4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

"A winemaker’s wife must never arrive unannounced; it’s important to give the husband ample time to feign indifference." – The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd paced the hall of his new house, the soles of his boots echoing against the polished floor. Servants scurried about like hens dodging a fox, caught up in the chaos of holiday preparations. A pair of children bounded down the stairs and into the garden—Julia and Griffin’s brood. He hadn’t bothered to learn their names yet. Almoster and Anne were already partaking in his hospitality, their presence adding some much-needed noise to the place.

All was set, except for Her Highness—Beth Croft.

He told himself his nerves were justified. After all, it would be hard to exact revenge on her father if the daughter didn’t appear. He didn’t hold out much hope for her, though. The girl’s spine had to be as flimsy as a parasol—only fit for fluttering and twirling.

She was surely prepared to find him the uncouth Scot everyone believed him to be. But he’d prove her wrong. Let her think she could fluster him. He’d be the perfect gentleman—a paragon of politeness—just to unsettle her.

Reginald stood off to the side, stiff as a sentinel in his ridiculous uniform, eyeing the door from his post near the grandfather clock. The lad looked as if he were preparing for a sprint in the Highland Games.

Boyd pulled out his watch, checking the hour. She should have arrived by now. Where was she? He hadn’t taken her for a coward, but perhaps all that poise was nothing more than the illusion of stiff taffeta and whale bones. Beneath the veneer, she was likely no different from the rest of high society—spoiled and eager to take advantage of others.

The sound of a carriage rolling into the courtyard made his pulse race. He glanced at Reginald, who sucked in a breath, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Boyd lunged for the door. Reginald sprang into a speed walk, his eyes riveted on the knob.

Boyd got there first. Before the footman could blink, Boyd flung the heavy oak doors open.

“Perhaps next time, Reggy.”

The lad groaned. “It’s Reginald, sir.”

“Whatever you say.”

When Boyd stepped outside, the sun momentarily blinded him. Even dazed, he couldn’t mistake the Croft crest emblazoned on the lacquered carriage door. The spiked crown glared at him, a sharp reminder of the same emblem that had slammed in his face when Croft tossed him out.

He squinted, resentment prickling hot along his spine. Of course, Croft would send her in his damn coat of arms. Like father, like daughter.

Boyd squared his shoulders, his posture rigid, braced as if preparing to battle a Highland bear.

Reginald sped past him. Flashing Boyd a look of restrained satisfaction, he opened the carriage door with a flourish.

Boyd tensed, expecting to see Croft’s tuft of white hair and bulbous nose. Instead, peeking from beneath the velvet skirts emerged the daintiest pair of shoes he had ever seen.

Boyd could swear the crushed river pebbles sighed, finally tread upon by footwear worthy of the king’s ransom they must have cost.

Exquisite ankles followed.

His mouth went dry, warmth rising low in his stomach and spreading into his chest, catching him off guard.

Christ’s teeth! It was only an ankle.

Too soon, the velvet skirts rushed out, concealing the tantalizing glimpse. He cursed the stinginess of the rich fabric. One sight of her ankles had his blood boiling. Ach, he must be a daft gowk for embarking on this holiday without a visit to the brothel.

Boyd held his breath, waiting for her to fully emerge.

A delicate hand, encased in impractical kid gloves the color of whipped cream, fluttered over Reggie’s forearm. The footman flushed as brightly as a lad wearing his Sunday best in a mud pit.

Boyd was about to push the lad aside when he came face to face with Elisabeth Croft in all her Lalique glory.

His gaze trailed from the flaring skirts of her gown to the most delectable waist he’d ever beheld, then to the high collar that framed the porcelain smoothness of her neck. Finally, he met green eyes half-hidden beneath a black net.

Her hat—if it could even be called that—was a delicate creation of velvet and lace, better suited for a drawing room in Belgravia than for a journey to the rugged Douro Valley. His hand twitched to pluck it off her head, letting her red hair cascade freely down her back. But no. He would be on his best behavior, damn it.

Boyd squared his shoulders and raised his chin, mimicking one of those apes from the British community.

“Mr. Sandeman, thank you for your gracious invitation.” Her gaze swept over the house, and her lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. “Your estate is breathtaking.”

