A Lady In Need Of An Heir

Chapter Three

‘And do, please, call me Gabrielle,’ Miss Frost added with a smile so sweet it set his teeth on edge. She poured two glasses of amber liquid from the decanter on a side table, handed him one and sank down gracefully into an armchair.

Gray would have had money on it that the exaggerated grace was as much a calculated provocation as the sweet smile. He took the glass with a smile at least as false as hers and settled into the chair opposite. ‘Very well, Gabrielle. Tell me why you refuse to countenance whatever your aunt’s request might be?’

‘I assumed rightly, did I not? She wants me to go to England and has sent you to fetch me.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. Gray crossed his legs, lifted the glass, inhaled and almost closed his eyes in pleasure. The wine could not possibly taste as good as the nose promised. ‘It seems a perfectly reasonable suggestion to me.’ It had actually been rather more of an order, but saying so was hardly likely to help and he had to agree with his godmother. Gabrielle Frost was too young, too well bred and too lovely to be alone and running a business in a foreign country with only a bluestocking as an exceedingly careless chaperone.

‘If I go to London, she will insist that I marry George.’ Gabrielle’s lips tightened into a straight line. ‘I will not, of course, but arguing about it is a crashing bore.’

‘I understand your objection to a first-cousin marriage,’ Gray said. ‘But Lord Welford is your aunt’s stepson, not a blood relation in any way.’ He took an incautious mouthful of the tawny port, choked and stared at the glass. It was every bit as good as the aroma had promised. ‘This is superb.’

‘It is indeed, whereas George is a spoilt, dim, selfish, pompous little lordling.’ Gabrielle took a sip from her own glass and allowed her lips to relax.

Gray crossed his legs. ‘Not so little. He’s my height now.’ Still spoilt, still inclined to be pompous. Selfish? Gray had no idea, although it was to be expected that the indulged heir to an earldom would have a well-developed sense of entitlement. For himself the army had knocked any self-importance that he’d had out of him, but George, Viscount Welford, had never been allowed near anything as dangerous as a militia exercise, let alone a battlefield. ‘I have to admit, he is not exactly the sharpest knife in the box, but he is not an idiot and it is a good match.’ He took a more restrained sip of the port. He deserved it. ‘And she cannot force you to the altar.’

‘She will nag and cajole and lecture and hector and make my visit an absolute misery. But let us assume that I am foolish enough to do as you ask and weak enough to give way to my aunt’s matchmaking. Let me calculate who gains what.’ Gabrielle, whose wits were clearly as sharp as any boning knife, began to mark off points on her fingers. ‘I gain the heir to an earldom, the expectation of becoming a countess one day and the opportunity to enjoy the English climate—I understand that rain is supposed to be good for the complexion. In return I give up my inheritance, cease the work I love, subjugate myself to the dictates of a man less intelligent than myself and who would run the business into the ground and surrender to being bullied by my aunt. Somehow I do not think that a title and clear skin weigh more heavily in the scales.

‘George, on the other hand, gains a very valuable wine estate and me. With all due modesty, I believe I am wealthier, more intelligent and better-looking than he is. Of course, there is a something on the negative side for him, too—I would make his life a living hell in every way I could think of.’

Put like that, Gray could sympathise. In her shoes he would not want to marry Lord Welford either. ‘Leaving aside Lord Welford—’

‘By all means, please let us do that.’ She was positively smiling now. One glossy lock of brown hair slid out of the combs that she wore in it, Spanish-style, and slithered down to her shoulder. Gabrielle moved her head at the touch on her neck and the curling strand settled on the curve of her breast, chocolate against warm cream.

He could not keep crossing his legs. Gray ground his wine glass rather vigorously in his lap, refrained from wincing and ploughed on. If he had wanted to spend his life negotiating with hostile powers, he would have joined the diplomatic corps, not the army. ‘Leaving him aside, you clearly cannot remain here.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You are single.’

‘Portugal is full of single women.’

‘You are inadequately chaperoned.’

‘Fiddlesticks.’

‘Fiddlesticks? You admit to having had a lover—what kind of chaperonage does that argue?’

‘The kind I want. I am very glad I had a lover. That lover.’ Her chin came up, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hinted at tears suppressed. Or anger.

‘Very well.’ Clearly he couldn’t shame her into doing the right thing. ‘Who are you going to leave this quinta to? I hope you have a long and healthy life, but one day, you will need an heir.’

‘To leave it to my own child would be ideal. Unfortunately that requires a marriage.’ She shrugged. ‘Back to the problem with husbands.’

