Читать книгу How to Ruin a Reputation - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 12

The aunts were all in it together. Genevra had seen their conspiracy for what it was: matchmaking. She would do almost anything for the old dears, but she couldn’t do that. The last thing she was looking for was male attention even if it came with a set of broad shoulders and mossy-green eyes.

Genevra smoothed the skirts of her evening gown one last time before she entered the drawing room. The gunmetal-silk gown was one of her favourites and she’d need all the confidence it afforded if she was going to withstand the probing gaze of Mr Bedevere and the romantic hearts of the old aunts.

Dinner would be a polite battle on two fronts, even if there wasn’t the issue of the estate between them. The announcement this afternoon had been most unexpected. Not once had the old earl offered any indication of his thoughts. He’d been intrigued by the American management practices she’d shared with him and she’d known he held her in high esteem. But to leave her the majority share in the estate had not occurred to her.

She appreciated the honour the old man had done her and she would do her best for him. He had been a father to her when she had no one. But taking on the estate also meant taking on other complications, not the least of which waited for her on the other side of the drawing-room door. Mr Bedevere would not be happy or complacent about the current arrangements.

Genevra stepped into the room and her eyes fixed on the man standing at the fireplace mantel. Surely the old earl had not been blind to the implications created by giving her fifty-one per cent. He’d all but set her up to be a target for his errant son should the son decide he wanted the estate. She liked to think she was sighting her enemy straight away, but she would have noticed him regardless. How could she not? He stood there surveying the room, surveying her, like a king from his throne. Washing away the road dust had done nothing to diminish his aura of power. It was the hands she noticed first. Long, elegant fingers negligently wrapped about a preprandial drink in a way that conjured up the most decadent of thoughts. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he could do with those hands.

Quite a lot if his eyes told the wicked truth. She’d stared too long and he’d caught her. Genevra blushed. A slow smile on his lips said he was making her accountable for it. She looked away from his face with its straight Grecian nose to avoid the forthright heat of his gaze only to find her eyes travelling down the length of his well-apportioned body. Good lord, she couldn’t look him in the eye, and no self-respecting lady should look at him there where her efforts had landed. She’d try his face again—that was where normal people looked at each other, after all.

Then he spoke without a hint of animosity, his tone more reminiscent of bedrooms than drawing rooms. ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to Bedevere. There wasn’t time earlier.’ He might as well have said, ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to sin.’ How many women had he led astray already with that voice? She’d never encountered such a blatant sexuality before. Yet she knew precisely what it was; it was dangerous and it drew her as thoroughly as a magnet draws iron filings.

Years of hostessing for her father and then for Philip saved her from an utter loss of words. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr Bedevere. Your aunts have spoken of you often.’

Genevra managed a curtsy, determined to do her best for the aunts. Tonight was to be a party. The ladies were dressed in their best silk dinner gowns that had seen more fashionable days, but their spirits were high. The aunts, herself, Henry—all of them deserved a slightly festive occasion. Henry! Genevra’s mind tripped back over its thoughts.

She’d been so distracted by the handsome newcomer she hadn’t realised Henry was missing. ‘Will Mr Bennington be joining us tonight?’ Genevra’s eyes swept the room guiltily in case she’d simply overlooked him. Not that anyone would overlook Henry with his good looks and guinea-gold hair.

‘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.’