It was his hands... those strong, unyielding hands that had made her feel... She shook herself, trying to banish the thought. “A marriage of convenience is just that, Dora—a union of compatible minds, not hearts.”
“Ah yes, because nothing says compatibility like tearing your heels apart in a vineyard.”
“Mr. Sandeman is no storybook knight,” Beth muttered, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s certainly no noble-hearted hero. This isn’t a fairy tale.”
She wanted to lock the thought away, to fold it neatly into some closed drawer in her mind. But it lingered, half-formed and obstinate, like the dirt still clinging to her nails.
Dora tapped her chin thoughtfully. “He had a mind to ruin your gown. Should I prepare the green one for round two? Or perhaps something sturdier next time?”
Beth huffed. “Really, Dora, I won’t allow some foolish notions to affect my goals here. One afternoon doesn’t mean anything.” She stretched on the plush bed, though she couldn’t stop herself from recalling the feel of Boyd’s rugged chest against her back.
“Doesn’t it?” Dora perched beside her, the mattress shifting under her weight. “Mud, missing heels, and one very smitten Miss Beth.”
“Smitten? Certainly not.” Beth’s scoff sounded weak even to her own ears. “I’d sooner be swept away by a thunderstorm.”
Dora laughed softly. “I thought you came here to marry the Highlander?”
“Yes,” Beth admitted, frowning. “But not to fall in love with him.”
“And is it not better to love one’s husband?”
Beth scoffed again, though this time the sound felt heavier, as though it carried a faint pang she couldn’t quite ignore. If only Dora understood the reality of society’s marriages. A woman of Beth’s class knew the heart was a piece of anatomy better kept hidden inside the corset—protected from wreckage.
A wife’s realm was the house. A husband’s, the world. And other women’s parlors.
“A wife should cherish a deep, quiet affection for her husband, grounded in respect, loyalty, and gentle devotion,” she recited, the practiced ease of the words falling hollow to her own ears.
Dora raised an eyebrow. “Respect, loyalty, devotion... sounds like you’re choosing a hunting hound, not a husband. Love, Miss Beth, is what makes you run after him through the mud and break your nails to impress him. And I’d wager you are closer to it than you care to admit.”
Chapter seven
"A winemaker knows that boldness in action, like boldness in flavor, leaves the strongest impression—whether sweet or scandalous." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
When Boyd entered the dining room, four heads lifted to meet him with varied shades of reproach.What was the matter with them?Could a man not write correspondence and be five minutes late for dinner without incurring their collective wrath?
Look at them, all basking in privileged domesticity. Griffin held Julia’s hand like a lovesick poet, while Almoster—Portugal’s most powerful politician—looked at his wife with a hunger that should have been forbidden in married couples.
Boyd, on the other hand, was content living alone, free from the rules of marriage. No one to chastise him for latenessor question his choices in his own house. Whoever invented marriage had to have been a woman.
Only Miss Croft seemed unbothered by his tardiness. She was fixated on the Sèvres porcelain, her gaze avoiding him entirely. He sought her eyes anyway, willing her to stop inspecting the tableware and brave the laird on his throne.
“Did you rest well, Miss Croft? Or did the vineyard get the better of you?”
She tapped her lips with an embroidered handkerchief—the table linen napkin no doubt far too coarse for her delicate fingers. Perfectly poised again, she looked every inch the proper lady.
Boyd hated it. He preferred her hair askew, mud on her flawless skin.
“I recovered just fine. Thank you, Mr. Sandeman.”
Boyd could not say the same. His back ached, his boots were full of pebbles, and his balls would be blue for a week.
Maxwell cleared his throat, his gaze flicking pointedly between Boyd and Miss Croft. “A gentleman treats a lady properly, no matter the setting.”
Boyd slouched into his chair at the head of the table, throwing Griffin a devilish grin. Let him protect the delicate English rose from the big, bad Scotsman during dinner. But who would defend her later, during tonight’s challenge?
He cast a sidelong glance at her, his voice laced with faux concern. “Did you get mauled by a bear, Miss Croft? Last I checked, she’d dirtied her nails but returned in one piece.”
She could wash her hands. Hell, she could soak in that blasted marble tub all night, scrubbing every speck of dirt from her pristine fingers. But who was going to look afterhisdignity—and his damn balls? Certainly not her guardians, who gave not a whit about his suffering.
