5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

"To maintain grace, a lady ensures her coiffure remains flawless, no matter the winds—or the whims—she encounters." From The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

“ W here is your toque, Miss Beth? The one with the black lace?” Dora rummaged through Beth’s valises and chests.

Where was it? Mr. Sandeman had taken it with his inquisitive fingers, just as he’d stolen her peacock feather. No doubt to vex her.

Beth studied her reflection, willing the flushed color in her cheeks to recede. A lady shouldn’t allow herself to feel so... unsettled. He was every inch the barbarian her mother had warned her about. Loud, brazen, with all the subtlety of a winter gale. A strong, impossible-to-ignore Gaelic gale.

Beth exhaled sharply, straightening her shoulders to shrug off his lingering presence. Her goal here had to come first—she needed this marriage. But she would do it on her terms. Like a lady. “Don’t you think yellow makes me look confident?” she asked. She’d need every ounce of poise if Boyd Sandeman insisted on being, well... himself.

Dora raised her eyebrows, arms crossing impudently. “Oui, confident. A beacon in the middle of the Douro. I’m certain Mr. Boyd won’t have difficulty finding his way home.”

“It’s striking, not... excessive. Besides, yellow complements my hair,” Beth said firmly. Hopefully, it would show her in the best possible light.

Dora pursed her lips, stepping forward to pin a curl in Beth’s coiffure. “Oh, absolutely, Miss Beth. If the challenge is blinding him with your radiance, I’d say you’ve already won.”

“The gown is perfectly appropriate for whatever awaits me. Thank you for your ever-helpful insight.”

“My pleasure, Miss Beth. Just promise me, if you get stuck in the mud, do it with grace. Your mother will sack me if you come back with muddy skirts.”

After assuring her maid that she would mind her accessories, Beth left her room. She traversed the corridors, pausing to touch a Constable painting and a Canova sculpture. The mansion was grander than anything she’d imagined—gilded frames holding works of art, elaborate carvings on the banisters, and chandeliers casting golden light over the marble floors. Boyd Sandeman, the Scotsman turned wine tycoon, had spared no expense. Unlike the garish parvenu statement she had expected, the house was classic and beautiful.

If she told herself she didn’t imagine being its mistress, she would be lying. It wasn’t just the grandeur or the tastefulness of the place—though those mattered, of course—but the idea of belonging here. Living in the future, not stuck in the past as the girl whose fiancé had left her, as if the most interesting thing about her life had come and gone.

It had been so long since she’d glimpsed something fresh, something new, that she filled her lungs with the scent of polished wood. She could be Mr. Sandeman’s wife. He would give her security, and she would be a suitable, civilizing companion for him.

The thought bubbled inside her, a breathless giddiness—hope. But what could she do, really, to impress a man so... different? Whatever the job description for a winemaker’s wife entailed, she would strive to deliver.

The other option? There was no other option. She would not return a failure, and she certainly wouldn’t ruin herself, no matter what her father had crudely suggested.

Perhaps she could dazzle Boyd with her management skills, taking charge of his household. But cunning as he was, he’d see right through her ploy. Besides, the house already seemed well managed. Whoever Boyd had hired as housekeeper was doing an excellent job.

A faint noise echoed from the left, and Beth walked gingerly, half-afraid Mr. Sandeman would pounce on her.

She caught herself biting her lip and forced her hands to relax at her sides.

An open balcony at the end of the hallway drew her forward with the promise of fresh air. When she reached the balustrade, the sight stopped her in her tracks.

The Douro River spread out before her like a ribbon of silver and green, flanked by terraced vineyards that rose into the hills beyond.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” A singsong voice called from her left.

“It is the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen,” Beth said, awestruck.

Lady Almoster smiled warmly. “Careful, dear. The river has enchanted many a Brit. Before long, we flung out top hats and toques, eager to stay.”

Beth startled. Remembering her manners, she curtsied. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded.”

Lady Almoster glided closer, her smile luminous and inviting. Beth had met her before, back when she was simply Anne Maxwell, at drawing rooms and balls within the English community in Oporto. But that was before Anne had married Pedro Daun, Portugal’s prime minister, and become the Duchess of Almoster.

Beth’s mother had raved endlessly about Anne’s achievement, marrying into Portuguese royalty, while Beth had sighed over their romantic story—a forbidden love, filled with thrilling adventures, the stuff of fairy tales.

