Am I glad? Gray frowned at the passing terraces and tugged at the lobe of his left ear, an old habit while he was thinking. And I must stop doing that, he thought with a sudden burst of irritability. Portia had complained about it, saying he would end up with one lobe longer than the other. Strange how now the only clear memories he had of her were of complaints, or of weeping or sulking. I can hardly blame her, I must have been a most unsatisfactory husband.

  Gabrielle cleared her throat and he remembered that she had asked him a question. ‘I am not sure that glad is the right word. It has made me think not of the war, but of the fact I was away from home. It has reminded me that I was a poor husband and that I could have been thinking a lot more deeply about what I was doing and why.’

  ‘A poor husband because you were away so much? But every man who was fighting was in the same position, surely?’ When he simply shrugged she had the tact not to pursue it. ‘You were fighting your country’s enemy, Europe’s enemy. Doing your duty, helping win the war.’

  He had joined the army because it was a family tradition and because he was running away. Running from the mess he and Giles, his closest friend, had got themselves into. Running from the woman they had accidentally hurt and who his conscience had eventually driven him to marry.

  ‘Yes, I was doing my duty,’ Gray agreed, conscious that he had fallen silent for too long again. The carriage lurched over a rut and began to descend the slope again. ‘And I was enjoying myself. Most of the time. But I was the only son, the heir. My father supported me, but he must have been deeply uneasy.’ But had the army needed him? Would he have done better to have stayed in England? He could have gone into politics or increased the wheat yields on the family estates or joined a branch of government service as Giles, now Marquess of Revesby, had done for a while.

  Instead, even after he had returned to England and married Portia out of a poisonous mix of pity and duty, he had left again and spent nine years fighting his way up and down the Peninsula. And he had enjoyed it, that had not been a cynical remark just then. No one in their right mind found pleasure in a battle, let alone its aftermath, of course. He had not liked being wounded, or suffering dysentery or narrowly escaping frostbite in the Pyrenees, but he had found just about everything else stimulating, satisfying. Addictive.

  Now, seeing Portugal at peace, he knew he should be glad that he had contributed to that and to the freeing of Spain. He should have been glad of a marriage that had given him Jamie and Joanna. And, he supposed, freed him from the necessity to marry again. He was a fortunate man, healthy, wealthy, privileged. His duty revolved around the Yorkshire estates and London and that should be enough for any man. So why was he so damnably restless?

  Chapter Seven

  ‘We have arrived.’ Gabrielle made no reference to his lapse into silent thought as the carriage came to a halt.

  Gray pulled himself together. ‘I apologise. I had not realised how many layers of memory this has stirred up. I should have asked you more about our hosts this evening.’

  ‘Hector MacFarlane; his wife, Lucy; their son, Angus, twenty; and their daughter, Annabelle, eighteen. I’ve known them all my life. I do not know who else they will have invited, I’m afraid.’

  The carriage came to a halt in front of another low whitewashed house, roofed like the Quinta do Falcão with red pantiles. This one was differentiated by a vast panel of the blue-and-white azulejo tiles on either side of the double front doors. During the war Gray had become familiar with the tiles, a style that could be found all across the Peninsula, and he made a mental note to comment on them if conversation became sticky.

  ‘Handsome house,’ he remarked as Gabrielle began to gather up her reticule and fan and twitch her shawl into order. ‘Not such a fine garden as yours, though.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘You must say that to Jane. She is responsible for most of it.’

  A pair of big—very big—sandy-haired men came out on to the front steps as the groom opened the carriage door. Gray handed Gabrielle down and turned to look at them. They had to be father and son—one greying now, his waist thickening, the other not yet in his prime, but both of them imposing. Hector and Angus MacFarlane, he assumed, resisting the instinct to square his shoulders in a show of primitive masculine rivalry. They looked as though they spent their leisure time tossing the caber or throwing the boulder or some other kind of Highland sport.

