How to Ruin a Reputation (Rakes Beyond Redemption)

by Bronwyn Scott

  Genevra offered Henry a smile, trying to smooth over his lapse in good behaviour. ‘I do have company. But you’re welcome to join us for tea before you go on. I’ve already called for another cup.’

  ‘Genevra likes Gothic novels.’ Henry explained to Ashe with a friendly wink in her direction as he took a seat in the other wing-backed chair. ‘I always try to surprise her with a couple in the shipment.’

  Ashe was looking at her again in that steady way of his. ‘So you like a good romance, Mrs Ralston?’

  Even his polite conversation was sensual. She guessed at his innuendo and a hot blush crept up her cheeks. ‘I do on occasion,’ Genevra managed evenly. He could make of that response what he wished.

  ‘Mrs Ralston? When have we ever been so formal among friends?’ Henry laughed at his cousin. ‘This is Genni, or Genevra if you prefer. I stopped calling her “Mrs Ralston” ages ago. We’ve practically lived in each other’s pockets these past few months, caring for Uncle.’ Henry smiled fondly at her and reached across the short distance to cover her hand with his. It was meant to be a friendly, touching gesture, but Genevra sensed undercurrents of something else, as if the display wasn’t necessarily spontaneous. It certainly wasn’t characteristic. Genevra hated to think this unusual outpouring of affection was motivated by Henry’s meagre four per cent. Even more she hated that she was forced to think that way.

  ‘Tragedies have a way of bringing people closer together.’ Henry’s smile softened as he looked into her eyes for a brief, meaningful moment.

  Or tearing them apart. Genevra was distinctly uncomfortable. She and Henry had been perfectly good friends until yesterday. Henry had never intimated he wanted anything more from their association, which had made him all the more attractive to her. He was exactly what she was looking for: an intelligent companion who wouldn’t demand more than she wanted to give. She’d tried marriage once and found it not to her liking. She was in no hurry to try it again, even to the amiable Mr Bennington, and certainly not to his less-amiable cousin, Mr Bedevere, no matter how well he kissed.

  ‘We read to your father for hours on end.’ Genevra returned the conversation to Ashe, acutely aware that this was the second time Henry had excluded him.

  ‘How cosy,’ was all Ashe said.

  ‘Do you enjoy books as well?’ Genevra tried again.

  ‘I like picture books.’ Ashe gave a wicked grin that left no room for misunderstanding.

  ‘Good lord, Ashe. You’re even worse than I remembered.’ Henry scowled his disapproval, unwilling to let the second edgy comment pass without censure.

  ‘So are you,’ Ashe shot back.

  Whatever expectations she might have had of familial love between the cousins were completely vanquished in that single line. Tension thickened like the piano’s Babcock strings and Genevra looked about the room for a polite, neutral subject of conversation. Her eyes fell on the instrument against the wall.

  ‘Your cousin played the piano for me just before you arrived,’ Genevra told Henry. ‘He’s amazing.’

  Henry arched an eyebrow at Ashe. ‘You’re still playing? Well, that’s something at least. Your rebellion wasn’t a complete waste then, was it?’

  The tic in Ashe’s cheek began to throb again. It was time to get Henry off on his errand before there were fisticuffs in her parlour. Henry hadn’t made anything better, but he’d certainly made them worse. ‘I’d offer you a second cup, but I fear I’ve delayed you long enough.’ She rose and offered her hand to Henry. ‘Thank you for the invitation. It was kind of you to think of me.’

  ‘Then I am always kind.’ Henry bowed over her hand and made his exit.

  Ashe rolled his eyes, looking entirely at home in the wing-backed chair with his leg crossed over one knee, smashing any hope he would be leaving soon. ‘That’s the most beefwitted line I’ve heard. My cousin thinks himself a poet. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It was sweet.’ Genevra busied herself stacking the tea things on the tray.

  Perhaps Ashe would get the message that the interlude was over.

  ‘Do you think so? Do you fancy him?’ Ashe asked point blank.

