How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott

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.