  Gabrielle seemed not to find them in the slightest bit intimidating. She waved and called out, ‘Good evening!’ Then she abandoned him to run and kiss the older man on the cheek as though greeting a favourite relative. ‘Here is my guest, Nathaniel Graystone, Earl of Leybourne. You must sell him several cases of port while you have him at your mercy—I have been indoctrinating him on the subject. Gray, I must tell you that Mr MacFarlane has been like an uncle to me for as long as I can recall.’

  Gray strode up the path, smiled and held out his hand. ‘MacFarlane, thank you for accepting such a last-minute intrusion on your evening.’

  ‘Our pleasure, my lord.’ The light blue eyes were assessing and, Gray thought, not quite as warm as the welcoming words. The pressure of the big hand on his was not subtle. ‘Allow me to present my son, Angus.’

  The younger man’s expression was definitely wary. Then he saw Angus’s gaze move to Gabrielle and understood the underlying coolness.

  Now, is that sexual possessiveness or neighbourly protectiveness?

  ‘Gray, please.’ He smiled warmly, allowed no speculation or reserve to show in his expression as he shook hands with Angus, managed not to flex his well-crushed fingers and then was swept through the door on Gabrielle’s heels, into a crowd of people clustered in the wide hallway.

  ‘We were all admiring the portrait of my wife that has just arrived from Lisbon,’ MacFarlane explained, gesturing to a full-length oil in an elaborate frame. The frame was not all that was elaborate. Gray schooled his expression into one of polite admiration as he regarded the ornate gown, the complex hairstyle, the abundance of jewels, all painted with considerably more skill than the wooden features of the lady in question.

  She did not seem displeased with it, he thought as his host guided him to her where she stood beside the painting, holding court. ‘Gray, allow me to introduce Mrs MacFarlane. Lucy, my dear, the Earl of Leybourne, Gabrielle’s guest.’

  Gray shook hands, commented politely on the portrait and observed that, fine as it was, it could not do justice to the sitter, which was true. Lucy MacFarlane was considerably more vibrant in the flesh than on canvas. Wearisomely so, he decided after five minutes of her sprightly conversation. And she, too, was putting on a bright social manner over considerable reserve.

  They want Gabrielle for their son—and who could be surprised at that with such a fine estate located next door to their own? But they haven’t made their move yet, she is completely unselfconscious around Angus.

  Gabrielle certainly did not seem inclined to flirtation with her neighbour, whom she appeared to regard in the light of a brother. He’s younger than her in years and in experience, Gray decided, watching covertly as he was introduced to the other guests. There were several neighbouring wine producers and their wives, the owner to the biggest cask-making business in the area with his two daughters and a Portuguese gentleman who appeared to hold some government position in the nearby town.

  He was perfectly capable of keeping up social chit-chat while thinking of two other things at the same time and Gray circulated, keeping one eye on Gabrielle as he did so. Yes, she was far more mature than the MacFarlane son and he doubted she had ever given young Angus a second thought as a potential husband. His father was clearly playing a long game and he certainly would not want her lured back to England and the many marriage prospects there.

  The meal was pleasant enough, he found. The food was excellent, the wines, of course, superlative. Gray was seated next to Mrs MacFarlane with the wife of one of the wine producers on his other side and was kept busy attempting to describe the latest London fashions to the ladies. He invented details without a qualm and wondered if in a few weeks the ladies of the Douro valley would be flaunting braided trims on their hems, lavender muslin with yellow dots for daywear and high puffed sleeves with crimson ribbon bows for evening. Pastel colours, he declared, were positively passé for all but the youngest girls.

  Best to change the subject before he gave his ignorance away entirely. ‘I had not realised that there were Scots so involved in the port business,’ Gray remarked to Mrs MacFarlane.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Since the events of last century many Scottish younger sons found the Continent, and Portugal, healthier politically. And the gentlemen of Edinburgh enjoy their port wine.’

  By events he assumed she was referring to the Jacobite uprisings. Perhaps he was in the house of Stuart supporters and a health to King George might not be tactful. Gray turned the subject yet again.

