She had already compromised herself thoroughly with this lover of hers, unless, of course, she was lying in an attempt to shock him so comprehensively that he left her here as a lost cause. But in that case, who was the memorial intended for? A friend? A man she had loved chastely?

  Gray leaned back against the carved stone of the seat and attempted to think about the problem in military terms. If Miss Frost was the enemy entrenched in a fortress, how would he get her out? Starve her out? Bombard her defences until there was a breach in the walls and then storm in? Use an inside agent and have them unbar a gate? Use diplomatic means and negotiate a surrender?

  He could not spend the time to sit on her doorstep for months until he wore her down, although what she was being so stubborn about he could not comprehend—surely she employed a competent manager who actually ran the place?

  A siege would likely take years. Force was completely ineligible, which ruled out slinging her on to a boat and simply kidnapping her. An inside agent or diplomacy seemed the only feasible methods. He would begin with her lady companion, always assuming that the mature female his godmother had assured him was in residence hadn’t been driven out—or driven distracted—already. He would not put either past Gabrielle Frost.

  Gray closed his eyes and considered how to use whatever support an obviously ineffective, woolly-minded and careless chaperone might give him. He opened them a heartbeat later. The image on the inside of his eyelids was not some browbeaten widow, but Miss Frost herself. And he could think about siege works and chaperones all he liked, but the honest truth was that he found the woman profoundly, inconveniently, embarrassingly arousing.

  He moved, a frustrated jerk of his shoulders, and rose petals fell on to his hands. He touched one with his fingertip: soft, velvety, infinitely feminine.

  This time he did not swear. Gray buried his head in his hands and groaned.

  * * *

  Well. That had been stimulating, in much the same way that a wasp sting was energising. Gaby swept in through the back door and went straight down the stone steps into the cellars. The door at the top had been open and there was a wash of lantern light at the far end, so she knew her cellarman was working.

  ‘Jaime!’ she called into the gloom.

  ‘Sim, senhora?’ He peered around a thick pillar, a dusty bottle in his hand, his wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

  ‘We have a guest for dinner this evening,’ she said in rapid Portuguese as she joined him. ‘An English aristocrat who needs port for his cellar.’

  ‘Needs it?’ Jaime queried with a grin.

  ‘Every English lord needs our port,’ she chided, returning the smile. ‘Whether he knows it or not.’

  ‘He is knowledgeable?’

  ‘Probably not about the detail, or the business. I imagine he has a good palate.’ Although how she knew that she was not certain. The fact that the man had the taste to dress well in a classic, understated style should have nothing to do with his appreciation of fine wine. ‘He was here fighting during the war.’

  Jaime grunted. ‘You want to serve him the best, then?’ He would approve of any Englishman who had fought against the French. He had been with the guerrilheiros. So had his son who had not come back.

  ‘Yes.’ Although not because she wanted to honour the earl’s military service. ‘And the new white.’

  The cellarman’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded and followed her as she walked along the racks of the unfortified wines, selecting bottles to accompany the food. One did not distract the palate from good port by eating at the same time. By the end of the evening, unless the Earl of Leybourne was a philistine, he would appreciate why she must stay here, comprehend the importance of her work.

  And then he would go away and stop distracting her with thoughts that were absolutely nothing to do with vines and more about twining herself around that long, muscled, elegant body.

  Laurent. Gaby bit her lower lip until the prickling behind her eyelids was under control. She had not been so naive as to think that the numbness of loss would last for ever. They had been lovers, friends, but not in love, after all. She was a young woman, and one day, she had supposed, there would be someone else who would stir her blood. She had not expected it to be an English officer.

  But at least, she thought as she climbed the steps back into the daylight and dusted the cobwebs from her hands, it was only her body that was showing poor judgement, not her brain. That knew peril when it saw it.

  She would listen to what he had to say after dinner, allow him to recite his message from Aunt Henrietta, then refuse whatever it was he was asking—presumably a demand that she move to England. She would say no politely this time. She should not have teased him in the rose garden. She had made him colour up, but she did not mistake that for anything but shock at her unmaidenly behaviour. This was no blushing youth, this was a mature, experienced, sophisticated man.

  Lord Leybourne could hardly remove her by force—she would put a bullet in him first if he tried—but he had the power to disrupt her hard-earned tranquillity and peace of mind and those she could not protect with her pistols.

  * * *

  ‘Lord Leybourne.’ Baltasar wrapped his tongue efficiently around the awkward vowels as he opened the dining room door and ushered in her uninvited guest.

  Add exceedingly elegant to sophisticated, experienced, mature, et cetera. Gaby fixed a polite social smile on her lips and rose. Beside her Jane placed a marker in her book and stood, too. Elegant, but no fop, she added mentally, watching the way he moved.

  ‘Lord Leybourne, may I introduce you to my companion, Miss Moseley. Jane, Lord Leybourne, who is making a short stay.’ Very short.

  Of course he had managed to pack evening clothes in those few portmanteaus and of course they had to emerge pristine, despite the fact he was not accompanied by a valet. And doubtless, those skintight formal breeches were at the pinnacle of whatever fashion was this month in London.

