How to Ruin a Reputation

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.