How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott

      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.’