Hopefully not, but those fine brown eyes and that lithe figure and his overheated imagination would be his undoing if he did not keep a firm hold on his willpower. It did not help that she made him smile. The fantasy picture of her laughing up as she lay beneath him naked, those long, long legs curled around his hips, that thick brown hair spilling over the pillows, those lovely breasts against his chest—that was almost irresistible. And it must be resisted. He needed a mistress, a practical arrangement. He did not want a wife and most certainly not a passing affaire with a young lady under his protection.

  ‘Of course. It will be my pleasure.’ He thought his tone conveyed nothing but willing agreement. ‘I do not envisage any difficulty finding something suitable—the Season has not started. You will require a suite in a reputable hotel for perhaps a week while we find the right house. The Pulteney is the most prestigious, but noisy, being right on Piccadilly, so I would recommend Grillon’s on Albemarle Street—just as well located and rather quieter. When do you want to travel?’

  ‘In three days, I think. That will give me plenty of time to make arrangements here.’ Gabrielle got up, stopped beside him on her way to the door. Gray stood and for a moment they were close enough for him to see the few freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose. ‘Thank you, Gray.’ She laid her hand on his shoulder, stood on tiptoe and dropped a kiss on his cheek, then she was gone and he could hear her calling to Baltasar from the hallway.

  He thought he would probably be spending a great deal of time on deck when they sailed. He would walk up and down in the wind. The nice, cold wind.

  * * *

  Gray lounged on the colourful cushions in the cabin of the rabelo and contemplated the toes of his boots. They were dry, he was comfortable and they were making rapid progress downstream. It was all very different from his journey upstream. This was no working boat, but the quinta’s waterborne equivalent of a carriage with a small cabin amidships, comfortable benches, a tiny fold-down table and glazed windows. The steersman still stood on his high platform at the stern, wielding the long oar that kept them on course, but instead of looking over a load of barrels and pipes of port, the man was sighting across the roof of the cabin.

  He was beginning to develop an eye for the wine-growing countryside, Gray realised. The terraces were subtly different as they moved downstream, the slopes less steep. ‘There are fewer vines planted here,’ he remarked as they passed the small town of Ermida.

  ‘And soon, none, or only patches for table wine.’ Gabrielle looked up from the paperwork she had been bent over for more than an hour. ‘There is more agricultural land and orchards, the closer we get to Porto.’ She signed a document, flapped it about to dry the ink, folded it and took a stub of candle and some sealing wax from her bag, struck a spark with a tinderbox and began to seal the pile of documents that she had been working on.

  Gray watched, despite himself, as she sat carefully tilting the stick of red wax and the candle, pressing her signet ring into each puddle before it set. Her concentration was total, her fingers, deft. Finally she slid the heavy ring back on her left thumb, shuffled the letters and sat back. She looked up and caught his gaze. ‘There, all done.’

  ‘That is an old ring.’

  ‘It is the original seal of the quinta. Made for a man’s hand, of course. I usually wear it on a chain around my neck, but I will be doing business in Porto and I make a point of wearing it when I am there.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘The first time I was in a meeting and drew it out on the chain in order to seal an agreement I realised that every man around the table was staring at my—’ She waved her hand vaguely at her breasts. ‘That was a lesson learned, believe me.’

  Miss Moseley gave a genteel snort. ‘They should not have been looking.’ She frowned at Gray, who had been keeping his eyes, and his imagination, well under control, and turned back to her contemplation of the riverbank, occasionally jotting a note in the book on her lap. Perhaps she was a more effective chaperone than he had thought.

  ‘There is a small hotel I use when I visit Porto,’ Gabrielle said as she corked her ink bottle and began to fit her writing implements back into the small wooden box she had produced from another of her capacious satchels. He was developing a grudging respect for her approach to business—focused, efficient, fast. It was grudging because she was a woman, for heaven’s sake. A lady. She shouldn’t have to know about business, let alone work at it. The fact that she was good at it and showed every sign of enjoying the process was neither here nor there, it was as wrong as setting a blood mare to pull a dung cart.