  ‘We are merely friends.’ A cup nearly slipped out of her hands at his frankness.

  ‘It seems he’d like to be more than friends.’

  ‘And you?’ Genevra faced him, hands on hips. If he could be bold, so could she.

  ‘What are you sniffing around here for? I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression last night.’

  ‘I assure you, I got the right impression. I can’t afford not to. I only have two cheeks to slap.’ He followed her with his eyes to the bell pull as she rang for someone to come and remove the tray.

  ‘Is this the part where you regret to inform me I must leave because you have to get back to your projects, but in truth it’s because I’ve spoken too boldly and made you uncomfortable?’ Ashe was laughing at her with his eyes, and his mouth, which curved up into a wry, challenging smile, dared her to deny him.

  ‘Only if you don’t perceive the need to leave without being asked.’

  ‘And here I was, thinking I might get a tour of your gardens. After all the talk last night of landscaping, I did have hopes of sneaking a glimpse.’

  He had her there. Her gardens were her weakness. She loved to show them off.

  ‘Give me a moment to change my shoes.’ Genevra smiled. This would be the perfect way to show him his assumptions the night before were unfounded. She had legitimate reasons for eschewing London, starting with her gardens.

  *

  She showed him the topiary garden first with its trees shaped into exotic animals.

  There was a giraffe and a horse and an elephant, each set in a corner and surrounded by pansies that would bloom later in the spring. Even without the added colour of the flowers, this garden attracted the eye with its designs. Set between the sculpted animals were spiral-cedar topiaries set in large wooden planters.

  ‘I’ve tried to copy some Italian designs I’ve seen in pictures of the Boboli Gardens,’ Genevra explained. They walked side by side, but she’d been careful not to take his arm. She did not want to risk rekindling any of the flames from last night.

  Ashe stopped to look at one spiralling tree in a planter. ‘You’ve managed to capture it exactly right.’

  Her breath caught. ‘You’ve been to Florence?’

  Ashe nodded, bending down to look up through the tree’s shape. ‘All over Italy, actually. After Oxford, some friends and I went. We were all interested in the Renaissance and I wanted to see Cristofori’s pianos.’ He paused and she thought she saw a flicker of hesitation before he continued. ‘My father hadn’t wanted me to go. He loved England and didn’t see a reason to venture so far from home.’ One piece of the puzzle, Genevra thought. One brief insight into the inscrutable, mysterious past of Ashe Bedevere. She waited for more. It would be all she’d get.

  ‘I would love to travel,’ she offered to fill the silence. She’d only come to England because her circumstances demanded it in the wake of Philip’s death. If things hadn’t gone poorly, she might never have left Boston.

  ‘Then you should, Mrs Ralston.’ She wasn’t sure if that was an affirmation of her desire or a suggestion that she act on it with the utmost immediacy. Was he warning her off? All the better to gain control of her shares.

  They came to a patch of garden still under construction. He offered his hand and this time she took it as they navigated the little piles of rubble. ‘This will be a corridor of orchard trees and knot gardens, all leading to the fountain,’ she explained with a wide gesture of her free hand to indicate the water feature at the end of the lane. She was well aware he’d kept her other hand trapped in his even though the need was no longer there. His grip was warm and solid.

  ‘Gardens are a lot of work for someone who wishes to travel,’ Ashe murmured.

  She saw the contradiction too late. ‘The future is an uncertain creature. There’s no sense in not doing something in the
present simply because the future might provide a different opportunity. If it doesn’t, then much has been lost waiting for what might be.’

  They’d reached the wide bowl of the fountain. There was no one about, only the sound of the water splashing as it landed in the basin. They might have been the only two people in the whole world. One of his long fingers had begun to trace slow circles on the back of her hand, conjuring up a reminder of how his hands had drawn small circles on her back last night while he’d trailed kisses down her neck.

