“I am skilled in managing a household, I play the piano with some talent, I’m fluent in French, of course, and I can be an asset as a hostess.” Her voice did not falter, though she knew well the precariousness of her position. A woman jilted by one suitor had little choice but to recite her qualifications with dignity—or risk sounding desperate.
“I have no doubt you would be the perfect Lalique wife to adorn an aristocrat’s hall, Miss Croft. But that wasn’t my question.”
Her feather chose that moment to flit into her eyes. She brushed it away with a sigh. “I’m sorry if I missed your meaning, sir.”
“What use do you think a man like me could have for an aristocratic wife?”
He got her at that, didn’t he? She looked at her polished slippers, waiting for him to refuse her then. Her chin trembled. Which was quite ridiculous and uncalled for, but she managed to keep the horrifying spurt of emotion by taking a deep breath and holding her muff as if it were a lifeline.
He stared at her, his gaze unsettling. Speak, then. Say no. Instead, he whirled on his heels and returned to his desk.
Would he not even deign to give her a reply? Would he work again and ignore her? The image of her, her back stooped with age, her red hair turned grey, staying at the same spot swept over her mind, and hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest.
But no. After writing something, a public refusal, perhaps? He came back to her.
“This is the address of my new vineyard by the Douro River. I expect you there in a week.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He glanced at his pocket watch with exaggerated impatience. “It is simple, Miss Croft. You want to be a winemaker’s wife. I won’t marry unless I find out if my intended has what it takes to be my partner. I’ll give you three days to prove yourself.”
“This is highly irregular. I can’t spend Christmas unchaperoned with you anywhere, least of all the Douro—”
“You won’t be unchaperoned. I’ll have friends for the holidays.”
“What friends?” She couldn’t congregate with ruffians and women of ill repute.
“Julia and Griffin Maxwell.”
Beth stilled.
He studied her like a peregrine, drinking her reactions. Did he know? Of course, he knew. The whole of Oporto knew she had been engaged to Mr. Maxwell... before he married a Portuguese woman.
For a moment, the emotions swirling in her breast seemed too much for whalebone and velvet to contain. Perhaps if her corset was made of steel... She gazed away from him, anywhere but at his curious, matter-of-fact eyes.
“Will their company be a problem, Miss Croft?”
“You’re nothing like the Highlanders in Sir Walter Scott’s novels.” She blurted and cringed. Why in heaven’s name would she say such a thing?
“Och aye, lass, maybe I should be swingin’ a claymore an’ drinkin’ whiskey all day. But then, who’d run my vineyard?”
She had longed to hear a Highlander’s brogue, but his mocking tone sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t reply. Instead, she clutched her muff tightly, her fingers trembling against the fur. Then he touched her. The rough pad of his fingertip grazed her lips. Beth froze, her heart pounding like a war drum. She was not accustomed to being handled in such a way.
“How badly does your father want you to marry me, Miss Croft?” His voice was velvety.
She dropped her chin. What could she possibly say? That after her failed engagement, rumors had spread from Portugal to England, tarnishing her family’s name? That her father was accused of dishonesty, of trying to swindle Mr. Maxwell’s new wife? That her mother raved day and night, cursing their misfortune, while her father’s health deteriorated? And that his instruction to her was not to leave Mr. Sandeman’s office without securing a proposition?
Mr. Sandeman chuckled. “Badly, indeed.”
He was not a Highlander from Scott’s novels. Not on the outside, and certainly not on the inside. She hated him then—his arrogance, his knowing smirk. But she’d be damned if she let him see even a flicker of the tempest swirling beneath her corset.
Lifting her chin, she straightened her spine. “What sort of attributes must a winemaker’s wife demonstrate, Mr. Sandeman?”
The way he smiled at her reminded her of a large cat, eyes narrowing as it played with a mouse, trapping the tiny creature under soft paws. “You will have three days and three nights to prove your worth.”
“How is that even—”
“Three challenges, one for each day, to see if you are a suitable partner in my business. And three nights—”
