hadn’t been aimed at him, he would have found them humorous. The old dears weren’t even trying to be discreet as they flaunted Mrs Ralston’s charms shamelessly course after course. But always Ashe’s thoughts came back to the one idea: when things were too good to be true, they probably were.
All through dinner, he’d looked for a defect: a nasty table manner, a poor conversation ability, an annoying habit. He was disappointed to note that, in spite of her American upbringing, she used the correct fork, carried on flawless conversation without the slightest stutter and hadn’t a single bad habit visible to his critical eye.
It all begged the question: what was an attractive heiress doing here of all places? In his experience, such a paragon of marriageable womanhood should be in London, American or not. There was no reason for her to be in the country. That in itself was a point of intrigue. Why would she be here when she didn’t have to be?
There were really only two answers that came to mind: she was hiding, which carried all sorts of unsavoury implications, or the likelihood that she was fortune hunting—title-hunting, to be exact. That was the only fortune Bedevere had to offer these days and she had to be well aware of it.
Beside him, the mysterious Mrs Ralston laughed, a wonderful throaty sound with a hint of smoke, a laugh made for evenings and candlelight. She shook her head at something Melisande had said and the candles caught the discreet diamonds in her ears. Expensive diamonds. It had been a long time since he’d been able to afford to give a woman such a gift. They sparkled enticingly, lending her an air of sophistication.
It was all too easy to see how his father might have been fooled by her. It was also all too easy to see what she might have been after with her diamonds and elegance; perhaps she’d thought to marry his father before he passed away, no matter what Marsbury thought. That strategy having failed, she’d now opted to stay on and wait to snare the title eventually through the sane second son. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had traded themselves for a title. One didn’t have to be a sick man to find Mrs Ralston’s charms appealing. His own growing fascination with their dinner guest was proof enough of that.
Ashe drained the rest of his wine and set his glass aside. Wedding and bedding aside, it was time to uncover her secrets before things went any further, a task Ashe thought he’d might enjoy just as much as uncovering her.
‘Mrs Ralston, perhaps you’d do me the pleasure of a stroll in the conservatory. I seem to recall it used to be lovely by moonlight.’ No time like the present to start with that uncovering.
His suggestion was met with great enthusiasm from his aunts and he had a sudden vision of all of them traipsing through the conservatory, a scenario hardly conducive to seducing one’s secrets.
‘Genni has made so many improvements to the conservatory,’ Lavinia put in. ‘She saved the roses last summer when they came down with aphids. She mixed up a special spray.’
‘Well then, Mrs Ralston, I don’t see how you can refuse. Shall we?’ Ashe rose and offered her his arm. Walking brought her close to him, her skirts rustling against his trouser leg with the sway of her motion. She smelled of lemongrass and cassia as she walked beside him. It was a telling scent, not the standard lavender or rosewater worn by so many of London’s débutantes. The sharp spicy edge of lemongrass was not an innocent’s perfume. It was a woman’s perfume: a smart, confident woman’s.
At the entrance to the conservatory, he moved his hand to the small of her back and ushered her ahead of him. He left his hand there, comfortably splayed. Touch invited confidences and he wanted hers very much.
His intuition hadn’t been wrong. The conservatory was beautiful. Moonlight streamed through the glass roof and the scent of orange trees lingered enticingly. A small fountain trickled in the background.
‘This is my favourite place at Bedevere.’ Mrs Ralston tried to walk ahead of him, a step too fast for his hand to remain at her back. Ashe closed the gap with a long stride, his hand remaining unshakeable at her back. He was making her nervous. Good.
‘I can see why, Mrs Ralston, it’s very lovely.’
Chapter Four
He was most definitely making her nervous. Not even an innocent débutante would believe he was talking about the conservatory with a remark like that. Especially not after the way he’d studied her with his eyes all through dinner, stalking her without moving from the table or after the way his hand had loitered so deliberately at her back. What was worse, his attentions had aroused her. She was honest enough to admit it, to herself at least.
‘This place holds the heat in winter. The glass makes it possible to trap the heat from the sun.’ She was rambling out of some desperate need to minimise the tension that had sprung between them. ‘Your father liked to come here when he was well enough. Henry and I would bring him and spend the afternoons reading.’
She stopped suddenly and faced him, realising she hadn’t offered any condolences. It had seemed the wrong thing to do amid the gay atmosphere of the aunts’ dinner party. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man, a brave man.’
‘Was he?’ Mr Bedevere’s green eyes narrowed in dangerous disagreement. ‘Pardon me, Mrs Ralston, I don’t need a stranger to tell me about my father.’
A person of less fortitude might have flinched under the cold words. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze unswervingly. ‘Forgive me, I thought perhaps it would ease your grief to know he died well.’
‘Why? Because I wasn’t here?’
There it was, the crime she’d charged him with at the dinner table—absent Ashe Bedevere who couldn’t be bothered to come home. It seemed wrong that she, a mere stranger of a neighbour, had seen more of the earl in his last days than his own son had.
‘Surely you knew how grave his situation had become.’