  ‘I am sorry, I was wool-gathering. You were saying?’

  ‘A hotel,’ Gabrielle repeated patiently. ‘It is small, but clean and comfortable. I suggest we try for rooms there. Then tomorrow, while I make my calls, you can find us berths on the next ship bound for London.’ When he nodded agreement—at least she was not proposing to march down to the docks and haggle with seamen herself—she added, ‘What were you daydreaming about, Gray?’

  ‘The Godolphin Arabian, one of the founding stallions of the thoroughbred line. He was a gift from the Sultan to the King of France and somehow ended up as a carthorse before Lord Godolphin found him.’

  ‘And men say that the workings of the female mind are mysterious,’ she teased. ‘Whatever made you think about racehorses as you sail down the Douro?’

  ‘I cannot imagine,’ he lied, averting his gaze from the lovely lines of the thoroughbred in front of him.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘There is Spain.’ Gaby leaned on the ship’s rail next to Gray and nudged his elbow companionably with hers. ‘The entrance to the harbour of Vigo.’ She had been below since they had reached the open sea, organising the cabin to her liking and making sure that Jane, not the best traveller, would be comfortable in the cabin they were sharing.

  ‘Is the accommodation satisfactory?’ Gray asked. ‘It seemed so, but what would suit me might well not be to the liking of two ladies.’

  ‘It is well fitted out and has more space than I feared. You found us a good ship, I think. The captain was very obliging about stowing the port I have brought for you. We will see how it is handled at the other end, but I may well use him again.’

  ‘What port?’ Gray half turned, one elbow still on the rail. The freshening breeze whipped his hair across his eyes and he pushed it back with an impatient gesture.

  ‘I did promise to see to replenishing your cellars. You do not have to buy it, of course. I can easily sell it in London through my usual agents, but I thought you might like first choice.’

  ‘You, Miss Frost, are a merchant to your fingertips.’ There was a hint of admiration there, not the condemnation she half expected.

  ‘I have to buy all the smart new clothes I will need for London somehow.’ She could easily afford an entire new wardrobe, but it did not do to boast of her wealth, even to Gray. The thought brought her up short.

  Why do I think, even to Gray? Do I trust him so much then?

  Gaby tucked the puzzle away to think about later. ‘Does my aunt have good taste? I can’t recall and anyway, I was too young to be much interested in gowns when I saw her last. Now I find myself reluctant to put myself in her hands to any extent.’

  ‘Good taste? Frankly, no. Rather like Mrs MacFarlane, overfussy. I can recommend one or two modistes who should suit.’

  ‘And how do you know about them, might I ask?’ she enquired and was rewarded by the tips of Gray’s ears turning pink. Or perhaps it was the wind. ‘Your daughter is far too young.’

  ‘Naturally one is au fait with the most fashionable designers in all fields,’ Gray drawled. ‘And, equally naturally, I have no idea how much the establishments I will recommend might charge you.’ The steel-grey eyes challenged her to persist and try to make him admit he paid for his mistresses’ gowns. Or that he had a mistress at all.

  He must, surely? He’s a virile man, and I can’t believe he frequents bawdy houses, he seems far too fastidious.

  But she was not going to fish for a response, that might imply that it was of some concern to her. Which, of course, it was not. Gaby shivered.

  ‘You are cold.’ Without waiting for her response Gray unfastened the neck of the heavy boat cloak he was wearing and flapped it out so that one half settled around her shoulders. ‘Move up.’ He put his arm around her shoulders as he tugged her gently against his body. ‘There, that will keep the wind out.’

  Harmless, Gaby told herself. Mutual warmth and shelter from the wind. Perfectly acceptable.

  Only it was not just the cloak that was warming her. There was the heat of the big male body so close to hers and her own heat that had nothing to do with an absence of cold breezes and everything to do with a purely feminine desire to unbutton Gray’s coat, rip open his waistcoat, push him back against the bulkhead and bite his neck. Then rip open his shirt and lick all the way down—

  ‘The captain asks if we will join his table at dinner. And Miss Moseley, of course,’ Gray said. ‘Can you get access to any of the port—my port? I could donate a bottle or two to the occasion.’