Boyd tilted his head, his breath catching at the admiration in her voice. Was she impressed? Or was this simply the polite thing to say—words she gifted carelessly to appease? He shouldn’t care either way. This wasn’t a courtship.

Boyd crossed his arms. “Do you remember our agreement, Miss Croft?”

“How could I forget? Nonetheless, I appreciate your hospitality.”

His servants emerged, marching toward the carriage to unload her luggage. Boyd’s eyes narrowed as he watched the spectacle. Of course, she’d bring an army of trunks. No one who’d ever scraped by in life would think to carry such excess. Just more proof that her world was all fluff and privilege.

“A winemaker’s wife doesn’t need her entire wardrobe for a short visit.”

“This isn’t even one-tenth of my wardrobe. And I assure you, Mr. Sandeman, a lady’s appearance reflects upon her host’s own refinement. It’s only proper to present oneself fully equipped.”

His lips twitched. So the lass had a tongue.

“Fully equipped?” he drawled. “Looks more like you’re outfittin’ an army.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “A winemaker’s wife doesn’t need all that finery. Makes it harder to keep her balance on a rocky hillside.”

Miss Croft arched a brow, her composure unshaken. “A lady should know how to keep her balance, Mr. Sandeman. It’s called poise—something a gentleman should recognize.”

Reggie struggled with a cumbersome crate, his arms straining and his grip slipping as he tried to maneuver it onto the steps. Miss Croft charged forward just as it tipped dangerously to one side.

“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman,” Boyd said under his breath, mouth dry as he watched her trim back and flaring hips.

Before she could reach it, Boyd’s hand shot out, catching it mid-fall. He steadied it, grunting as he felt the surprising heft of the thing.

With a raised brow, he lowered it to the ground. “Ach, for the love o’ God, what’ve ye got here, Miss Croft? The crown jewels? Or maybe the Stone of Destiny?”

Miss Croft straightened, brushing off her skirts as if she hadn’t just bolted across the courtyard. Looking down her nose at him, she said coolly, “It isn’t polite, Mr. Sandeman, to pry into a lady’s luggage.”

So she’d implied he was both nosy and ill-mannered, all with a sweet smile. Boyd pressed his palms flat against his sides to keep from retaliating.

A sudden gust of wind whipped around them, sending the black net fluttering atop her nose. Before she could adjust it, Boyd plucked it off her hat.

He held it aloft like a prize, his grin slow and wicked, then tucked it neatly into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Mr. Sandeman!” Her fair skin flushed redder than a rowan berry.

A thrill shot through him as he shrugged, feigning innocence. “What? A winemaker’s wife should be able to see where she’s going.”

“That net is part of my ensemble.”

He gave her an exaggerated bow, tipping an imaginary hat. Beth crossed her arms, lips pressing into a thin line. Yet beneath her glower, Boyd noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Was she amused?

“Oh, aye, and quite the practical one,” he said. “But we can’t have you tripping over your finery while you cart your precious luggage, can we?”

She gasped, her composure finally cracking. “Cart my luggage? But—”

Griffin and Julia appeared, their postures radiating the exasperation of parents dealing with unruly children.

Laughing, Julia slipped her arm through Beth’s. “Never mind this grouchy boar. I will show you to your room. Cart your luggage, indeed. I’m sure Boyd’s sense of humor will mature with age. Perhaps if we place him in an oak barrel to speed the process a bit.”

They climbed the front steps, Julia’s black hair and petite form contrasting with Beth’s lithe frame and red hair. Reggie sped ahead, bowing so low he nearly scraped his chin against the floor as he opened the door with the flourish of one welcoming foreign royalty.

Left standing in the courtyard, the sun baking his nape even in the height of winter, Boyd glared after Julia. Why was she so comfortable with Beth, anyway? Her husband’s former fiancée? He hadn’t accounted for the possibility that his friends would take Beth’s side, treating her like the princess she was, while making him out to be some uncouth Scottish beast.

Maxwell bumped his shoulder. “What the hell is bloody wrong with you?”

Boyd growled at his friend, just like the animal Julia had implied he was. Curse his temper.