How to Ruin a Reputation

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‘Genni will be our miracle, Ashton,’ Melisande said with a straightforward confidence that bore none of Ashe’s own cynicism on the subject.

Ashe didn’t wish to argue with his aunt, neither did he know how much they knew regarding the will. Was this a comment she made because of their less-than-subtle matchmaking efforts, or because she knew ‘Genni’s’ business acumen would save the estate? Ashe merely shrugged.

The non-committal shrug wasn’t enough for his aunt. Melisande leaned forwards and said with force, ‘Genni. We all like her and your father thought highly of her. She’s the one we want.’ He’d never heard his delicate flower of an aunt sound so demanding. At least the outburst had confirmed her motives. She was strictly about matchmaking. She didn’t know about his father’s arrangement, only her own.

‘She might not want me,’ Ashe ventured.

‘She will. You can be irresistible when you choose, Ashton.’ That shamed him. Aunt Melisande meant it with all the goodness of her heart, remembering the pretty child and the handsome youth. She had no idea how ‘irresistible’ the man had become or how he’d bartered those charms for a price.

Melisande pushed a soft package in brown wrapping paper across the desk at him. ‘Since you’re going for a ride, I thought you could take this to Seaton Hall. It can be your reason to visit and then you can apologise.’

‘Apologise for what, Aunt?’ Ashe drawled obtusely.

‘For whatever you did to her last night. She’s too much of a lady to say anything, but she left so quickly we knew something had happened. I hadn’t even had time to give this to her.’ A scolding and guilt all rolled into one.

Melisande patted his hand. ‘A good apology is never wasted on a woman’s heart, Ashton. Your great-uncle could always turn my head with one. Women are capable of great forgiveness if men ask for it.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Ashe teased, taking the package.

Melisande winked. ‘Then we’re capable of a great many other things.’ She rose and made to leave. ‘I’ll tell the groom you’ll want your horse brought around in twenty minutes.’

She shut the door behind her and Ashe let out a laugh. He’d been thoroughly manoeuvred by his seventy-three-year-old aunt. So much for delicate and fragile.

Twenty minutes later, Ashe swung up on Rex. Seaton Hall wouldn’t have been his destination of choice after last night. But, Ashe thought with a touch of mischief, it would be rather interesting to see how the stunning Mrs Ralston would follow up last night’s slap.

He spurred Rex into a canter and gave the big horse his head through the meadows. He took a jump over a stone fence and revelled at the wind in his face. He took another and let loose a cry of pure enjoyment. There weren’t fences like this in London. Anyone could ride in London as long as they could walk a horse through Hyde Park, but this kind of riding across open fields took an accomplished rider.

Ashe came to the road leading to Seaton Hall and reined Rex to a walk. No one in London thought of him as a country gentleman. It had been a long time since he’d thought of himself that way, but, buried and ignored, that was the stifled truth. Behind the fancy clothes and elegant manners, he was a product of the quiet rural lands of Staffordshire. Like himself, Staffordshire often struck him as a place of contradictions. The land was riddled with mining and industry, yet a large part of the land had also maintained its rural nature with fields for farming, and its proclivity for beautiful gardens; a proclivity Bedevere had apparently let slide in the last few years, but one that Seaton Hall had embraced with success from the look of things. Roles had been reversed. Under Genevra Ralston’s money and careful eye, Seaton Hall had emerged as the belle of the county while the once-elegant Bedevere strangled in weeds.

Ashe turned up the drive, noting with an appreciative eye the trimmed grass of the parkland, the organised flower beds showing early shoots of spring flowers poking through the soil. In a few months, those beds would be vivid with colours. Bedevere had looked like that once. Jealousy stabbed. He wanted Bedevere to look like that again. But that was foolishness, at least this year. One did not waste efforts on pretty gardens when there were bills to pay and mouths to feed. Perhaps if he could get a loan. Right now, everything hinged on money, even his own potential marriage. On his own, with no funds to speak of, what he could do was extremely limited. Once married to Mrs Ralston, an infinity of possibilities lay open to him—one more reason to sell himself in this marriage of his father’s choosing.

Ashe sighed. The reasons for marriage were mounting. His desire for freedom, to make his own choice when the time came were starting to look petty and stubborn next to the gains the marriage would give him.

At the door he was told Mrs Ralston was in the back gardens and was shown to a brightly done sitting room at the front of the house where he could wait. If the room was indicative of Seaton Hall’s recent fortunes, the American was doing very well for herself indeed. The creamy-yellow paint was fresh, the white-plaster moldings newly painted. Dusky-blue curtains framed the long windows overlooking the front drive. The pillows on the blue-and-yellow sofa were invitingly plump. Best of all, there was a pianoforte along the wall.

Ashe ran his hands along the keys experimentally, noting the full, mellow tones. It must be new if it had the Babcock strings. Curiosity piqued, Ashe gently lifted the lid of the case and peered inside, the old excitement rising. Ah, yes, the soundboard was cross-strung. He couldn’t resist.