  Gabrielle was partnered by Angus but, from what he could see, she was ignoring him in favour of an energetic discussion with the husband of Gray’s own dinner partner. Comments about grafted root stocks and declaring a vintage and ridiculous duties floated down the table. Miss Frost was most certainly not engaged in flirtation. He caught her eye as he thought it and smiled. Gabrielle smiled back and he was conscious of Mrs MacFarlane beside him stiffening.

  The ladies, including Gabrielle, departed after the dessert course, leaving the gentlemen to their port and nuts. MacFarlane did not resume his seat as most of the men did once the ladies were out of the room, but strolled down to Gray.

  ‘Did you develop a liking for cigarillos when you were in the Peninsula, Lord Leybourne?’

  ‘I did. Not enough to seek them out in London, though, I must confess. Finding a reliable supplier is tricky. Too many seem dry.’

  ‘Shall we go out on to the terrace and blow a cloud? I can recommend an importer if you like this sort.’

  Not the subtlest of approaches, Gray thought, picking up his glass and taking a sip as he followed his host outside on to the stone-flagged platform that appeared to run right around the house. But if he wants to sell me some of this port, I’ll not put up too much of a fight.

  MacFarlane struck a light, then leaned against the balustrade, drawing slowly on his cigarillo. ‘You are a relation of Gabrielle’s, I believe.’

  So, this is not about port, after all. ‘No, not at all. My godmother, Lady Orford, is her aunt. There is no blood tie.’ He blew a cloud of fragrant smoke, recalling evenings by the campfire when coarse cigarillos were smoked more as insect repellent than anything.

  ‘Ah. I had assumed you were here on family business.’

  ‘My godmother wishes Miss Frost to spend a Season in London and I am both messenger and, should she decide to accept the invitation, escort.’ Telling his host to mind his own business was tempting, but ill-mannered. Gabrielle thought of him as an uncle, after all.

  ‘Lady Orford intends to thrust Gabrielle into the London Marriage Mart, then?’ There was no humour in the query, and in the spill of light from the dining room Gray could see that the older man’s colour was up over his cheekbones.

  ‘I am not given to questioning a lady’s motives,’ Gray said, regretting his good manners a moment before. ‘Although Lady Orford certainly made a most advantageous match herself when her family sent her to London as a young lady to make her come-out. Her aunt is very concerned for Gabrielle’s welfare, as one might expect.’ There was someone behind him in the shadows, he realised, his awareness of their presence suddenly uncomfortable. Instinctively he shifted, putting his back to the balustrade, balancing his weight.

  For goodness’ sake, he chided himself. This is a dinner party, not the start of a brawl.

  ‘Or perhaps you have hopes of pre-empting that visit?’ MacFarlane’s tone was forced, but he put just enough jocularity into the remark for Gray to choose to shrug it off as misplaced levity following too much wine, rather than insulting curiosity. If he chose. He decided that he did not wish to.

  ‘Nor am I in the habit of bandying a lady’s name about in speculation on such matters.’ The presence in the darkness moved out and revealed itself to be Angus MacFarlane. Father and son together made a formidable bulwark in the fading light.

  Oh, for... He was not going to stand up straight, start facing off with these two like a trio of stags on the rutting ground, but if they thought he was going to be intimidated into scuttling back to Porto, they could think again. There was the sound of voices further along the terrace, chatter and a feminine trill of amusement. Gray took a long drag on his cigarillo, slumped comfortably against the balustrade and blew smoke gently into Angus’s face.

  ‘You cannot have her. Gabrielle is not so foolish as to be dazzled by a title. She belongs here, with me.’ Angus drew back his impressive shoulders and Gray contemplated his options if the pair of them decided to try dumping him over the side into the bushes below.

  It really did not do to engage in fisticuffs with one’s host, but knocking some manners into young MacFarlane was tempting. ‘Fustian,’ he remarked so mildly that it was a provocation in itself.

  Angus took an abrupt step forward and Gray pushed himself to his feet. Nonchalance was one thing, finding himself pinned against the stonework with his nose in the other man’s neckcloth quite another.

  ‘I am marrying Gabrielle Frost and you have nothing to say to the matter.’

