How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