  Gaby blinked, pulled out of erotic imaginings.

  Oh, yes. Make love to a man in front of an interested audience of half a dozen sailors, two shippers known to me and a pair of very respectable-looking Portuguese matrons. A man who made it quite clear he was far too prudent to indulge in any such thing, audience or not.

  She took a careful half step to the side, opening up just an inch of air between them. ‘The port is in the hold, except for the two dozen assorted bottles jammed into my cabin. I never know when I am going to find a new buyer so I always make certain some is to hand. I will certainly choose a few bottles for dinner.’

  Gray simply looked at her, the hint of two vertical lines between his brows, and Gaby realised she could read his frowns so much more easily than his smiles. The smiles hid things—they were a mask he used quite deliberately, but the frowns were thoughtful, genuine. And not hostile either, however severe they made his face seem. This one held a hint of amusement at her presumption in bringing wine for him, a touch of admiration for her entrepreneurship and the merest suggestion of banked heat that caught the breath in her throat.

  This man wanted her and she wanted him and, it seemed, neither of them was going to get what they wanted—Gray because his past held something that had soured his view of relationships, she because it would be wrong to ask for what she needed from him.

  * * *

  ‘Will this do for a few days?’ Gray turned on his heel, the better to inspect the sitting room of the suite he had engaged for Gabrielle and Miss Moseley at Grillon’s Hotel on Albemarle Street.

  Beside him the manager voiced a mild twitter of protest at his choice of words. ‘This is one of our best suites, my lord. Many ladies of rank express themselves most satisfied with its amenities.’

  ‘It appears to be just what is needed, Mr Montjoy.’ Gabrielle came out of one the bedchambers with an expression that Gray had no trouble interpreting as displeasure at the manager for addressing him, not herself. ‘Have our luggage brought up directly, if you please. And a tray of tea and cakes for Miss Moseley.’

  The manager bowed himself out, expressing his delight that Miss Frost found the suite suitable.

  ‘No tea for us?’ Gray queried.

  ‘I was hoping that you would take me to call on Aunt Henrietta and she is sure to ply us with refreshments. I thought it good tactics to take her by surprise before she discovers we are in London.’

  ‘I agree. We could call on my man of business on the way and set him to finding you a house.’

  ‘And so present her with a fait accompli?’

  ‘A statement of intent, certainly, if you mean to begin as you will go on. But do you not want to bring Miss Moseley?’

  ‘She is lying down and resting and I do not need a chaperone when I have you, surely?’

  Gray silently reviewed the parts of his anatomy Godmama would attack at the news that he was squiring her niece around London unchaperoned. He shrugged. He was most attached to all of them, but he could probably move faster than she could. ‘On your head be it.’

  Gabrielle tied the ribbons on a particularly elegant bonnet and paused to admire the effect in the mirror. ‘Well, this is what is on my head at the moment—the best the Lisbon milliners can produce.’ She picked up her reticule. ‘Lead on, my lord, and we will face her wrath together.’

  * * *

  Gaby was not certain whether she was terrified or excited at the prospect of bearding Aunt Henrietta in her den. Probably both. It certainly felt like one step she must take to clear her way to fulfilling her plans for the future. Besides anything else, if she was able to find a suitable, willing father for her child she did not want him dissuaded by rumours that she was promised to George.

  Gray’s stables at his town house were shut up so he had hired a carriage, complete with driver and a smartly liveried groom who jumped down from the back to knock as they arrived in Mount Street.

  ‘They are in residence.’ She had been harbouring a sneaking hope that the knocker would be off the door and the family in the country. But of course, if Aunt Henrietta had been expecting Gray to bring her back, she’d be in London, scheming.

  ‘She is waiting for me to return with you meekly at my side,’ Gray said as the door swung open and the groom presented his card. ‘Expecting it. See, the butler has not even had to enquire whether his mistress is receiving.’ He stood as the man returned to let down the carriage steps. ‘Chin up, shoulders back. I tell myself that it can’t be any worse than a dressing-down from Wellington.’