Anne interlaced their fingers, lifting Beth from her curtsy. “No need for formalities here. Are we not among friends?” She kissed Beth’s cheeks in the French manner. “Now, come. Meet my babies.”

“Babies?” Beth laughed nervously.

Sleeping in a pram beside Anne were two perfect beings with cherubic features and golden hair.

“This is Inês Daun, Countess of Salgueiro, and this strapping boy is my tiny knight, Pedro II, Marquess of Luz.”

“They are so lovely. Congratulations, My Lady.”

“Anne will do. Now, come and sit with us. Tell us all about you and Boyd. Inês promises not to repeat a word, and Pedro is a gentleman. You can trust his discretion.”

Beth followed dutifully, still dazzled by Anne’s bright presence, her blonde hair catching the afternoon sun.

Mrs. Julia Maxwell was perched on the table nearby, rocking the pram with one hand.

Julia Maxwell. The perfect winemaker’s wife. In fact, the perfect winemaker. The best in all the Douro.

How could Beth compete with her striking black hair and ebony eyes?

Who was Beth fooling? She’d already lost the competition once. Precisely six years ago.

Their encounter by the entrance had surprised Beth. While she had expected a cold shoulder from the woman who had won Mr. Maxwell’s heart, she had instead been greeted with a kind smile. Did Mrs. Maxwell hold no grudges against her?

“I’m afraid there’s nothing much to say. He invited me here, and I... I came.” Beth sat daintily, waiting for their reactions. Would they think her desperate? Wanton, even?

“Well, that’s Boyd for you. Straight to the point.” Mrs. Maxwell stared at her matter-of-factly, as though a lady coming to a house party to test her mettle as a winemaker’s wife were a common life occurrence.

“I don’t know him enough to pass judgment,” Beth said.

“We’ve been waiting for him to settle down for ages now, and when he told us he had invited you, we celebrated his wisdom.” Julia twirled her spoon through the air. “Don’t be afraid of his gruff demeanor. He’s a dear man underneath all that,” she paused, “exterior carapace. Like all superb wines, his essence is hidden deep inside. It’s just a matter of persevering... and continuing to taste.”

Beth lifted her gaze to her former rival. They both seemed to accept her presence, even cheer for her. The unexpected camaraderie warmed her from the inside out. “Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell.”

“It’s Julia. And you can count on us. We women should support each other, don’t you think?”

The doors burst open, and Boyd strode through, his gaze tunneling straight to Beth. “Miss Croft, there you are.” He paused, noting her company.

Anne beamed. “Come join us. We were just talking about recalcitrant wines.”

Beth straightened her posture, producing a bright smile to rival her dress. This was her opportunity—to show her expertise and prove herself worthy.

Settling into polite conversation, her voice smooth and measured, Beth responded to Anne’s remarks with the perfect balance of attentiveness and charm. Out of the corner of her eye, she felt Boyd’s gaze lingering on her.

“The estate is magnificent,” she said. “I imagine it takes a man of vision to create such a place.”

He shrugged, slouching into a chair beside her. “It takes money, not vision. I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Croft didn’t come to the Douro to enjoy tea. She promised me a walk about the vineyards, didn’t you, Miss Croft?”

Under his unflinching gaze, her pulse quickened, though she kept her expression placid. She glanced from the tempting Portuguese pastries to the terraces and vines, which looked more picturesque than welcoming.

Boyd leaned back, his grin slow. “Don’t be afraid, Miss Croft. Your reputation will be safe. I can’t ravish you in plain view of these ladies, now can I?”

Beth’s smile turned thin, but she kept her face impassive, refusing to take the bait.

Anne laughed. “Our Beth just arrived. Let her enjoy a refreshment before you drag her off.”

Boyd crossed his arms, his expression closing. “Fine. Be quick about it.”

To pour tea with flawless etiquette was the mark of a true lady, for in such small graces, elegance and refinement were revealed. Beth tipped the teapot with precision, the liquid streaming in a graceful arc—no splashes, no falters.

She glanced up through her lashes and caught Boyd’s gaze before offering him the cup with a demure smile.

He pushed it away. “I never drink tea. Tea’s for ladies and old men.”

Her cheeks heated, but she drew a deep breath. It was only tea. She would have other chances to prove her worth.

