7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

"A winemaker knows that boldness in action, like boldness in flavor, leaves the strongest impression—whether sweet or scandalous." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

W hen Boyd entered the dining room, four heads lifted to meet him with varied shades of reproach. What was the matter with them? Could a man not write correspondence and be five minutes late for dinner without incurring their collective wrath?

Look at them, all basking in privileged domesticity. Griffin held Julia’s hand like a lovesick poet, while Almoster—Portugal’s most powerful politician—looked at his wife with a hunger that should have been forbidden in married couples.

Boyd, on the other hand, was content living alone, free from the rules of marriage. No one to chastise him for lateness or question his choices in his own house. Whoever invented marriage had to have been a woman.

Only Miss Croft seemed unbothered by his tardiness. She was fixated on the Sèvres porcelain, her gaze avoiding him entirely. He sought her eyes anyway, willing her to stop inspecting the tableware and brave the laird on his throne.

“Did you rest well, Miss Croft? Or did the vineyard get the better of you?”

She tapped her lips with an embroidered handkerchief—the table linen napkin no doubt far too coarse for her delicate fingers. Perfectly poised again, she looked every inch the proper lady.

Boyd hated it. He preferred her hair askew, mud on her flawless skin.

“I recovered just fine. Thank you, Mr. Sandeman.”

Boyd could not say the same. His back ached, his boots were full of pebbles, and his balls would be blue for a week.

Maxwell cleared his throat, his gaze flicking pointedly between Boyd and Miss Croft. “A gentleman treats a lady properly, no matter the setting.”

Boyd slouched into his chair at the head of the table, throwing Griffin a devilish grin. Let him protect the delicate English rose from the big, bad Scotsman during dinner. But who would defend her later, during tonight’s challenge?

He cast a sidelong glance at her, his voice laced with faux concern. “Did you get mauled by a bear, Miss Croft? Last I checked, she’d dirtied her nails but returned in one piece.”

She could wash her hands. Hell, she could soak in that blasted marble tub all night, scrubbing every speck of dirt from her pristine fingers. But who was going to look after his dignity—and his damn balls? Certainly not her guardians, who gave not a whit about his suffering.

Miss Croft clutched the handkerchief tighter. “Of course not. It was very instructive.”

Maxwell lounged in his chair, though his knuckles whitened against his glass. “You should have taken Julia with you to the vineyards, Boyd. She’d have loved to help explain the vines.”

Julia started, her gaze darting between her husband and Miss Croft. “Would I? I think Boyd is perfectly capable of explaining winemaking.”

Smiling, Anne elbowed her brother. “If you weren’t such an unromantic ox, Griff, you’d realize they don’t need a third wheel.”

Miss Croft flushed a glorious shade of red, her color rivaling her fiery hair. Would the rest of her skin turn that pretty shade, too? Boyd’s mouth went dry at the thought of uncovering all the places that might blush. He swallowed the lewdness with a smirk.

“Yes, Griff. Don’t be such an unromantic ox.”

While Maxwell bristled, Miss Croft covered her lips with the handkerchief again. That prim little scrap of cloth was a shield, her polished weapon of choice. Boyd’s fingers tingled to snatch it from her.

Why did he feel this strange pull to claim it? He couldn’t say, only that he must. A fair token after the trials she’d put him through this afternoon. A private mark of victory—clutched on the field of battle.

He was leaning forward, ready to swipe it, when Almoster cleared his throat.

“After the holidays, I’d like you to come to Lisbon for a foreign trade meeting. The country would profit from your presence. If, of course, you won’t be detained here.”

Almoster’s gaze flicked briefly to Miss Croft.

Boyd leaned back, narrowing his eyes. Was the duke trying to lure him to Lisbon to distract him from Beth? Why?

The duke stared at him with an unreadable expression, candlelight catching his blond hair and aristocratic features. Almoster’s old-world charm masked a calculating nature, one that measured the worth of every inch of the table—including its guests.

Boyd was an expert judge of people’s intentions. What game was Almoster playing? He wouldn’t offer a seat at the king’s table for nothing. Unlike Maxwell, Almoster wasn’t concerned about Beth’s delicate sensibilities.

But then... what?

“I’m always open to conversations,” Boyd said, inclining his head.

Conversations that benefited Sandeman Company, not a circle of entitled aristocrats.

Reggie and the other footmen entered, bearing the first course. The scent of roasted game and rich sauces filled the air. The housekeeper had outdone herself tonight—Boyd made a mental note to increase her paycheck. Everything was as it should be: delicate china, glinting crystal glasses, a display designed to silence even the most critical aristocratic eye.

Boyd’s gaze flicked to the handkerchief folded neatly in Beth’s lap. He could practically feel the smooth fabric between his fingers. His pulse quickened, a strange thrill rising in his chest as he imagined her reaction when he took it.

Anne caught Beth’s attention, and Boyd leaned in, fingers twitching toward his prize.