  ‘You have never been on the receiving end of one of those, surely?’ Gaby took his hand and allowed herself to be helped down in a decorous manner. Aunt was doubtless peeping from behind the curtains and it would not do to begin the encounter by leaping out of the coach like a hoyden.

  ‘I once queried an order.’

  ‘No! Isn’t that tantamount to mutiny?’

  ‘Fortunately what I was suggesting was rather more, shall we say, aggressive, than his original intent, so he could hardly accuse me of cowardice. I escaped with the words, impudent, improvident and impetuous ringing in my ears, but with no further damage.’

  They were through the front door as Gray finished speaking and Gaby suspected she had been most effectively distracted from any nerves she might be feeling. Gray was relieved of his hat and gloves and they were ushered through to the front drawing room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the curtains sway slightly. Yes, they had been observed.

  ‘Gabrielle, dearest child!’ Aunt Henrietta swept down in a cloud of elegant dark blue draperies. ‘Gray, dear boy, I knew I could rely upon you to bring her home to me.’ She moved too fast for him to dodge a kiss on the cheek before she whirled on Gaby and gathered her in a fond, and very uncomfortable, embrace against a substantial bosom embellished with a fine diamond brooch.

  They were not alone, Gaby realised as she extricated herself. A stocky young man she vaguely recognised had risen to his feet from one of the sofas flanking the fireplace. ‘Welcome home, Gabrielle.’

  ‘Thank you for the welcome to your home, Cousin George,’ she said with emphasis on cousin. ‘But hardly mine, I think. I hope I find you both well. And my uncle Orford?’

  ‘At a house party in Herefordshire. He will be desolated that he was not here to welcome you,’ Aunt Henrietta said with the air of woman not to be contradicted. Given that Lord Orford spent as much of his time out of London and away from his wife as possible, Gaby took leave to disbelieve this. ‘And this will soon be your home, just as it became mine when I left Portugal for London and marriage. Now, we have a guest to meet you.’ She gave Gray a very arch look. ‘Someone you will be happy to see, Gray. Caroline Henderson is staying with me for a few weeks. Caro, dear, see who is here.’

  A young lady rose from the other sofa. A very young lady, Gaby saw. Pretty and blonde and as sweet and shy as a chick just hatched from the egg. And she was gazing at Gray with the air of a juvenile saint sighting a vision. Oh, no. Beside her she felt Gray stiffen and, in the sudden awkward silence, she realised that her aunt was matchmaking twice over. But Gray to this girl?

  ‘Lord Leybourne.’ Miss Henderson’s cheeks were pink and her copybook curtsy wavered along with her voice. ‘I am very pleased to meet you again.’

  Something had to be done. Someone—her aunt, presumably—had given this child expectations of a match and Gray was being put in a position where, unless he was exceedingly rude, he was going to reinforce those expectations. He was a gentleman. Fortunately she, Gaby, was not.

  ‘How nice to meet you, Miss Henderson. Are you an old friend of Gray’s?’ she asked warmly and slipped her hand through his arm, moving in tight to his side. ‘How lovely for you, darling,’ she added with a melting look up at him.

  For a second she thought he would fumble the catch. His eyes widened, the pupils dark, then he smiled, that charming, concealing smile. ‘I believe I had the pleasure of meeting you here on one occasion before I left for Portugal, Miss Henderson, did I not? Will you be making your come-out under my godmother’s wing? That must be very exciting for you.’

  He used the avuncular, faintly patronising tone of a much older man and the girl’s cheeks lost their colour and her lower lip trembled for a moment. Then she said, ‘Yes, I am very fortunate,’ in a flat voice and sat down again.

  Gaby felt a stab of guilt at hurting her, but it was best done now. She would be hopeless for Gray, and he for her, even if he had the slightest intention of going against what he had said about remarrying. Her aunt had been filling the child’s head with fairy tales and now she would be able to recover from her infatuation as quickly as possible.