Chapter one
Oporto, Portugal, December 1876
"A true lady must maintain composure even when faced with the most uncivil company." – The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace
“Highlanders have a disagreeable habit of tossing a woman over their shoulders and carrying her off to their caves.”
Beth’s gaze flicked to the secretary, but the haughty man gave no sign he’d heard her maid’s outrageous remark. “Dora, that’s enough. We’re not here to discuss barbaric folklore.”
Beth sat rigid, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. Her corset pressed against her ribs, tightening with every passing second she spent waiting.
Everything about Mr. Sandeman’s office was sharp and unadorned—no unnecessary flourishes. The dark mahogany furniture had clean lines and a polished gleam, the opposite ofthe old Georgian decor of her father’s wine-trading company down the street. Unbidden, a memory surfaced of her afternoon visits to Croft & Associates when Father greeted her with sweetmeats and called her his perfect little princess. That was before she’d lost the interest of the first suitor he had arranged for her.
Dora sighed. “At least they say Highlanders are handsome...”
“A lady’s concern lies not in physical appearances but in the grace of character.”
Despite Beth’s resolve to remain firm and businesslike, her mind conjured the image of Laird Mac-Ivor from her favorite novel, Waverley. A fictional hero, doubtless nothing like the man behind the closed door. Look at her, an Englishwoman who had never even seen a Scotsman. Granted, the English community in Portugal lacked such specimens, but Mr. Boyd Sandeman was to blame—he never appeared in polite society.
“Only a true lady would be so poised in this situation. Your old governess would be proud. Oh, this green silk is too soft. If only you had worn the blue velvet—much more suitable for back-carrying.”
Beth’s stomach swirled. She gave her maid a sharp glance. “No back-carrying for me today, Dora. Do you mind? This is a delicate matter.”
“Delicate is hardly a Highlander’s strongest trait.”
“I’m aware of the stereotypes, thank you. But Mr. Boyd is a businessman. I’m sure he can manage a civil conversation.”
Dora’s wide-set eyes gleamed with feigned innocence. “A businessman, aye. Who likely cuts deals while swallowing whiskey and wearing a kilt. You know they’re known for their bluntness. Ever heard of caber tossing?”
Beth smoothed her silk skirts, which were unsuitable for either caber or back tossing. “Yes, I’ve read about it. But I’m quite sureMr. Sandeman won’t demonstrate any feats of strength during this meeting.”
Dora leaned in, lowering her voice. “Well, you never know. If the conversation doesn’t go as planned, you might have to dodge flying furniture. Highlanders, they do have tempers.”
The secretary cleared his throat and gestured to her with the finality of an executioner’s axe.
Only her good breeding kept her from flinching as he opened the door.
It gaped open, not ten feet from her. What awaited inside?
Beth rose, gripping her muff so tightly she feared she might ruin the fur.
Dora fluttered about, smoothing Beth’s gown and adjusting the plume of her toque. “Good luck,” the maid whispered, like a second offering last words before a duel.
Beth nodded. It was a universal truth that a woman jilted by her fiancé could not afford to be a chooser. Still, nausea churned in her stomach as she entered Boyd Sandeman’s office, her gait heavy as a funeral march.
The Scotsman was there, behind a massive desk. Frowning, he applied his quill to an unsuspecting paper.
Beth halted atop the Persian rug. Her palms grew clammy inside her gloves, and her corset seemed intent on depriving her of air. If only the carpet’s thick fibers could hide her discomposure.
How in the world would he receive her proposition? At least the furniture looked too heavy for even a man of his stature to toss.
Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears, a relentless pounding she was sure he could hear. When the clock ticked the half-hour, and he still didn’t look up, Beth drew a sharp breath. The barbarian was ignoring her!
She had been warned he lacked social graces, but sitting while a lady stood seemed the epitome of ill-breeding.
She blinked once, then twice, her spine straightening. If she stood tall enough, perhaps she could impose the decorum he so clearly lacked.
Perhaps this was how business was conducted in the Highlands—brusque and brutish—but there were standards. Etiquette. Respect.
