Page 30 of Three Days to Be Ruined
Chapter twelve
“A winemaker’s wife must be fluent in many languages, including the dialect of a husband’s stubborn silences and the unmistakable brogue of his mischief.” The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd glared at his new office, its bare walls and empty corners taunting him. The architects had transported the bloody stone fountain from the Highlands—complete with the smug Lowlander bears—but had failed to furnish the estate’s most important room. Not a single desk, chair, or cabinet had arrived in time for the holidays. The most expensive architects in Europe had left him sprawled across wine crates, his ledgers stacked like forgotten parcels on the floor.
Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, casting a cold glow over the barren space. He scowled at the letter in his hands. French. Of course, it had to be in French, unreadablewithout his secretary. His Paris agent couldn’t bother to write in plain English, could he? Boyd traced the elegant script, catching fragments of meaning—Bordeaux, vineyard potential, varietals—all vital pieces of information slipping like sand between his fingers.
Frustrated, he slapped the letter onto a crate and tugged the ribbon from his pocket. He brushed the ribbon against his nose, inhaling sharply. Each of her belongings carried her elusive scent, but it was never enough. And her sounds? Everywhere she was not, held the silence of a tomb. If only that kiss hadn’t scrambled his thoughts...
The door creaked open, and the bane of his existence stepped inside.
She moved cautiously, her gloved hands holding the edges of her skirt to avoid brushing against the papers strewn across the floor, her gaze flicking over the scattered crates and haphazard ledgers. She looked every inch the society lady, her pristine green velvet day dress clinging to her curves.
Straightening, Boyd shoved the ribbon into his pocket, his color rising as if he were a Highland lad caught sneaking a sip of the laird’s whiskey. All this wealth, and she had to see him crouched on the floor.
Beth’s gaze found him, and she startled a bit, one brow arching.
“Yes, Lady Beth?” His tone was sharper than he intended.
“I’m presenting myself for my second challenge.”
Of course, she’d waltz in, expecting him to drop everything to cater to her whims.
“Some of us work for a living, Miss Croft. You’re free to pursue more pressing endeavors—a picnic, a bright butterfly, or perhaps weaving a tartan for a sheep. I care not which.”
An unwelcome image flitted through his mind—her voice floating over a meadow as they picnicked together, and hegritted his teeth. Look at him, wanting to eschew obligations for ridiculous pursuits.
Beth’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “Weaving a tartan for a sheep sounds positively riveting. Can I help with the work that’s so clearly keeping you tethered to reality?”
Boyd picked up the letter again, squinting his eyes at the damned words. Anything to keep his gaze from the white fur framing her bodice. “What do you understand about business, Lady Beth?”
“Not much.” Before he could blink, she plucked the paper from his fingers. If he allowed it, it was only because she’d startled him—not because his traitorous nose had brushed against her wrist in surrender.
“Is this French? I’m fluent in French.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Drawing room French, perhaps—”
She raised the letter to her eyes and began reading. “Monsieur Sandeman, it is with the utmost respect and admiration that I convey my gratitude for the trust you have placed in our firm to represent your esteemed interests in the renowned terroirs of Bordeaux. Allow me to assure you that the opportunities here, should you pursue them, are as grand and enduring as the very châteaux that line our venerable hillsides.” Her words rolled off her tongue with maddening ease.
So, the lass could read French. He hadn’t expected that.
The minx lowered the letter and gazed at him with triumph in her green eyes. She was smug, was she not? Boyd felt an uncontrollable urge to reach out and ruffle her hair, so he could swipe a touch of her pride, the way a child licks icing off a cake when no one’s looking.
Grinning like a rogue who’d stumbled upon an unlocked treasure chest, he tugged her down to sit beside him on the floor.Before she could protest, he shifted deliberately, resting his head on her lap with the most innocent expression he could muster.
“Proceed, Lady Beth,” he drawled, eyes fluttering shut as if this were a common afternoon pastime.
Her gasp was practically a symphony. “This is unusual, Mr. Sandeman!”
“A true winemaker’s wife reads tae her husband each night. They say the words of a devoted wife soothe a man’s spirit, sharpen his mind, and keep his decorum intact.”
“You are making this up.”
A rush of warmth flooded his chest as his head sank onto her lap. His muscles loosened, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.
“Am I? You owe me this, anyway.”
“How so?”