She turned her head abruptly. “Mr. Sandeman, what on earth are you—”

Boyd leaned back, smirking. “Admiring your handiwork, Miss Croft. A fine handkerchief for a fine lady.”

Beth clutched the kerchief closer to herself. Damnation. Now she’d be on her guard. Barring a frontal attack that would cause too much of a scene, he’d have to wait.

Dinner proceeded without further chances to claim his boon. He proposed a shooting excursion for the gentlemen, Miss Croft invited the ladies for a picnic, and all congratulated the cook. Boyd put his table etiquette lessons to use, ensuring even the escargot passed without incident.

But his attention kept straying to Beth. Her voice floated above the table, filling the space effortlessly. She didn’t just occupy a room; she inhabited it, scattering the edges of the silence he knew so well.

Then she laughed at something Anne said, and the sound tugged at him. Silvery, like a stream tumbling over rocks. His lips twitched involuntarily, and before he knew it, he was leaning toward her laugh.

What would it be like to have her at this table every night? To hear her voice cut through the loneliness that often settled over his meals?

Boyd forced his gaze to his calloused hands, gripping his glass tightly. That’s a steep price to pay to eliminate the silence. He drowned the thought with a mouthful of port.

Julia lifted her glass to him. “I saw the advertisement for Sandeman Port in the newspaper this morning. Bold and eye-catching. I’m sure it’ll make quite the impression.”

Boyd tapped the table lightly. “The art came from Paris, commissioned by Jean d’Ylen.” Only one of the most famous—and expensive—artists in Europe.

The Parisian had delivered. A striking image of a centaur carrying a lady, her fiery hair streaming as she clung to him, eyes alight with something between fear and exhilaration. The centaur, triumphant, held her and the wine in equal possession.

“It caused quite the stir when it hit the streets of Paris,” Boyd said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Some called it diabolical. Lustful, even. But I call it effective. By the end of the month, it’ll be in every newspaper from here to London, plastered on every tavern wall on both sides of the channel.”

Almoster narrowed his eyes. “That’s quite an aggressive move. I wonder if stirring public opinion so boldly is wise.”

The colors were bold, too vivid for delicate sensibilities. But that’s what made it stand out. It wasn’t meant for the quiet married sheep locked in their homemade bliss.

Anne, smiling, kissed her husband’s cheek. “Oh, but I think it’s rather romantic. A centaur and a lady? It sounds like something from a novel—a daring, thrilling adventure.”

Beth’s gaze turned to Boyd. “I’d love to see it. It sounds... fascinating.”

Pulse quickening, Boyd stared at her lips as they formed the word, the last syllable closing like a sultry kiss. What would it take for her to call him fascinating? If he became a centaur and carried her on his back, would that be enough? Hardly.

An uncouth brute like him could be ruthless, relentless—never fascinating.

Maxwell cleared his throat. “I’m not sure it’s suitable for young ladies, Miss Croft. Mr. Sandeman has had more than a few complaints on that front. Isn’t that right, Boyd?”

“Ah yes, complaints,” Boyd said, smirking. “A certain Mrs. Smith of Leicester was particularly scandalized. She wrote asking if a proper lady would have to ‘climb the devil’s back for a bottle of port.’ My staff even wrote a limerick for her.

‘It seems there’s a young lady from Leicester,

Who would not say no if you pressed her.

But the trollop who rides,

On the wild horse’s sides,

Has put her off port and depressed her.’”

The room burst into laughter—except for Maxwell, whose frown deepened.

As the words hung in the air, Boyd seized his chance. He leaned forward and snatched the handkerchief from Beth’s lap.

She stiffened, her face flushing as her hand grasped at empty space. Still, she couldn’t openly react without causing a scene.

She shot him a sharp glance. Boyd met her eyes with a lazy, satisfied grin, smoothing the soft fabric between his fingers. It was warm, holding the ghost of her touch.

Maxwell glowered at him. “That’s hardly suitable conversation for mixed company, Boyd.”

Boyd’s teeth clenched. Maxwell’s British Don Quixote act was grating on his nerves. “I didn’t realize someone appointed you the arbitrator, Maxwell.”

Julia’s face flushed, her black eyes flashing as she glanced at her husband. Boyd smirked. There, old fool—you’ve infuriated your wife as well. Good luck explaining your sudden interest in your former fiancée.

Griffin took Julia’s hand, entwining their fingers in a gesture of quiet intimacy. Though her shoulders stiffened, there was a complicity between them that left Boyd’s chest hollow.

His gaze shifted to Anne and Almoster, who shared the same kind of closeness. Even as Anne engaged Beth in conversation, the duke’s protective presence hovered like an unspoken promise.

At his end of the table, silence closed in again, dull and unwelcome.

Boyd looked away from them all, brushing his thumb against the handkerchief. Miss Croft’s initials, stitched with genteel care, felt strange beneath his calloused fingers—a poor substitute for her hand in his.