He tried for a lighter note. ‘They are really such a problem?’

‘If I marry a local man, the quinta will vanish into a larger holding and lose its identity. If I was fool enough to marry in England, what husband is going to want the trouble of an asset so far away? He will sell it or hand it over to some impersonal manager. It will no longer be Frost’s, either way. “By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage.” That is William Blackstone, the legal writer. Believe me, I have read all round this. How would you like your very being suspended? More port?’

‘Thank you. And, no, I would not like it. But then, I am a man.’ Gray got to his feet, glass in hand as she glared, tight-lipped. He needed to move before he gave in to the urge to shake the infuriating female. Or kiss her. That combination of temper and intelligence and sensual beauty was intoxicating and he was tired after a virtually sleepless, uncomfortable river journey, exasperated and, totally against his will, aroused.

If he had not been concentrating on the sideboard and the decanters, he would have seen her rise, too. As it was, they collided, her forehead fetching him a painful rap on the chin. Gabrielle clutched at him one-handed. He did the same to her and they swayed together off balance, breast to breast.

She smelled of roses and rosemary and something else herbal he could not identify. Her breath was hot through the thin linen of his shirt and her body was soft and supple against his, which was as hard as iron. Gray steadied them both, set her back a safe six inches and took the glass from her hand. ‘I’ll get the wine.’

From the grip that she had on her glass, and the second or two it took for her to relax it, that collision had shaken her as much as it had him. Gray made something of a business of pouring the port, careful about drips, precise in replacing the stopper in the decanter, anything to give them both time to compose themselves from whatever that had been. Other than lust.

‘Thank you.’ When he turned back, Gabrielle was seated again, fingers laced demurely in her lap. She took the wine from him, her hand as steady as his was, and he wondered again at her composure. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

‘What are your plans for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Please, feel free to rise at any time that suits you. If you could look in at the kitchen on your way past as you leave this evening and tell them when you would like hot water brought over and breakfast prepared, that would be helpful for the staff.’

Gray wrenched his thoughts away from speculation about how her skin would taste. Plans? Was there any point in staying here other than to torture himself? Gabrielle’s answer to his godmother’s demand that she travel to England was clear enough and he couldn’t blame any woman with a choice in the matter for not wanting to marry George.

On the other hand he had promised to try. A good night’s sleep might present him with an idea and more time might show him a lever to use against that strong will of hers. After all, she did not have to marry George: London was full of eligible young men whom any sensible lady would be happy to marry. After such plain speaking, surely even his godmother would realise that a match with her stepson was a lost cause and would focus her attention on finding her niece an acceptable partner.

Gabrielle was attractive. She had a flourishing vineyard and port business as a dowry. Her connections were good and no one needed know about the lover unless she had an inconvenient conscience and decided to confess. She could make a highly respectable match if she would only control her devastating frankness. He should make some effort to persuade her, he told himself. She might be set against marriage now but, surely, all it would take would be to find the right man.

As a gentleman he could not, with a clear conscience, leave her alone out here even though she showed every sign of being completely in control of her world. As a gentleman, he reminded himself, he should not be thinking about her in the way he was.

Gabrielle cleared her throat and he recalled that she had asked him a question. ‘Plans? I would like to see your vineyards, if that is possible. Learn a little about the production of this elixir.’ He toasted her with a lift of his glass and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. The curl slid across the swell of her breast, and another, he was certain, was about to slip free. Breathe. ‘And this is far better than anything I have. You are right, I should see about adding some to my cellar. I will rely on your advice.’

Gabrielle did not seem too disturbed by his intention to stay a few more days. Perhaps the opportunity to sell him an expensive cellarful of wine counterbalanced the irritation his presence caused her. Perhaps she had failed to notice that he was fighting arousal with all of his willpower. Probably every man she came into contact with simply seethed with desire around her and she ignored them all.

‘Stay, then,’ she said, her voice indifferent, holding neither confusion over that...moment just a few minutes before, nor resentment over an uninvited guest. If she had noticed that his breathing was tightly controlled, then apparently it did not disconcert her in the slightest.

‘I will be taking a boat down to Porto in a few days’ time on business. You could come with me,’ she suggested. ‘I can recommend places to stay until you find a ship to give you passage home, which will not be difficult.’

‘Thank you. That would suit me very well.’ Possibly by tomorrow he would have recovered the use of his brain and could produce some arguments for her returning with him.

‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey,’ she said as he put down the glass and got to his feet.

