Bronwyn Scott - How to Ruin a Reputation

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.’