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