8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

"A lady ensures her virtue remains untested by steering clear of any moment that invites temptation." From The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

B eth opened the door to Mr. Sandeman’s room gingerly. Darkness enveloped the vast space. When her gaze landed on the lone figure sitting in the shadows, her heart stuttered. The faint light from the hearth caught the roughness of his stubbled jaw, darkening the line of his mouth. His cravat hung loose around his neck, the starched elegance undone.

He seemed tired and... intense. But his eyes—God, those eyes. The too-vivid blue glowed, the only real color in the room, piercing through the dim light and rooting her to the spot.

Surely the long day or the vineyard air was to blame for her reckless actions. What am I doing here? Complying with his summons was one thing, but to meet him here, alone, was entirely another. Was she truly more concerned about passing his challenge than preserving her virtue? Why couldn’t this be a drawing-room courtship, with clear rules of engagement, where poise and restraint were her allies?

“Close the door, Miss Croft.”

His voice made her gasp. Beth jumped, fumbling with the latch, and did as he bade. Perhaps she could convince him these night challenges were simply not done. But how could one instruct a man on propriety when he recited obscene limericks in mixed company? Beth Croft, you are not reasoning.

The tingle in her stomach hadn’t left, even after an entire day in his company. If anything, it had grown, pulling her further off balance.

Her eyes flickered to a heavy crystal decanter on the side table beside him, filled halfway with a deep, garnet-colored scotch that seemed to absorb the room’s low light, turning it into something dark and dangerous. Had he been drinking?

“Mr. Sandeman, if I may... a few words. I don’t think this is quite necessary. In fact, I believe I should—”

“Are you going to give up so easily, Miss Croft? Perhaps the backbone I felt in you this afternoon was merely the steel of your corset.”

Her spine snapped straight. She gave him a look that she hoped conveyed precisely how much she liked him at that moment. “What will be my challenge, Mr. Sandeman?”

“Come closer. I’m not about to eat you. Not while you are lurking in the doorway, anyway.”

His tone had shifted back into the polished tycoon’s, but the way he sprawled in the chair—knees apart, cravat loose—made a shiver race up her spine.

She crossed the Persian rug, stopping a few paces from him. Again, he was sitting while she was standing. He could pretend good manners at the dinner table, wielding cutlery and wine glasses with ease, but no man could feign certain traits.

He glanced at the distance between them and raised an eyebrow.

Her legs moved of their own accord, bringing her closer until she stood just shy of his knees.

“Kiss me, Miss Croft.”

She gasped. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she clenched them tightly, willing her hands to hold on to some semblance of composure.

His brow shot up, and his lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “A proper winemaker’s wife knows how to kiss.”

Beth stared at him.

“I’m waiting, Miss Croft.”

Should she give up? Hurl the decanter at his head and leave? But what of her father? Her family’s desperate situation?

Clenching and unclenching her hands, she shuffled to his side. She didn’t have a butterfly in her stomach—she had a whole swarm of them. With all those wings flapping wildly inside her, she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Beth straightened—until his hand shot up to catch her chin. He tilted her face, his gaze locking on hers.

“On the mouth, Miss Croft.”

On the mouth? A lady’s lips were a promise she held dear, saving her first kiss for the sanctity of marriage. Beth exhaled all the air in her lungs. This was just one more test.

Shutting her eyes tightly, she pecked his lips.

“This is all you got, Miss Croft?”

Remembering when she spotted a maid with a footman in the servant’s quarters, she glued her lips to his. Her heart sped out of control. Panting, she opened her eyes.

“That’s better. If you want to marry a priest.” His judgmental brows lifted.

The tone of his voice, the glacier in his gaze, her exhaustion... It was too much. Beth sighed, her chin trembling, and she was again, for the second time of the day, on the verge of tears. Which was ridiculous. Before Mr. Sandeman’s challenges, she had seldom cried. “I don’t know how.”

Silence. A heavy exhale. Now he would send her away, and she would have to—“Use your hands, Miss Croft.”

Beth hesitated for a full five seconds before cupping his face. He caught her hand in his and removed her gloves.

“A winemaker’s wife never touches his husband with her gloves on.”

“I feel you are inventing these as we go, Mr. Sandeman. Soon, you’ll have more rules than my etiquette book.”

He peeled away the lace and silk, baring her fingers to the cool air and his hungry eyes. He then placed her gloves in his pocket. There went another piece of her trousseau. Would she still have one after these tests were over?

“Now, touch, Miss Croft.”

Beth obliged. Later, perhaps, she would reprimand herself or regret this, but the soft shadows and the cocoon of light made it all too intimate. She touched his brows first. Why? She didn’t know, but they seemed so mobile. If she became friends with his eyebrows, they would stop judging her so fiercely. Approve of her for a change? She caressed his bristled cheek next, marveling at how rough his skin felt compared to her own. He twitched when her fingers reached the bridge of his nose, and when she brushed his bottom lip, he stopped breathing.

