Boyd lunged for the door. Reginald sprang into a speed walk, his eyes riveted on the knob.
Boyd got there first. Before the footman could blink, Boyd flung the heavy oak doors open.
“Perhaps next time, Reggy.”
The lad groaned. “It’s Reginald, sir.”
“Whatever you say.”
When Boyd stepped outside, the sun momentarily blinded him. Even dazed, he couldn’t mistake the Croft crest emblazoned on the lacquered carriage door. The spiked crown glared at him, a sharp reminder of the same emblem that had slammed in his face when Croft tossed him out.
He squinted, resentment prickling hot along his spine. Of course, Croft would send her in his damn coat of arms. Like father, like daughter.
Boyd squared his shoulders, his posture rigid, braced as if preparing to battle a Highland bear.
Reginald sped past him. Flashing Boyd a look of restrained satisfaction, he opened the carriage door with a flourish.
Boyd tensed, expecting to see Croft’s tuft of white hair and bulbous nose. Instead, peeking from beneath the velvet skirts emerged the daintiest pair of shoes he had ever seen.
Boyd could swear the crushed river pebbles sighed, finally tread upon by footwear worthy of the king’s ransom they must have cost.
Exquisite ankles followed.
His mouth went dry, warmth rising low in his stomach and spreading into his chest, catching him off guard.
Christ’s teeth! It was only an ankle.
Too soon, the velvet skirts rushed out, concealing the tantalizing glimpse. He cursed the stinginess of the rich fabric. One sight of her ankles had his blood boiling. Ach, he must be a daft gowk for embarking on this holiday without a visit to the brothel.
Boyd held his breath, waiting for her to fully emerge.
A delicate hand, encased in impractical kid gloves the color of whipped cream, fluttered over Reggie’s forearm. The footman flushed as brightly as a lad wearing his Sunday best in a mud pit.
Boyd was about to push the lad aside when he came face to face with Elisabeth Croft in all her Lalique glory.
His gaze trailed from the flaring skirts of her gown to the most delectable waist he’d ever beheld, then to the high collar that framed the porcelain smoothness of her neck. Finally, he met green eyes half-hidden beneath a black net.
Her hat—if it could even be called that—was a delicate creation of velvet and lace, better suited for a drawing room in Belgravia than for a journey to the rugged Douro Valley. His hand twitched to pluck it off her head, letting her red hair cascade freely down her back. But no. He would be on his best behavior, damn it.
Boyd squared his shoulders and raised his chin, mimicking one of those apes from the British community.
“Mr. Sandeman, thank you for your gracious invitation.” Her gaze swept over the house, and her lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. “Your estate is breathtaking.”
Boyd tilted his head, his breath catching at the admiration in her voice. Was she impressed? Or was this simply the polite thing to say—words she gifted carelessly to appease? He shouldn’t care either way. This wasn’t a courtship.
Boyd crossed his arms. “Do you remember our agreement, Miss Croft?”
“How could I forget? Nonetheless, I appreciate your hospitality.”
His servants emerged, marching toward the carriage to unload her luggage. Boyd’s eyes narrowed as he watched the spectacle. Of course, she’d bring an army of trunks. No one who’d ever scraped by in life would think to carry such excess. Just more proof that her world was all fluff and privilege.
“A winemaker’s wife doesn’t need her entire wardrobe for a short visit.”
“This isn’t even one-tenth of my wardrobe. And I assure you, Mr. Sandeman, a lady’s appearance reflects upon her host’s own refinement. It’s only proper to present oneself fully equipped.”
His lips twitched. So the lass had a tongue.
“Fully equipped?” he drawled. “Looks more like you’re outfittin’ an army.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “A winemaker’s wife doesn’t need all that finery. Makes it harder to keep her balance on a rocky hillside.”