  ‘Miss Frost, Miss Moseley.’ He sat down when they did and smiled at Jane. ‘Are you an enthusiast for port wine production as well, Miss Moseley?’ Gaby gave him points for civility to a hired companion of middle years and no great looks. For many gentlemen Jane was, effectively, invisible. Not that she thrust herself forward to be noticed, and as a chaperone, she was indifferent to the point of neglect, which suited them both very well.

  ‘No, I would not say that I am,’ Jane replied, blunt as usual.

  ‘That must make living in the midst of such intensive focus on the wine business somewhat dull for you.’

  ‘Not at all. The effect of soil and rocks on the quality of the grapes and the effect of such a standardised form of agriculture along the valley is most interesting from a scientific point of view.’

  ‘It must be.’

  He really was making a very good job of sounding interested, yet unsurprised, Gaby thought. Most people were silenced by Jane in full flow. Many were intimidated or dismissive. She decided to take pity on him. ‘Miss Moseley is a natural philosopher, my lord.’

  ‘Gray,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘Please call me Gray, both of you.’

  He should frown more, Gaby thought whimsically. It rather suited him with those severe features and dark brows.

  Then he did smile and it was positively disconcerting how difficult it was not to smile back. ‘I became so used to it in the army that I find myself looking round to see who this Leybourne fellow is.’

  Now his attention had returned to Jane. ‘Are you familiar with the map that William Smith produced this year, Miss Moseley? It delineates the stratigraphy of England and southern Scotland.’

  A miracle, the man is as interested in rocks as Jane is.

  Gaby settled back in her chair and let their conversation wash over her. While he was talking about natural philosophy—and they had got on to the subject of Erasmus Darwin’s strange ideas and his even odder poetry now—he was not thinking about ways to persuade her to go back to England.

  ‘Madam, I have the wine.’ Baltasar was back with the dusty bottle she had chosen earlier.

  ‘An aperitif,’ Gabrielle said and the other two stopped discussing fossils and looked across at Baltasar opening the bottle.

  Again, as she had instructed him, Baltasar showed the label to Gray.

  ‘A white port?’

  ‘Yes, and a single quinta port, which is very rare.’ She took the wine and poured it. ‘Almost all port is blended so that we combine the grapes from different soils, different aspects, to give a richer, more complex result. I have experimented with using only our own grapes, but from both sides of the river and from different heights on the slope. I am really very excited with the result.’

  Gray took the glass, sniffed, tasted and raised his eyebrows. ‘That is very fine. I had never thought much of white ports before, but this is superb.’

  ‘I think so.’ She could say so without false modesty. It was essential to be critical of what she did, and this was, indeed, a triumph. ‘Now we have to see how it matures, because I intend leaving it on the wood for another three years. Meanwhile we will begin again this year and treat twice as much the same way.’

  ‘Three years?’ Gray’s assessing gaze moved from the wine glass to her face. He was not insensitive, he must have heard the commitment in her voice.

  ‘Yes.’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘The satisfaction of personally developing and nurturing wine like this is what I live for.’

  And you are not going to wrench me out of this place.

  ‘That sounds very like passion to me, far more than satisfaction,’ Gray said. His tone was neutral, as though he was making a commonplace observation, but there was something in his eyes, a glimmer of warmth, that made passion and satisfaction strike a shiver of erotic awareness down her spine. His gaze moved to her mouth and Gaby realised she was biting her bottom lip. Perhaps it had not been her imagination back there in the garden when she had thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to kiss her.

  ‘Jantar está servido, senhora.’ Baltasar had given up on English.

  Gabrielle finished her wine. ‘Shall we go through?’

  Gray offered his arm to Jane, which earned him a look of grudging approval. Jane might be used to dismissive bad manners, but that did not mean she enjoyed them. Not that she allowed any annoyance to show. When subjected to such neglect Jane was more than capable of producing a book and reading, ignoring the visitors in her turn.

  * * *

  Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Gray showed an intelligent appreciation of the unfortified local wine she served with the food and made flattering comments on the various dishes. His words would make their way down to the kitchens and please Maria, as he clearly intended. And he kept strictly off the subject of England and her aunt, much to Gaby’s relief.

  When the meal was over, she rose and he politely came to his feet. ‘Will you join me for a glass of port in the drawing room, Gray? We do not drink it in the dining room, where the smell of food dulls our palates.’

  If he was surprised at not being left to enjoy the decanters by himself, he managed not to show it, but followed her and Jane out. He did look somewhat taken aback when Jane bade him goodnight and turned to the stairs.

  ‘Miss Frost, your chaperone has abandoned you.’ He stood at the door, holding it open.

  ‘My companion has clearly decided that you are not bent on seduction this evening. Do come in and close the door. You are quite safe, you know.’

  ‘I am? That is hardly the point in question. You should not be alone with me, Miss Frost.’

  ‘As we are the only occupants of the house except for my very loyal servants, I hardly think we are going to cause a scandal, Gray. Now, come in, sit down, try this very excellent tawny port and listen while I tell you that whatever you have to say I am not going to England. Not now. Not ever.’

  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?’