‘It is not over yet. Who is to say whether it will be wasted or not? Goodnight, Miss Frost.’

Chapter Four

‘Goodnight.’ Gaby looked at the closing door, then down at the dregs of her port, then back at the door. Neither glass nor wooden panels gave her any insight into why she had made that idiotic suggestion. What was she thinking of, giving Gray the opening to stay for five more days? And then to commit to his company for a day on the river and perhaps another day in Porto was madness.

He was a threat. Not that she believed for a moment that he would succeed in persuading her to go to England against her better judgement. But that was hardly the problem, was it? The problem was that she found herself strongly attracted to him and, it seemed, that feeling was reciprocated. He hid it well because he was a sophisticated, experienced man, but she had recognised the signs. It was merely a physical attraction, obviously, but even so...

She found she was on her feet and pacing. It was really insufferably hot indoors. No, she was insufferably hot. It was a long time since she had lain with a man and, apparently, the hard, distracting work was no longer enough to keep any yearnings at bay.

Gaby rehearsed a string of the riper Portuguese oaths that she had heard at the height of the harvest when everyone was hot, tired and at the end of their tether. They did not help. Why couldn’t she desire one of the numerous charming gentlemen who came her way both in local society and among the English and Scottish merchants and shippers in Porto?

There were enough of them, for goodness’ sake. Intelligent men, handsome men, amusing men. Men she could probably marry if she got to know them better, if marriage was not such an impossible trap. Marry and she lost control of everything, became a chattel of her husband’s, surrendered Frost’s totally to his mercies.

It was cooler out on the terrace with the breeze from the river rustling the creepers on the walls of the house. She closed the double glass doors behind her and walked up and down, smelling the night-perfumed flowers, watching the bats harrying the moths, willing her nerves to calm.

It was time to move on. She had sensed that for a few months now in the restlessness of her body, the way the sharpness of grief had mellowed somehow into sadness and regret. Betrayal was no longer the word if she found another man to...love? No, desire. She had been close to loving Laurent and perhaps, if they had had longer together, then their feelings would have become even deeper, more intense, but she thought not.

If I did find a man I could like and we had a child, but without marrying...

Gaby stopped dead in her tracks. That had never occurred to her as a solution. What was the Portuguese legal position on illegitimate children inheriting? Possibly it was the same as in England and they would have no claims by right, but she could will her property to whomever she wished if she was not married, she was sure of that.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It would take a great deal of working out, of course. Gaby paced more slowly. The position of a child born out of wedlock in this conservative country would be at least as difficult as in England, if not worse. She would have to seem to be married and yet without the legal burden of a husband controlling everything. A widow, in fact.

Now, how—short of marriage and murder—did one achieve that?

* * *

‘O senhor está fora,’ Baltasar informed her as he brought in her breakfast.

‘He is outside? Since when?’

‘He has been there since early. He asked for his hot water and his breakfast for six o’clock and he was already awake when Danilo took them over. I think he has been walking. Now he is sitting on the dock, watching the river.’ Baltasar rolled his eyes. ‘I do not understand these English gentlemen. He is a lord. He does not have to rise so early. He has no work to do. Why does he not sleep?’

‘I think he is a restless man, if he has nothing to occupy him,’ Gaby suggested. ‘He is a man used to action, to having a purpose.’ And that purpose, that sense of duty, however misguided, had driven him here. He had failed in his mission and now he had an enforced holiday.

How dreadful for him, to have to try to relax and enjoy himself, to be a tourist.

She finished her breakfast and went to the window. Yes, there was that dark head, just visible through the screen of bushes. She poured another cup of coffee, filled up her own and went out across the terrace, carrying them in steady hands to the steps down to the dock, just above where he was watching the Douro’s relentless flow.

Gray was sitting on the boards, left leg drawn up, supporting his weight on his right arm, the other resting casually on his knee. She felt a fleeting regret that she could not draw. All it would take would be a few economical lines to catch that long, supple, relaxed body.

‘Good morning.’ He did not turn his head and she was certain she had made no sound.

‘You have sharp ears.’

‘I can smell the coffee.’

She came down the steps, set the cups down and sat beside them, an arm’s length away from him. ‘It might have been Baltasar.’

‘Not walking so softly.’ He turned his head, then smiled faintly. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her and then he went back to studying the water. ‘Thank you.’

‘You have shaving soap on the angle of your jaw.’ She extended one finger, almost close enough to touch, then he turned his head and the tip of her finger made contact with smooth skin. Gaby jerked her hand back.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slicked down with water, but the rest of him was casual, relaxed. He put up his free hand, scrubbed along his jaw.