The babies began to howl and wail.

Anne picked up her daughter. “Someone needs a change of diaper. Julia, would you help me?” A subtle communication passed between the women.

Anne handed her son firmly into Beth’s lap. Julia winked as she followed Anne from the veranda. “Remember to keep tasting, Miss Croft.”

Beth stared at the boy in her lap, whose mouth turned into a sad bow.

“There now, no need to cry.”

She bounced him gently. He stared back at her with caramel-colored eyes so intelligent she half-expected him to start declaiming poetry—or worse, reprimanding her.

How did one hold a wiggling baby while showing herself in the best possible light?

“The weather is just perfect, don’t you think, Mr. Sandeman?” she asked, attempting small talk.

“If it doesn’t rain soon, the year’s vintage will suffer. Are you sure you know your way around lads, Miss Croft?”

“Oh, of course. I take care of children all the time.”

If porcelain dolls and the one time she held her cook’s newborn daughter counted as “children,” that was.

Beth felt a tug on her hair and winced. Before she could react, little Pedro had both hands tangled in her curls. A lock tumbled loose. Her practiced smile slipped like the pins from her coiffure.

“Red,” the baby said, his fingers twisting deeper into her hair.

“Oh, he can speak!” she said with a wince, glancing at Boyd as if to say, Isn’t this darling?

Pain shot from her scalp, but she masked her gasps with genteel laughter.

Boyd raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Are you all right, lass?”

Her neck strained under the baby’s determined grip, tears pricking her eyes. “A mother should remain calm and composed in the face of a child’s misbehavior, don’t you think?”

Boyd shifted closer in his chair. “Aye, or she could get untangled before the bairn scalps her. Here, let me.”

His fingers brushed her cheek as he weaved between her strands and the baby’s fingers. Who could guess that a man’s hands could produce so much heat? He spoke with the baby, not in the tycoon’s polished speech, but in a mellow brogue that had her forgetting all about the pain.

Her eyes flicked to his lips, her pulse drumming wildly at the gentleness of his voice and touch.

When the baby’s left hand released Beth’s hair, it promptly latched into Mr. Sandeman’s brown locks, and quite suddenly, their faces were pulled together.

Her heart smashed against the confines of her corset as his bristled cheek rasped against her lips. Heat curled in her stomach, and her gasp was so loud that no laughter—genteel or otherwise—could conceal it.

She prayed he wouldn’t notice her wild reaction while little Pedro continued to coo, oblivious to the chaos he had caused.

“This is one cunning bairn,” Mr. Sandeman said, his voice lowering as his breath warmed her neck. “Here, have this.”

He handed Pedro his watch.

“Shiny,” the baby declared, releasing them as his gaze riveted on the ticking amusement.

But Mr. Sandeman had yet to let go of her hair.

No one besides Dora—and now little Pedro—had ever touched her strands. Yet here he was, twirling a lock over his finger. She inhaled deeply, catching the scent of clean linen and crushed grapes clinging to him, and tucked it away into this strange new part of herself that seemed determined to catalog every nuance of him.

His touch was quiet, reverent, and Beth held very still. If she moved even a muscle, he would stop.

But he should stop, shouldn’t he?

A lady didn’t allow a man to touch her hair. Such an intimate gesture should be reserved for the closest of bonds. But as much as propriety screamed for her to pull away, she couldn’t muster a single reprimand past her parted lips.

“You have beautiful hair, Miss Croft,” he murmured. “No wonder the lad wants to entangle himself in it.”

Her gaze rose to his, and the blue of his irises entranced her. The Douro River, the vineyards, little Pedro, even the corset keeping her spine from melting—all of it faded. Her heart flapped desperate wings against her ribs, and she closed her eyes, her lips tingling.

A throat cleared behind them.

Beth’s eyes snapped open. Anne and Julia stood nearby, brows arched in unison.

Her breath caught. What must they think?

Catching her and Mr. Sandeman so close together—with her coiffure in shambles, no less? Grand ladies were ruined by less. She drew a steadying breath, willing her composure back, even as her scalp tingled from his touch. So much for doing things her way.

Boyd chuckled, reclaiming his watch from little Pedro’s grip. “Now, before ye point fingers, I’ll have ye know it was this wee scoundrel who did the ravishing.”