‘Is the pun intended, Mrs Ralston?’ There was a terse set to his finely carved jaw and a hardness to his gaze that matched his rigid posture.
Genevra bristled. Handsome or not, it was ill mannered of him to think she’d engage in witty word play in the midst of a delicate conversation. ‘No. The pun is not intended. Was your absence? Intended, that is.’
His eyes glittered dangerously, his tone forebodingly quiet. ‘I must inform you, Mrs Ralston, I find this an unsuitable topic of conversation between two people who have barely met.’
Genevra tilted her chin upwards a mere fraction, letting her cold tone convey just the opposite. ‘My apologies for any untoward assumptions.’
His eyes were studying her again, the hardness gone now, replaced by something else more feral. ‘You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, Mrs Ralston.’ The faintest hint of a wicked smile played on his lips. The dratted man was calling her out, fully aware she hadn’t really apologised.
‘And you, sir, should know better than to scold a lady.’ Genevra opted for the high road.
‘Why is that?’ He stepped closer to her, the clean manly scent of him swamping her senses, his nearness hinting of the muscled physique beneath the clothes. He was all man and there was no place for her to go. She’d backed herself against a stone bench. This was nothing like being with Henry. Henry was the consummate companion, comfortable, never imposing. There were no prickles of awareness like the ones goose pimpling her skin right now.
‘Because you are a gentleman.’ At least he was dressed like one. Up close, she could appreciate his impeccably brushed jacket stretched elegantly across an impressive breadth of shoulder and the rich cabernet hue of his waistcoat. But other than the clothes, she had her doubts.
‘Are you sure?’ His voice was low and she was acutely aware of the long curling strand of hair he’d wrapped around one finger. He gave her a sensual half-smile, his eyes roving her face, flicking down ever so briefly to her throat and perhaps slightly lower. His attentions were perilously arousing.
‘No,’ her voice came out in a hoarse tremor. She wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, least of all how they’d arrived at this point. They’d been talking of his father. But the conversation had wandered afield from the comforting solace she’d intended to something else far more seductive and personal.
‘Good, because I can think of better things to do by moonlight than quarrel, can’t you?’
His next move startled her entirely. Before she could think, his hand was at the nape of her neck, warm and caressing, drawing her to him until his mouth covered hers in a full kiss that sent a jolt of heat to her stomach.
The kiss was all hot challenge and she answered it without provocation. The arrogant man was far too sure of himself. He needed to know he wasn’t completely in charge. His tongue sought hers and the kiss became a heady duel. He tasted of rich red wine against her lips. His hands were warm against the fabric of her gown, massaging, pressing her to him, making her aware of the hard lines of him and the most sinful invitation his body issued. She arched her neck, letting his kiss travel the length of her throat. This was not the hesitant kiss of a moonstruck dandy. This was the kiss of man proficient in the art. The kiss promised fulfilment. If she took the invitation, she would not be disappointed.
Her arms were about his neck and she breathed deeply of him. If temptation had a scent it would be this: the understated mixture of sandalwood and vanilla combined with the clean smell of freshly laundered clothing. Genevra nipped at his ear, eliciting an entirely male growl of appreciation. She was not the only one intoxicated by the duel.
Without warning, Ashe stepped back, releasing her, his eyes a smoky green. It was his eyes that held her attention. They were surrounded by long soft black lashes, but the green orbs were hard and assessing when he looked at her. They were not the eyes of a man in the throes of desire, although his body argued that to the contrary.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing here, Mrs Ralston, but I will find out.’
‘What makes you think I’m doing “anything”?’
‘A woman doesn’t kiss like that unless she wants something. Badly.’
It took a moment to comprehend, so unexpected was the comment. ‘If I were a gentleman, I would call you out for that.’ Genevra fairly shook with rage. She’d never been so insulted. If he wasn’t careful, she’d call him out anyway.
‘We’ve already established there are no gentlemen here at present,’ he drawled. ‘And you, Mrs Ralston, are no lady.’
Genevra stiffened, her temper rising. If she couldn’t call him out, there was one thing she could do. She slapped him right across the face.
In the retrospection of a sleepless night, Genevra understood she’d slapped him as much for her behaviour as for his. She should have been indifferent to that kiss. Instead, she’d been so flustered that she’d ordered her carriage and set out for home, finished renovations or not. She’d not spend a night under Ashe Bedevere’s roof.
She had still been berating herself as she tossed and turned through a sleepless night until she’d finally given up and risen at dawn, her mind more than eager to ponder her behaviour while she watched the sunrise from her window.
There were several reasons she could offer as to why she’d given in. First, there was the element of surprise. She hadn’t been expecting such an audacious move on his part. Second, she was lonely. Except for the company of Ashe’s aunts and Henry, this part of Staffordshire wasn’t exactly a hotbed of society.
These were good excuses for her momentary lapse, but none of them could disguise the reality. She’d let her independent streak get the better of her. He’d baited her and she’d taken the lure, unable to resist the challenge. He’d been testing her again as he had at the table, but it hadn’t been the test she’d expected. She’d thought he’d been testing her mettle. It hadn’t been until afterwards when he’d spoken those insulting words that she’d realised he’d still been probing for answers as to why she was here in this place of all places and why his father would give her controlling interest in the estate. Answering his challenge as she’d done had not been the best way to allay his concerns.
