How to Ruin a Reputation (Rakes Beyond Redemption)

by Bronwyn Scott

  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, As
he 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 kow-towing 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.

  On his suspicions, a bore hole dug four years ago on the outskirts of Bedevere land had produced a promising sampling of lignite, indicating a rich deposit of coal beneath the land. It stood to be the most plentiful coalfield in Audley, a piece of Staffordshire known not only for its hops and gardens, but for its coalfields as well.

  The possibility of attaining such wealth demanded extraordinary effort and the men he’d partnered with weren’t afraid to go to extremes. But so far, the extremes were all his. Aside from the money Trent’s cartel had put up, the risks had all been his. They hadn’t spent a year currying favour with the old earl, nor were they now facing a forced marriage.

  He had to keep his eye on the goal. He would go courting today and keep in mind the purgatory of those consequences would last only a short while.

  *

  It had been a hell of a day and it was only two o’clock. Ashe pushed a hand through his hair, not caring that the action caused his hair to stand on ruffled ends and leaned back in the leather chair. At least here in the study he had the privacy he needed to think. There was so much to think about, it was hard to know where to start.

  He’d spent the morning going over the estate books, trying to get a sense of where to start first, assuming he’d come up with some funds. Did he start outside with the gardens or inside with the most-used rooms? Maybe he didn’t start with the house at all. Maybe he should start with the tenant farmers in ways that would generate income.