  ‘It sounds, Mrs Ralston, as if you know a thing or two about loss.’ The invitation to confess was quietly issued. The temptation to do just that was potent. Good lord, this was a man who knew how to touch a woman. His eyes were searching her face and, against all logic, she wanted him to kiss her again, to take away the responsibility of answering him. But he didn’t. He merely waited, his lips hovering tantalising inches from hers, reminding her of the possibilities.

  ‘I do,’ she whispered. She could give him that much at least. Admission wasn’t confession.

  ‘Is that why you’re here, Mrs Ralston? To seize the opportunities of the present or to hide from the past?’

  Chapter Seven

  Silver-grey eyes looked away to a spot over his shoulder and then back, a small smile taking her lips. ‘Is that what you’re doing here?’

  ‘I’m not hiding from my past, Mrs Ralston.’

  ‘No, I was incorrect there. You’re atoning for it.’ The words were not meanly said. Her voice was softly reflective as if she’d just come to the revelation herself.

  Her mouth was only inches from his, pink and inviting, her face tilted up to his, so close he could see the obsidian flecks of black in her deep-grey eyes. At this proximity, one might believe she was a well-tempered Pocket Venus. But Ashe had seen her quicksilver eyes flash with temper and other more tempestuous emotions. Yet up close, one could not miss the gentle, porcelain beauty of her features. Nor could one miss the undeniable proof that Mrs Ralston was not as immune as she seemed. A pulse-note beat at the base of her throat, quick and rapid, belying her attraction.

  He stepped back. He wouldn’t kiss her, not today. She might think he was in the habit of always kissing her. She might come to take those kisses for granted.

  That would do his seduction no good if he chose to pursue her. ‘You know nothing about me, Mrs Ralston.’

  ‘Or you me.’ Mrs Ralston’s features schooled themselves into an elegant portrayal of politeness. ‘Although you seem content to speculate that you do.’ Her implication was clear. She thought him a hypocrite.

  She was no coward, he’d give her that. Sharp tongued, sharp witted, Mrs Ralston was not easily bested.

  ‘Are all Americans like you?’

  ‘Are all Englishmen like you?’

  Just once he’d like to have her answer a question without another question. It was proving to be a frustratingly evasive tactic of hers.

  ‘My cousin isn’t anything like me.’

  ‘No, he’s certainly not.’ It was said equivocally. Was it Henry who’d been measured and come up lacking or was it himself? They were back to Henry, where they’d started. The conversation had come full circle.

  Ashe pulled out his pocketwatch and made a show of checking it. ‘Since we’re not likely to tell each other our secrets, this seems to be a good place to make my exit. Thank you for the tour of the garden. It was most insightful.’ She could spend her evening pondering what insights he’d gleaned. ‘I can show myself out.’

  He hadn’t gone more than twenty paces when she called out, ‘When will you be returning to London?’

  Ashe turned and said slowly, ‘I don’t have any plans to return to London in the immediate future, Mrs Ralston.’ He grinned, making her regret the impetuous question. ‘Were you afraid you’d miss me?’

  She did laugh at that, the same throaty sound he’d heard at dinner. ‘Miss you?

  Hardly.’

  Ashe resumed his departure and called over his shoulder, ‘You will, though.

  Adieu, Mrs Ralston, until next time. There will be a next time. You’re going to have to deal with my forty-five per cent whether you like it or not.’ If he squared his shoulders a little more than usual and walked a little straighter or with a bit more swagger, it was only because he knew she was watching. She liked to look at him. He’d caught her at it several times. It was a start. At least she wasn’t ignoring him, although that could be fun, too, if he had the time for it.

  *

  If the stakes weren’t so high, he’d thoroughly enjoy flirting with Genevra Ralston and then taking that flirtation a step further, Ashe mused, swinging up on Rex for the ride to the village and the public house. But the stakes were high. He could not gamble haphazardly. This was one seduction that had to succeed. He didn’t have a choice, no matter what he pretended to himself. There was no question of selling his shares and backing away just as there was no question of meekly accepting his less-than-majority ownership of his own estate’s regency. His track record in seduction was impeccable. It was her record he was worried about, especially if she had any loyalty towards Henry.