  Really, it would be too easy. A fist in the stomach, sweep his legs out from under him and the young idiot would go down like a felled oak—

  ‘Certainly Lord Leybourne has nothing to say about my marriage.’ Gabrielle stepped out from the shrubbery. ‘Angus, what nonsense is this?’ From her tone he might have been a scrubby schoolboy who had brought a bucket of frogs into the drawing room.

  ‘I... We...’

  ‘Angus is being a trifle previous, that’s all, lass.’ MacFarlane moved forward, giving his son a none-too-gentle shove to the side. ‘Of course your father and I had planned this for years, but I wanted Angus to finish at Oxford and then come back here, get a grip on things.’

  ‘Then let me assure you both, Quinta do Falcão is not something Angus will be getting a grip on. Not by marriage, not by purchase. I had no idea you were labouring under this misapprehension, Uncle Hector, but I hope I have cleared it up. Now, I find I have a headache. Perhaps you would be so kind as to call for my carriage? Gray, will you give me your escort?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Frost.’ Well, that was more effective than a fist in the gut. More like a knee in the groin, if he was any judge.

  ‘Thank you so much for a delightful and informative evening, Uncle Hector,’ Gabrielle said sweetly. ‘Will you be very kind and make my excuses to Aunt Lucy, Angus? Gray, if you are ready?’

  ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. Excellent port and cigarillos, by the way.’ He followed Gabrielle along the terrace. ‘Ouch,’ he remarked once they were out of earshot. ‘Do give me a moment while I check my clothing for blood splatters.’

  ‘I apologise,’ she retorted. ‘That was insufferable of them. You are my guest—how dare they attempt to intimidate you like that?’ When Gray did not reply she glanced up, the candlelight making her eyes glint. ‘They didn’t do a very good job of it, did they?’

  ‘Young Angus needs to realise that he cannot rely on his size and a pair of broad shoulders to win his fights for him,’ Gray said, amused. ‘He’ll find himself laid low by smaller, faster, opponents a few times. Then, if he’s got any sense, he’ll find himself whatever is the Lisbon equivalent of Gentleman Jackson’s salon and learn some self-defence.’

  They arrived at the front door as the butler came out, Gabrielle’s shawl over one arm, Gray’s hat and gloves in his hand. ‘Miss Frost, I understand you require your carriage. The word has gone out to the stables. It should not be long.’ He bowed himself back inside.

  ‘Did Uncle Hector ever find out about your French...er...friend?’ Gray asked as he helped her arrange the shawl more closely around her shoulders.

  ‘No. We were very discreet.’

  The carriage drew up before Gray could reply. The hood had been raised and the interior was dark as he handed Gabrielle in. ‘That was an embarrassingly frank revelation of their intentions. What will you do now?’ he asked as they started off. He wished he could see her face. How upset was she to have fallen out with such old friends?

  ‘Nothing, I suppose.’ From the rustling of silks and the sudden waft of jasmine scent he supposed she had shrugged. ‘It would be foolish in the extreme to fall out with a neighbour, one of the community. We all rely on each other. If they have any sense they will pretend nothing happened and so will I, unless Angus is foolish enough to try to push the issue next time we are alone.’

  ‘Is it wise to be so relaxed about it? A forced marriage is not outside the bounds of probability.’ He wouldn’t put it past the MacFarlanes, they had ample motive.

  ‘Let them try. Being compromised would never force me to agree.’ Gabrielle made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a growl. ‘I hate this. All I want to do is to run the business, make good wine, employ skilled local people and carry on the family tradition. Yet, simply because I am a woman, it is a problem. I am a problem. An object to be traded. I cannot trust anyone, it seems.’

  ‘You can trust me.’ Gray reached for the shadowy form next to him and pulled her gently against his shoulder. It was disconcerting, finding the prickly, confident woman so affected by that betrayal. ‘I do not lie to you, Gabrielle, and I do not try to trick you. But I cannot change the marriage and property laws for you here, nor in England.’ He was not at all sure he would if he could because it went right against all his learning, all his protective instincts. Surely few women had the capacity to manage their own finances as Gabrielle did? Or perhaps they could, if they only had the training. It made him wonder about the education of his own daughter...