Page 5 of Three Days to Be Ruined
Beth didn’t like the finality in his tone.
“Stop saying that! I raised Elizabeth to be a duchess. Why is it so imperative she marry a nameless Scot?”
“Because she is no longer rich!” Her father’s voice cracked as a fit of coughing wracked his frame.
Beth gasped, clutching her throat as if the truth had struck her physically.
Her mother shrieked, her frame trembling. “You are old and speaking nonsense. Of course, she is—what—”
“Croft & Associates is bankrupt,” he rasped. “Marrying that uncouth Scot is her only chance.”
Her mother dropped into a chair, her face blank as she stared into the flowery wallpaper.
Bankrupt? Beth’s head swam, her limbs numb as she approached her father’s bedside and knelt.
“You had better prepare your luggage,” he said hoarsely. “The train may be faster than the diligence, but it still takes eight hours to reach Vila Nova de Régua.”
Her mother began wailing, rocking back and forth. “What if he ruins her? What if he robs her virtue and returns her in shame?”
“Mr. Sandeman said he wouldn’t,” Beth replied, the words escaping before she thought better of them. Why was she defending his honor? “He said that if such an improbable event occurred, he would marry me.”
Her father’s sharp gaze focused on her, clarity cutting through the haze of sickness. “Then, my princess, you have three days to be ruined.”
Chapter three
"A true winemaker doesn’t just savor the right wine—he savors the satisfaction of proving the world wrong." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd braced his foot against the gangplank, muscles flexing under the barrel’s weight as he grunted, hoisting it into place among the others in the cargo hold.
Elisabeth Arabella Croft. Gracing his humble office. Of course, she’d been poised—women like her were trained from birth to be ornamental. But it had taken courage to stand before him, that absurd feather quivering in her hat, offering her hand in marriage like a lamb to the slaughter. Brave... but foolish.
When the dockworker turned his back, Boyd slipped a hand into his coat and retrieved the feather, holding it close. Beneath the faint scent of hatboxes, her delicate perfume lingered—likely worth a dockman’s yearly wages. Impractical, beautiful girl.Why did your father send you to me? If his aging mind had forgotten the insult he dealt me when I first arrived in Portugal, mine hadn’t.
The mist of port-soaked wood clung to the air, a reminder of everything Boyd had built—not from titles or bloodlines, but from sweat and grit. No pretense here, no velvet gloves or empty compliments. Just barrels, ships, and honest work.
Turning back to the dock, Boyd spotted a familiar figure approaching. Polished boots clicked against cobblestones, a cane gripped casually in one hand. Trust Griffin Maxwell to arrive at the docks dressed in full British finery, top hat gleaming.
“Still doing this yourself?” Griffin raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’ve got half of Oporto working for you now. Couldn’t let them handle the heavy lifting?”
Boyd wiped his hands on the rough cloth hanging from his belt. “Keeps me fit.” And kept his mind off a certain befeathered lass.
“Can’t you keep fit at the tennis club like a civilized man?”
Boyd grunted. The powdered Englishmen at the country club, with their gleaming rackets and idle chatter, were intolerable. A place for men who inherited their lives, not built them.
“The sport I prefer can’t be done in the city.”
Griffin’s smirk deepened. “Since when can’twenchingbe done in Oporto?”
“I mean hunting. But you wouldn’t know the difference, would you? Not with the monk you’ve become since marrying Julia.”
“Portuguese women prefer their men to practice sports in public places.” Griffin chuckled, nodding toward Boyd’s barrels. “So, these are the famous casks of Sandeman Port. Couldn’t stay behind Julia’s idea, could you?”
Boyd smiled faintly. Julia, Griffin’s brilliant wife, had pioneered the selling of port by the bottle, not in bulk. Boyd had adopted the strategy quickly, though many still preferredto buy casks. To mark his territory, he branded every pipe with Sandeman’s trademark. Nobody drank his wine without knowing where it came from.
“Indeed,” Boyd said. “But I didn’t call you here so you could steal my superior business strategies.”
Griffin sidestepped a cask as it rolled perilously close to his polished Hessians. “If not to show off your physique, then what?”
