The Parisian had delivered. A striking image of a centaur carrying a lady, her fiery hair streaming as she clung to him, eyes alight with something between fear and exhilaration. The centaur, triumphant, held her and the wine in equal possession.
“It caused quite the stir when it hit the streets of Paris,” Boyd said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Some called it diabolical. Lustful, even. But I call it effective. By the end of the month, it’llbe in every newspaper from here to London, plastered on every tavern wall on both sides of the channel.”
Almoster narrowed his eyes. “That’s quite an aggressive move. I wonder if stirring public opinion so boldly is wise.”
The colors were bold, too vivid for delicate sensibilities. But that’s what made it stand out. It wasn’t meant for the quiet married sheep locked in their homemade bliss.
Anne, smiling, kissed her husband’s cheek. “Oh, but I think it’s rather romantic. A centaur and a lady? It sounds like something from a novel—a daring, thrilling adventure.”
Beth’s gaze turned to Boyd. “I’d love to see it. It sounds... fascinating.”
Pulse quickening, Boyd stared at her lips as they formed the word, the last syllable closing like a sultry kiss. What would it take for her to callhimfascinating? If he became a centaur and carried her on his back, would that be enough? Hardly.
An uncouth brute like him could be ruthless, relentless—never fascinating.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I’m not sure it’s suitable for young ladies, Miss Croft. Mr. Sandeman has had more than a few complaints on that front. Isn’t that right, Boyd?”
“Ah yes, complaints,” Boyd said, smirking. “A certain Mrs. Smith of Leicester was particularly scandalized. She wrote asking if a proper lady would have to ‘climb the devil’s back for a bottle of port.’ My staff even wrote a limerick for her.
‘It seems there’s a young lady from Leicester,
Who would not say no if you pressed her.
But the trollop who rides,
On the wild horse’s sides,
Has put her off port and depressed her.’”
The room burst into laughter—except for Maxwell, whose frown deepened.
As the words hung in the air, Boyd seized his chance. He leaned forward and snatched the handkerchief from Beth’s lap.
She stiffened, her face flushing as her hand grasped at empty space. Still, she couldn’t openly react without causing a scene.
She shot him a sharp glance. Boyd met her eyes with a lazy, satisfied grin, smoothing the soft fabric between his fingers. It was warm, holding the ghost of her touch.
Maxwell glowered at him. “That’s hardly suitable conversation for mixed company, Boyd.”
Boyd’s teeth clenched. Maxwell’s British Don Quixote act was grating on his nerves. “I didn’t realize someone appointed you the arbitrator, Maxwell.”
Julia’s face flushed, her black eyes flashing as she glanced at her husband. Boyd smirked. There, old fool—you’ve infuriated your wife as well. Good luck explaining your sudden interest in your former fiancée.
Griffin took Julia’s hand, entwining their fingers in a gesture of quiet intimacy. Though her shoulders stiffened, there was a complicity between them that left Boyd’s chest hollow.
His gaze shifted to Anne and Almoster, who shared the same kind of closeness. Even as Anne engaged Beth in conversation, the duke’s protective presence hovered like an unspoken promise.
At his end of the table, silence closed in again, dull and unwelcome.
Boyd looked away from them all, brushing his thumb against the handkerchief. Miss Croft’s initials, stitched with genteel care, felt strange beneath his calloused fingers—a poor substitute for her hand in his.
Chapter eight
"A lady ensures her virtue remains untested by steering clear of any moment that invites temptation."FromThe Polite Companion:A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace
Beth opened the door to Mr. Sandeman’s room gingerly. Darkness enveloped the vast space. When her gaze landed on the lone figure sitting in the shadows, her heart stuttered. The faint light from the hearth caught the roughness of his stubbled jaw, darkening the line of his mouth. His cravat hung loose around his neck, the starched elegance undone.
He seemed tired and... intense. But his eyes—God, those eyes. The too-vivid blue glowed, the only real color in the room, piercing through the dim light and rooting her to the spot.