She met his gaze. The expression he wore made her heart retreat, cowering behind her ribs.

“You know, Mr. Sandeman, that sitting while a woman stands is rude?”

“I’m a rude man, Miss Croft. You do not know how much. But, never say, I cannot learn.”

His hands slid from the armchair and settled around her waist. Before she could process what he was doing, he pulled her into his lap.

By Heavens, the heat of a Highlander. It climbed from her buttocks to her chest until she felt as though she were inside a furnace. Perhaps a winemaker’s wife would never need to worry about heating in winter—at least not in the bedroom. The thought alone made her cheeks burn.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, more erratic than her cousin Victoria’s at her worst. Beth immediately smoothed her skirts, desperate to cling to a modicum of modesty.

He caught her wrist. “Leave them as is. Proceed, Miss Croft.”

His thighs were hard beneath her, and thank the stars he wore no kilt. How much more improper would this challenge be if his legs were bare? Perched on his lap, every inch of him gained a boldness she couldn’t ignore—the firm muscles beneath her, the solid warmth of his chest, the quiet command in his grip.

“I—I presume a winemaker’s wife sits in her husband’s lap to kiss him?”

He grunted.

Beth leaned forward, eyes closed.

It was his turn to touch her. He cradled her face, his lips brushing hers before nibbling softly. “Open for me, Beth.”

“Mr. Sandeman, I don’t think—”

Slowly, his tongue traced the seam of her lips. She hesitated, every refined instinct urging her to pull away, to preserve that final barrier. But when his hand slid up her spine, fingers splaying over her back, her defenses melted. Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.

Boyd’s possession was deliberate, warm, and—God help her—utterly consuming. The taste of him, forbidding and Scotch, made her head spin. His arms closed around her, pulling her flush against him, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath her fingertips. Madness. Utter, ruinous madness.

She shivered, and her fingers curled against his chest. The warmth of him, the sheer scandal, all blended into a moment that would haunt her every quiet hour. Her hands lifted, then hesitated at his shoulders. She wanted to hold on, to steady herself, but the sensation of his mouth against hers sent her pulse into a frantic quadrille dance, and she caressed his cheek. This time, when his tongue pushed inside her lips, she... she tasted him.

A groan escaped him, low and unguarded. “There now, that’s how a winemaker’s wife steals a man’s breath.”

His kiss grew bolder, his tongue sliding against hers in a deep, searching rhythm that left her dizzy. The firmness of his chest against hers, the rough scrape of his stubble along her jaw—it was too much.

A shiver ran through her as his hand rose to cup her face. Heat unfurled through her, awakening parts of her that had no decent names. Her fingers found his shoulders, clutching to keep herself steady even as his kiss threatened to unravel every careful boundary she’d clung to.

He relinquished the mouth invasion to brush his lips against her cheek. “Call me by my name.”

his voice was hot on her neck, hot everywhere.

“That would not be proper,” she panted, her lips tingling, missing the contact.

“A winemaker’s wife calls her husband by his name.”

“I’m not a winemaker’s wife. Propriety—”

“You have my tongue in your mouth, Beth. Fuck propriety. Say my name.”

“Boyd.”

His groan was low, unexpected, sending a jolt through her.

He pulled away abruptly, his forehead leaning against hers as his breathing grew harsh.

She was sitting in his lap, willing his mouth back, when he caught her by her forearms and set her on her feet.

“The challenge is over, lass. Now, away with ye.”

Beth wobbled, silently congratulating her legs for holding steady. Straightening with as much dignity as she could muster, she met his gaze.

His jaw clenched, his breath ragged.

“Did I... pass?”

Mr. Sandeman’s eyes darkened. “Aye, Beth, ye passed—if the test was to kill the prospective groom.”

Her brows furrowed. “Kill? I... I don’t understand. Should I try again, then?”

The insufferable man groaned. “Lass, if ye don’t want to know just how well ye passed, I suggest ye race back to yer room.”

Beth’s eyes widened at the intensity in his voice. A drawing-room groom would never look at his bride with such heat.

She lifted her fingers to her lips. The kiss they had shared—unbridled, electric—had little place in a drawing-room courtship. Well… Perhaps a drawing-room courtship was not so sublime after all.

Grinning, she took a hasty step back, giving him a polite nod. “Thank you, Mr. Sandeman. A lady knows when to heed well-meaning advice.” Without another word, she turned, hurrying toward the exit, her heels clicking against the floor.

“The name’s Boyd. And, Beth, lock your damn door, aye?”