"Elegance shines brightest when paired with quiet determination."FromThe Polite Companion:A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace
“Work those legs, Miss Croft. I promise your first challenge will be more entertaining than being stuck in a stifling ballroom,” Mr. Sandeman’s voice rang out ahead, more taunting than encouraging.
“I suppose a winemaker’s wife must be quick on her feet, then, Mr. Sandeman?” she yelled at his back, hoping he’d slow his brisk steps. If only the Scotsman had shorter legs—or wore a kilt—then she wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up.
Still, if he thought a few rocks and several leagues of walking would make her give up, he was sorely mistaken. Whatever rustic challenge he proposed, she would pass.
“Quick feet, brawny arms, and a stomach for bad wine. I hope you’re prepared.”
“Well then, traipsing through rocks. How romantic.” She looked back longingly at the house, now a speck down the hill. “Exactly what I envisioned when I imagined the allure of vineyards...”
“I can hear you, Miss Croft. These terraces are from Roman times, and those Romans were experts in acoustics.”
“Romans? More like barbarians to me,” she mumbled.
Boyd stopped suddenly, and she bumped straight into him.
“Here we are.”
The river shimmered below, winding around the mountain and stretching to the horizon. The browns, russets, and golds of winter glowed under Portugal’s incomparable blue sky. Mr. Sandeman looked perfectly at ease among the vineyards and rustic terraces, the afternoon sun kissing his bronzed skin.
Beth quickly averted her gaze to the dangerous slopes below, a much safer location. “The view is most enchanting.”
“We didn’t climb up here for sightseeing.”
He reached for her wrist, and before she could protest, he began peeling the glove from her fingers. The gesture was so unexpected, so intimate, that she scarcely breathed. His touch was deliberate, his rough fingers brushing against the fine fabric as he slid it free. Did he know how he stirred her pulse?
A brisk breeze ruffled his dark hair. She found herself wondering, absurdly, what it would feel like to reach up and tuck that stray lock into place.
Once the glove was off, he tucked it into his pocket as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
She wanted to ask why he kept her things. Why he always took. But the words slipped away, replaced by a soft warmth spreading through her chest. She could only watch, her ungloved hand feeling strangely exposed, strangely... his.
She had been prepared for tea, polite conversation, perhaps a walk through the vineyard. But not this. Not this quiet boldness.
Boyd traced the subtle calluses on her fingers. The dull skin, muted from hours of playing, seemed to come alive under his touch.
“From the hard labor of embroidery?” he asked. “Or perhaps wielding a teacup with excessive zeal?”
He saw her only as a society lady, didn’t he? What would he think if he knew about her instrument? “Can I have my hand back now, Mr. Sandeman?”
“Not yet. I have a gift for you.”
Cold steel touched her palm.
“A scissor? How terribly romantic.”
Grinning, he tugged her toward the nearest terrace. “The vineyard is a demanding mistress, Miss Croft. A winemaker’s wife must learn how to prune the dead branches in winter, so the plant can produce the best crop in summer.”
He knelt before a row of vines. Sunlight streamed through the red and brown leaves, dancing across the schist. She cringed at how ruined his perfect trousers would be after this pointless exercise. Thank heavens he didn’t expect her to sully her sunshine dress by doing the same.
He glanced up at her, lifting his brows.
He did. God help her, Mr. Sandeman did.
Gingerly, she lowered herself beside him, carefully arranging her skirts to ensure no glimpse of her legs was displayed. “Rustic work. How incredibly appealing.”
She picked up the dratted instrument—a Greek present, more likely.