  The women he seduced were willing. His partners understood from the start this was a game just like vingt-et-un or whist with its rules and progressions. It was contractually understood that his partners knew where the game ended before they even started. He wasn’t entirely sure Genevra Ralston would play by those rules, or that she’d play at all in spite of her hot kisses and fast-beating pulse.

  In her case it wasn’t enough simply to want him. There was a fortitude to her that suggested her mind could resist the temptations of her heart. To win her, he’d need a strategy that went beyond chance meetings and the thrill of stolen kisses. It bore thinking about. It wouldn’t do for the one woman he couldn’t seduce to be the woman he had to marry.

  But now was not the time. Thoughts of Genevra Ralston’s grand seduction had to wait. Right now he had to concentrate on the evening ahead. Ashe touched the pocket of his coat. Inside were tokens of female affection, acquired from his various affaires in London: a ruby stick pin, a set of emerald cufflinks, a rhinestone pin. They would be enough to get him a few games of billiards at the assembly hall in town. He would start building his own bankroll for Bedevere. He would find the money to pay for improvements. Asking Genevra to advance him funds would only make it more obvious just how much he needed her fifty-one per cent.

  *

  Ah, there was nothing like the smell of ale and sweat to bring a man peace. Ashe breathed deeply of the pungent smells as he stepped into the back room of the public house. It might not be the freshest of odours, but it was familiar and right now that was enough. He always thought well when he played billiards. It was a lot like playing the piano. Focusing on the game freed his mind to think about other things with greater objectivity. He needed time to think and to raise funds.

  If luck was with him, tonight he’d be able to do both.

  Like most assembly rooms and public houses in villages across England, the village of Audley sported a billiards table. This particular table, Ashe noticed, was well used to put it mildly. But Ashe had faced better players on worse and tonight he just wanted to play, wanted to lose himself in the game. Ashe scanned the perimeter of the table and found his prey, not that it had taken much. The man was frankly advertising himself as a target.

  ‘Will no one play?’ the big man behind the baize table was gloating loudly. The crowd around the table shook their heads after the last victim had been dispatched. Ashe chuckled. He’d seen players like this before. The man had no finesse. He was too obvious with his skill. The trick was to hide one’s true skill until it was time to strike.

  Ashe stepped forwards and launched the first salvo in his private campaign to restore Bedevere. ‘I’ll play you.’ Tonight, he was going to make money the only way he knew how. It would be better if his usual comrades, Merrick or Riordan, were with him. They could have run the two-friends-and-a-strange
r gambit on this fellow. It would have been quicker. But Merrick was happily married in Hever with twin girls and lord only knew where Riordan was these days. Without them, Ashe would have to settle for quiet manipulation on his own.

  The crowd stepped back to make room for the newcomer. The heavier man studied him with disdain, already mentally dispatching him. Ashe knew what his opponent saw. He’d planned it that way on purpose—a younger man overdressed for this place with a pocket full of guineas, a veritable rooster for the plucking. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d worn to call on Mrs Ralston. They were riding clothes, to be sure, but they were well cut and made for an afternoon in Hyde Park. Good, Ashe thought. Be as cocky as you like.

  ‘What shall we play for?’ The man eyed him with barely contained greed.

  ‘This.’ Ashe placed a rhinestone pin on the rim of the table, drawing oohs from the crowd. The pin wasn’t extraordinarily expensive, but it was well made and the rhinestones had the desired effect, catching the light from the table lamp hung over the playing space. He could see the man’s eyes flare with interest. That’s right. Keep your eyes on the prize and you’ll forget to concentrate on the game.

  ‘Shall we go best three out of five?’

  Ashe played skilfully, losing the first two games and buoying the man’s substantial ego. He won the next three, and then the next three. The man gave up, but there was another to take his place. And after that, some enterprising soul had awakened the local billiards expert in the next village over and brought him in at dawn. That match had taken a while before Ashe claimed victory and put a thick roll of pound notes in his pocket, enough to pay wages for a month for anyone who wanted day labour at Bedevere.