How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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, Ashe 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