“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 thegirl 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?