She hoped the slap had conveyed her intentions as readily as his hot gaze had conveyed his. He was a seducer of the first water, used to getting what he wanted. But in this case, he would not succeed in seducing her fifty-one per cent out of her. His game was far too obvious, even if his kisses had been nothing short of dazzling. Never had anything roused her so thoroughly or so immediately. The stirrings of such emotions was a risky pot. Kisses could cloud a woman’s mind, make her forget certain realities. She’d learned her lesson with Philip. He’d only wanted her for her father’s money. Bedevere only wanted her share of the regency.
Genevra rose from her chair and prepared to dress. Debating herself over Mr Bedevere’s kiss was accomplishing nothing. What she needed was activity to purge last night’s memories. Time in the garden overseeing the new landscaping would be just the thing to distract her.
Chapter Five
Henry heartily wished for a distraction—a bird hitting the glass panes of his benefactor’s prized French doors, a servant spilling hot coffee on someone’s lap. Really, anything would do as long as it took the gentlemen’s eyes off him. Breakfast wasn’t his favourite time of day, especially when he had bad news to report. All eyes at the well-set table fixed on him. The meal had long been finished. It was time to discuss the business for which their host, a Mr Marcus Trent, had invited them all.
‘Well, Bennington, we’ve had our kippers and ham. Tell us how the will went yesterday. Are you in full possession of the trust?’ Trent was a florid figure of a man with blunt manners honed in a merchant’s world. His sense of competition and honour had been honed in a different world—however, a darker, more dangerous world where one took what one wanted at the point of a knife if need be. For all the wealth and fine trappings surrounding Trent, he was no gentleman. Henry had noted at the beginning of their association not to run afoul of Trent’s good humour. He very much feared he was about to do so.
‘There is good news,’ Henry began cheerfully. ‘My uncle did indeed set up a trusteeship for the running of the estate, as I told you he would.’ They needed to remember he had been right about some things. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t even have this opportunity to begin with.
Trent’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Who is the trustee, Bennington?’
Henry looked at the four other men assembled, sensing their growing worry and, with it, their growing distrust of him. Of them all, he was the outsider. These five men had done business together before. ‘Three of us were named trustees: my cousin, Ashe, myself and the American, Mrs Ralston. We’ve all been given a share of influence when it comes how the estate is to be managed.’
‘What precisely is your share?’ Mr Ellingson, the group’s accountant, spoke up from the far end of the table.
‘Four per cent,’ Henry offered with feigned pride. He’d been livid over the slight all night. How dare his uncle reward him with so little after a year of his devotion. But Henry would be damned if he’d let this group of cut-throat investors see that disappointment. He went on to spell out the details of the other portions given to Ashe and Genevra while Ellingson stared at him thoughtfully, doing sums in his head.
‘This is not what we agreed upon,’ Trent put in after Henry had finished. ‘You said Bedevere wouldn’t come home, that he’d want to sell his shares, that he’d be lucky to receive any shares at all when you got through kowtowing to your uncle.’ The others murmured amongst themselves up and down the length of the table. Henry fought the urge to squirm. He’d been wrong about Ashe and therein lay the crux of his troubles. He’d wagered Ashe wouldn’t come home.
Ellingson spoke up. ‘There’s only one thing for it. Bennington needs to wed the Ralston widow. Marriage will secure him the majority interest in the estate. Her control will pass to him upon marriage and give him fifty-four per cent.’
Trent nodded with approval. ‘The Ralston chit is perfect.’
Henry’s blood chilled a degree at the potential direction this conversation was heading. They were going to mandate marriage, his marriage, as if it were of no major import. ‘There’s always a possibility she’ll refuse me.’ Henry hedged.
The table roared with congenial laughter. ‘You’re too handsome to be refused, Bennington.’ The man next to him clapped him on the back and Trent tossed a bag of coins on the table. ‘Buy her a pretty bauble and be done with it, Bennington. We’re an “I do” away from untold wealth. It would be a shame to falter here at the last.’ Trent surveyed the group. ‘Let’s meet again in a week and see how our young Romeo is progressing.’
Henry smiled and pocketed the bag of coins, but he didn’t miss the implication of Trent’s dismissal. He had one week to secure the promise of matrimony to a woman he’d not choose to marry of his own volition. Since yesterday, his prospects had been steadily going downhill.
Henry took the long road home, giving plans a chance to settle in his head. He would change clothes, then he would call on Genevra. The thought of pursuing her left a sour taste in his mouth. He had cultivated her friendship of course during the earl’s illness because it pleased the earl. The old man had doted on the pretty American. But Henry had seen right away how outspoken she was, how she would be the most non-compliant of wives. She would never give him full control of her money, even if she did happen to fall in love with him. He’d have to beg every shilling from her. It would be like asking his father for an allowance all over again. But it would be worth it, he reminded himself. There was much to be gained.