“Come spend Christmas with me at my new vineyard. Julia will enjoy the estate, and the kids can run wild in the gardens.”
Griffin tilted his head, skeptical. “What’s this? You never stay here for the holidays. Don’t you usually waste your money in French cabarets and Venetian bordellos?”
Boyd grimaced. His private railcar and all the provisions he’d arranged for a two-day trip to Paris would go to waste. What had possessed him to concoct this scheme? He knew why. Damn it, he knew exactly why. From where he came, humiliation was repaid in kind. And he had been in John Croft’s debt for too long.
“Call it a housewarming,” Boyd replied. That marble monstrosity would need considerable warmth. The last payment to Bernard Shaw, Europe’s most celebrated architect, could have built an entire village.
“If you’re so keen on domesticity, stay with us at Vesuvio. Anne is coming this year, and wherever she goes, Pedro Daun will follow.”
Boyd liked Maxwell’s sister well enough. Until she married Pedro Daun, the Duke of Almoster, and became a duchess. He seldom spoke with Almoster beyond trade matters, but having them at his vineyard would lend heft to his plan.
“Bring them with you,” Boyd said.
Griffin stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s too sudden. Julia already has plans. She won’t agree—”
“Heavens, Maxwell. A soft Englishman who can’t control his own wife? What a disgrace.”
Griffin didn’t take the bait. “Why the sudden holiday spirit? Don’t tell me you’ve been visited by one of Dickens’s ghosts.”
Boyd chuckled, shaking his head. He had indeed received a visitor, though not spectral. More like porcelain. With red hair.
“Miss Elisabeth Croft will spend the holidays with me,” Boyd said casually.
Griffin froze, his blue eyes narrowing. “Why?”
Boyd rolled another cask into place, his muscles straining. “Because she’s courting my hand in marriage.”
Griffin grabbed Boyd’s arm, his expression incredulous. “She’s what?”
“Her father sent her. The old man’s terrified of dying without securing Croft & Co.’s future. And they say I’m the savage.”
Griffin fell silent, his gaze heavy. Boyd’s throat tightened under the weight of it.
“The girl isn’t to blame for her father’s faults,” Griffin said at last, his tone surprisingly sharp.
Why the defense? As far as Boyd knew, Griffin hated John Croft as much as he did. But to make the father pay, Boyd wouldn’t spare the daughter. Once society learned Croft had begged Boyd to marry her, and Boyd refused, the humiliation Croft had once served him would be repaid in full.
“Did you know Croft’s been buying wine on credit,” Boyd said, “spreading word that his daughter will marry me? Imagine their surprise when they find out I won’t.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened. “And wound Miss Croft in the process? That seems ruthless. Even for you.”
Boyd lowered the barrel and studied his friend. “Do you still have feelings for her?”
The thought of Beth with Griffin sent a wave of heat coursing through Boyd, sharp as whiskey straight from the distillery.
“I never had feelings for her,” Griffin snapped. “When Croft arranged the marriage, she was eighteen—not even out. I was relieved when her reputation didn’t suffer. She seems like a good girl.”
“Of course. Society’s crystal princess.”
Griffin frowned, his tone wary. “What do you plan to do with her?”
Boyd flashed a grin, all teeth. “What do you think? Eat her as the main course at Christmas dinner?”
He’d do something better. He’d show Beth that she wasn’t cut out to be a winemaker’s wife. Prove how shallow high society was, once and for all.
“If this is your idea of revenge for something that happened sixteen years ago—”
“Never mind the invitation,” Boyd interrupted. “I’ll hire someone from the village to act as a chaperone.”