‘That has got it.’ Her voice was quite steady, considering that she felt as though she had been stung.

She leaned back on both hands, her legs dangling over the water as she watched him from the corner of her eye. A loose linen shirt, a sleeveless waistcoat, a spotted kerchief tied at his neck like a coachman, loose coarse cotton trousers tucked into a battered pair of boots, a broad-brimmed hat discarded on the planks by his side. He was dressed like a man who understood the heat of this valley in summer, one who had fought through the dust and the baking sun while wearing uniform. Now, in the milder warmth of October, the costume was still practical for wandering about the countryside.

‘Is it strange being back here in peacetime?’ she asked, following through her train of thought.

Gray was silent and she wondered if she had been tactless and he would not answer her. She had no idea what his experience of war in this country had been like. For some, she knew, it had been hell. For others, luckily placed, a jaunt. But he was simply marshalling his thoughts, it seemed.

‘It is a pleasure to see the country tranquil, to watch children playing, people working, young men flirting without having one hand on a weapon,’ he said. ‘But it feels like a dream. There are moments when I hear gunfire and have to remind myself that it is hunters, when I smell smoke and tell myself it is a farmer burning rubbish, when the birds stop singing for a moment and I have to stop myself looking around for the ambush. It is hard to spend nine years fighting and then shrug off the habits and the reflexes that have kept you alive all that time. I look at this river—’ He broke off with a shake of his head.

Ah. So he has seen the hell, ridden through it.

‘And watch for the bodies being carried down,’ she finished for him, repressing the shudder. There had been too many to retrieve for a decent burial. Many must have found their graves in the sea. Certainly no one had ever reported finding the body of Major Norwood that she knew of.

‘Yes. One of the things I like about England is the absence of vultures.’

Gray picked up his cup and looked directly at her over the rim. Dark grey eyes like water-washed steel.

‘I should not be speaking of such things to a lady.’

Gaby looked away from those compelling eyes. They saw too much. She shrugged. ‘I lived through it, too, I saw the bodies, the wounds, the hunger. Most times it is better not to remember, but sometimes it is hard when you need to talk and you cannot, because other people cannot bear to listen.’

Gray made a soft sound. A grunt of agreement. He understood, perhaps, although he would have fellow officers to talk to, men who had been through it and knew, men he could be silent with and yet feel their support and empathy. She had no one she could speak to about the things that had happened. But that was probably the burden that most women who had been through war carried: no one wanted to admit that shocking things had happened to them, had been witnessed by them. It was much easier to pretend nothing had sullied their sight, nothing had disturbed their ladylike lives.

Gray had been married. She recalled Aunt mentioning it in a letter in the days when she did not simply toss them aside unopened. A good marriage, apparently, by Aunt’s definition of good. But his wife had died some years ago. A tactful woman would not refer to it, but then, she wanted to understand him for some reason and that was more important than tact.

‘Did your wife ask you about it? Or did she want to pretend that it was all beautiful uniforms and parades and glory?’

‘We were married for three years. We were together for, perhaps, six months in that time. I was home wounded for three months after Talavera. She noticed it was not all parades then.’ His hand went to his left shoulder as he spoke. Gaby doubted he realised he did it. She had seen no awkwardness in the way he moved that arm; it must simply be the memory of old pain.

‘Was it serious, the wound?’ The way he spoke about his wife—or, rather, the way he did not—made her wonder what kind of marriage it had been.

‘Bad enough to send me home. Not bad enough to prevent me getting her with child while I was convalescing.’ Now he sounded positively cold.

‘You have a child?’

‘Twins. A boy and a girl. James and Joanna.’ He was looking out over the river again, his profile stark and expressionless and she suddenly understood. Twins, but his wife dead, presumably in bearing those children. What must the guilt be like for a man who had left a pregnant wife behind to bear his children and die doing so? A wife, it seemed, he hardly knew and, she suspected, had not loved at all.

‘So they are about five now. Where do they live?’

‘Winfell, my house in Yorkshire.’ He lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

‘You must miss them.’

‘They have my mother. But, yes, I miss them. They have got used to me being home this past year and I have not yet become blasé about the novelty of watching small children grow.’

Charmed despite herself, Gaby felt a twinge of guilt. ‘You left them behind to perform this errand for your godmother.’

‘I thought it my duty.’ The severe lines that had softened when he spoke of his children were set again. ‘I did not—do not—like to think of an English gentlewoman alone and unprotected in a foreign country.’