“Oh, of course. I take care of children all the time.”
If porcelain dolls and the one time she held her cook’s newborn daughter counted as “children,” that was.
Beth felt a tug on her hair and winced. Before she could react, little Pedro had both hands tangled in her curls. A lock tumbled loose. Her practiced smile slipped like the pins from her coiffure.
“Red,” the baby said, his fingers twisting deeper into her hair.
“Oh, he can speak!” she said with a wince, glancing at Boyd as if to say, Isn’t this darling?
Pain shot from her scalp, but she masked her gasps with genteel laughter.
Boyd raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Are you all right, lass?”
Her neck strained under the baby’s determined grip, tears pricking her eyes. “A mother should remain calm and composed in the face of a child’s misbehavior, don’t you think?”
Boyd shifted closer in his chair. “Aye, or she could get untangled before the bairn scalps her. Here, let me.”
His fingers brushed her cheek as he weaved between her strands and the baby’s fingers. Who could guess that a man’s hands could produce so much heat? He spoke with the baby, not in the tycoon’s polished speech, but in a mellow brogue that had her forgetting all about the pain.
Her eyes flicked to his lips, her pulse drumming wildly at the gentleness of his voice and touch.
When the baby’s left hand released Beth’s hair, it promptly latched into Mr. Sandeman’s brown locks, and quite suddenly, their faces were pulled together.
Her heart smashed against the confines of her corset as his bristled cheek rasped against her lips. Heat curled in her stomach, and her gasp was so loud that no laughter—genteel or otherwise—could conceal it.
She prayed he wouldn’t notice her wild reaction while little Pedro continued to coo, oblivious to the chaos he had caused.
“This is one cunning bairn,” Mr. Sandeman said, his voice lowering as his breath warmed her neck. “Here, have this.”
He handed Pedro his watch.
“Shiny,” the baby declared, releasing them as his gaze riveted on the ticking amusement.
But Mr. Sandeman had yet to let go of her hair.
No one besides Dora—and now little Pedro—had ever touched her strands. Yet here he was, twirling a lock over his finger. She inhaled deeply, catching the scent of clean linen and crushed grapes clinging to him, and tucked it away into this strange new part of herself that seemed determined to catalog every nuance of him.
His touch was quiet, reverent, and Beth held very still. If she moved even a muscle, he would stop.
But he should stop, shouldn’t he?
A lady didn’t allow a man to touch her hair. Such an intimate gesture should be reserved for the closest of bonds. But as much as propriety screamed for her to pull away, she couldn’t muster a single reprimand past her parted lips.
“You have beautiful hair, Miss Croft,” he murmured. “No wonder the lad wants to entangle himself in it.”
Her gaze rose to his, and the blue of his irises entranced her. The Douro River, the vineyards, little Pedro, even the corset keeping her spine from melting—all of it faded. Her heart flapped desperate wings against her ribs, and she closed her eyes, her lips tingling.
A throat cleared behind them.
Beth’s eyes snapped open. Anne and Julia stood nearby, brows arched in unison.
Her breath caught. What must they think?
Catching her and Mr. Sandeman so close together—with her coiffure in shambles, no less? Grand ladies were ruined by less. She drew a steadying breath, willing her composure back, even as her scalp tingled from his touch. So much for doing things her way.
Boyd chuckled, reclaiming his watch from little Pedro’s grip. “Now, before ye point fingers, I’ll have ye know it was this wee scoundrel who did the ravishing.”
Chapter six
