Miss Croft clutched the handkerchief tighter. “Of course not. It was very instructive.”
Maxwell lounged in his chair, though his knuckles whitened against his glass. “You should have taken Julia with you to the vineyards, Boyd. She’d have loved to help explain the vines.”
Julia started, her gaze darting between her husband and Miss Croft. “Would I? I think Boyd is perfectly capable of explaining winemaking.”
Smiling, Anne elbowed her brother. “If you weren’t such an unromantic ox, Griff, you’d realize they don’t need a third wheel.”
Miss Croft flushed a glorious shade of red, her color rivaling her fiery hair.Would the rest of her skin turn that pretty shade, too?Boyd’s mouth went dry at the thought of uncovering all the places that might blush. He swallowed the lewdness with a smirk.
“Yes, Griff. Don’t be such an unromantic ox.”
While Maxwell bristled, Miss Croft covered her lips with the handkerchief again. That prim little scrap of cloth was a shield, her polished weapon of choice. Boyd’s fingers tingled to snatch it from her.
Why did he feel this strange pull to claim it? He couldn’t say, only that he must. A fair token after the trials she’d put him through this afternoon. A private mark of victory—clutched on the field of battle.
He was leaning forward, ready to swipe it, when Almoster cleared his throat.
“After the holidays, I’d like you to come to Lisbon for a foreign trade meeting. The country would profit from your presence. If, of course, you won’t be detained here.”
Almoster’s gaze flicked briefly to Miss Croft.
Boyd leaned back, narrowing his eyes. Was the duke trying to lure him to Lisbon to distract him from Beth? Why?
The duke stared at him with an unreadable expression, candlelight catching his blond hair and aristocratic features. Almoster’s old-world charm masked a calculating nature, one that measured the worth of every inch of the table—including its guests.
Boyd was an expert judge of people’s intentions. What game was Almoster playing? He wouldn’t offer a seat at the king’s table for nothing. Unlike Maxwell, Almoster wasn’t concerned about Beth’s delicate sensibilities.
But then...what?
“I’m always open to conversations,” Boyd said, inclining his head.
Conversations that benefitedSandeman Company,not a circle of entitled aristocrats.
Reggie and the other footmen entered, bearing the first course. The scent of roasted game and rich sauces filled the air. The housekeeper had outdone herself tonight—Boyd made a mental note to increase her paycheck. Everything was as it should be: delicate china, glinting crystal glasses, a display designed to silence even the most critical aristocratic eye.
Boyd’s gaze flicked to the handkerchief folded neatly in Beth’s lap. He could practically feel the smooth fabric between his fingers. His pulse quickened, a strange thrill rising in his chest as he imagined her reaction when he took it.
Anne caught Beth’s attention, and Boyd leaned in, fingers twitching toward his prize.
She turned her head abruptly. “Mr. Sandeman, what on earth are you—”
Boyd leaned back, smirking. “Admiring your handiwork, Miss Croft. A fine handkerchief for a fine lady.”
Beth clutched the kerchief closer to herself. Damnation. Now she’d be on her guard. Barring a frontal attack that would cause too much of a scene, he’d have to wait.
Dinner proceeded without further chances to claim his boon. He proposed a shooting excursion for the gentlemen, Miss Croft invited the ladies for a picnic, and all congratulated the cook. Boyd put his table etiquette lessons to use, ensuring even the escargot passed without incident.
But his attention kept straying to Beth. Her voice floated above the table, filling the space effortlessly. She didn’t just occupy a room; sheinhabitedit, scattering the edges of the silence he knew so well.
Then she laughed at something Anne said, and the sound tugged at him. Silvery, like a stream tumbling over rocks. His lips twitched involuntarily, and before he knew it, he was leaning toward her laugh.
What would it be like to have her at this table every night? To hear her voice cut through the loneliness that often settled over his meals?
Boyd forced his gaze to his calloused hands, gripping his glass tightly.That’s a steep price to pay to eliminate the silence.He drowned the thought with a mouthful of port.
Julia lifted her glass to him. “I saw the advertisement for Sandeman Port in the newspaper this morning. Bold and eye-catching. I’m sure it’ll make quite the impression.”
Boyd tapped the table lightly. “The art came from Paris, commissioned by Jean d’Ylen.” Only one of the most famous—and expensive—artists in Europe.