Ashe sat down and began to play. It felt good, it felt liberating. There was no one to judge, no one to impress. This was just for him.

Chapter Six

Bedevere was here. The very thought brought a flutter to her usually stable stomach. What did one say to a man one had previously slapped? ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘I hope your cheek isn’t terribly sore today?’ Obviously the slap had not achieved the desired effect. He’d come to Seaton Hall, clearly undeterred. And here she was, gardening in an old gown in a desperate attempt to forget last night had ever happened.

If she was going to face Ashe Bedevere, she had to look decent. Genevra slid one of her favourite afternoon gowns over her head, a green-and-white sprigged-muslin affair that made her feel pretty and confident. She gave her hair a quick brushing to get rid of any garden debris she might have acquired. It wouldn’t do to give that green-eyed rogue a reason to touch her hair again, even if it was under the auspices of picking out a leaf.

Genevra was still trying out possible greetings on the stairs when she heard the music. It was lovely. Perhaps a lieder? It was far beyond anything she could produce. No one had mentioned Mr Bedevere had brought a guest.

At the doorway, Genevra halted in surprise. There was no guest. The musician was Bedevere himself. His back was to her and she took advantage of it, reacquainting herself with the broad shoulders and wavy black hair that skimmed decadently over his collar, too long and too full for fashion’s dictates, but just right for him.

The piece ended and Genevra clapped. He started at the intrusion and turned on the bench. ‘Please, continue.’ Genevra took up a seat on the sofa, relieved that the music had offered a neutral entrée into their meeting. She could smoothly avoid any awkwardness over last night now.

‘I am afraid the piano doesn’t get much use, but I thought I should have one anyway for musical evenings. Although I must confess, we haven’t had one yet for all our good intentions.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve played enough. It’s a fine instrument. It’s new, I can tell from the strings. Do you play, Mrs Ralston?’

‘Only moderately,’ Genevra confessed. ‘But I am glad the instrument is a good one.’

‘Come here, and I’ll show you how good it is.’ Bedevere moved to the side, gesturing for her to join him. She crossed the room, unable to refuse the irresistible excitement that hummed about him as he peered into the case. He smelled of wind and vanilla, an entirely intoxicating combination when associated with a man.

‘These strings are Babcock’s. He patented them a few years back. They’re thicker than the old strings, allowing for increased volume.’ Bedevere plucked a string inside the case for demonstration. ‘And now piano makers are cross-stringing the soundboards to create more resonance.’

With hands like that, she should have guessed. ‘You’re very accomplished, Mr Bedevere. I didn’t know.’

‘Please, call me Ashe if you don’t mind.’

Genevra recognised the dangerously quiet tones from last night. ‘Of course.’ She decided not to enquire. She didn’t want to spoil this pleasant truce after last night’s unpleasantness. ‘Will you stay for tea?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She went straight to the bell pull. This was England. Everyone stayed for tea.

‘I must apologise for dropping by unexpectedly, but I have something for you.’ Ashe took a seat and handed her a soft package.

A gift from him? An apology, perhaps, for his prior conduct? Certainly a gentleman would make the effort. A little flutter took up residence in her stomach as she played with the string. In the daylight, he seemed so civilised.

‘Melisande asked me to bring it.’

‘Of course.’ The flutter disappeared. Naturally it wasn’t from him. He was no gentleman and slapped men didn’t bring gifts. Genevra smiled to cover her mental error.

‘It must be Melisande’s latest embroidery pattern.’ Genevra held up the cloth. ‘Tell her it’s lovely. It will do well at the markets this spring.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ This time he was the one caught off guard and it did things to his face. His dark brows winged upwards, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Genevra folded the cloth up. ‘She and your other aunts sell their handiwork at the local markets. Cook even sends some jams. They did quite well last summer.’

‘My aunts sell crafts at the market?’ The look on Ashe’s face was incredulous bordering on furious. ‘Like merchants?’

Genevra replied evenly, ‘Yes, like merchants. Like most of the normal world, in fact. Not all of us live in such rarefied circumstances as a British gentleman, dashing around London looking for entertainment.’

A tight tic began to pulse low on Ashe’s jaw. Whatever tenuous truce they’d had over the music had evaporated. ‘Whose idea was this?’ he ground out, thankfully choosing to overlook the other insinuations she’d so carelessly made.

‘It was mine,’ Genevra said, grateful for the arrival of the tea tray to derail this line of conversation.

But Ashe wasn’t ready to let it go like a self-respecting gentleman. ‘Why ever would you suggest something like that?’ His disbelief was tangible as he took a tea cup from her. She took care to make sure their fingers didn’t touch.

‘They had no money and you were nowhere to be found.’ Genevra allowed her temper to spill over. ‘They had to do something and it was a very good something. They were too proud to take so much as a farthing from me. If you must know, people like to buy things that represent the peerage. It’s a good advertising angle. It’s far more exciting to buy a handkerchief embroidered by a real lady.’