A Lady In Need Of An Heir. Louise Allen

memories he had buried for four years or more.

      ‘Is this widely known?’ he demanded. ‘I heard no gossip, no whispers in Porto.’

      ‘Of course it is not known. Do you think me a loose woman to brag of my...adventures?’

      ‘Then why tell me, a total stranger?’

      ‘Because you are the total stranger who has been sent to lure me back to England, I suspect, and now you know a very good reason why I should not go. You are also an English gentleman and you will not, I think, gossip, whatever you think of me.’ She looked up at him, her head tipped slightly to one side like an inquisitive cat as she waited for his reaction.

      ‘You shock me, Miss Frost.’ Had the woman no shame?

      ‘Then I am sorry you have had such an affront to your delicate sensibilities, my lord.’

      ‘I do not have sensibilities, Miss Frost. Your aunt, however, does.’ And they wouldn’t have to be delicate to be outraged by this.

      She shrugged, provoking a strong desire in him to give her a brisk shake. ‘Yes, of course, I am sure she is all fine feelings. However, my aunt is a long way away and I do not care about her opinion.’

      In the face of that brazen indifference there seemed little point in attempting to remonstrate with her. Besides, the horse was well and truly bolted and attempting to close the stable door was pointless.

      Gray watched her face. Miss Frost was thinking, it seemed. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you fight at Campo Maior, my lord?’

      ‘I did. Why? And call me Gray.’ There was no point in being at odds with her and he hated being my lorded.

      ‘Why do I ask? You might have been close by when he was killed.’ She said it without overt hostility, more, he thought, as though she was calculating carefully which of his ribs to slide a knife between for the tidiest extermination.

      ‘Which regiment?’ he asked.

      ‘Infantry,’ she unbent enough to admit.

      ‘I was cavalry, probably on the opposite flank.’

      ‘Then we have nothing to discuss, have we?’ Gabrielle shifted her gaze from his face and looked out over the garden. Something, a frog perhaps, plopped into the pond, and a pair of magpies flew over, cackling wickedly. ‘Gray,’ she added, as though there had been no pause.

      ‘We must talk,’ Gray said after another silence that, peculiarly, seemed almost amiable. He found himself reluctant to break the tranquillity of the garden with speech.

      ‘You must, I suppose,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Then you will consider your duty done to my aunt and can return to England. I do hope you have some other business in Portugal, because this is a long way to come just for a talk.’

      ‘It is, however, the sole purpose of my journey.’ A talk and a return with one young lady who was already proving ten times more tricky than he had imagined she would be. ‘I could stock my cellars with port while I am here, I suppose.’

      ‘Of course.’ Gabrielle turned to him, something coming alight behind those mocking brown eyes. He had her serious attention at last and it felt like something alive, something vibrant. ‘What do you hold at the moment? Is there a weakness in young growths to lay down, or perhaps you are running low on wines to drink at the moment? Or are you interested in investing in some fine old vintages? I can let you have good prices, although naturally you will want to do some tastings and see what is available elsewhere.’

      She broke off, apparently lost in calculation. ‘How long are you staying? I could take you to the Factory House, of course, make introductions and then go with you to the best lodges—not necessarily the biggest or best known.’

      ‘The Factory House? That is some kind of club, isn’t it? I had dinner there a few times when we retook Porto for the second time.’

      ‘It is where all the growers from the English and Scottish houses come together, along with owners of the lodges and the shippers. It is a cross between a club and a trading house and a mutual support society, I suppose.’

      ‘But you are not a member, surely? You are a woman.’

      Gabrielle stood up, forcing Gray to rise, too. Despite being shorter than he, she contrived to look down her nose in disdain. ‘This—’ She waved a hand to encompass the garden, the house, the terraces rising above. ‘This is Quinta do Falcão. This is Frost’s, one of the great estates, and I am its owner. I would have to commit a far greater sin than failing to possess a penis, or being suspected of somewhat loose morals, to be barred from the Factory House.’

      Gray took two long, slow breaths. He had faced charging French cavalry and been bellowed at by Wellington and had stood up to both. He was not going to be reduced to fuming incoherence by one young woman who said penis without blushing and who admitted to taking a lover.

      ‘Besides, there is the question of money,’ she added with what was suspiciously like a fleeting smile. ‘Ports are blended. This is not winemaking as in Burgundy or Bordeaux. We cooperate, work with the others to create our wines. It would be in the interests of no one to antagonise Gabrielle Frost of Quinta do Falcão.’

      ‘I see. It is a matter of trade and profits.’ He sounded like a stuffed shirt to his own ears. A pompous, disapproving outsider. Lord knew why he could not seem to get a secure footing in dealing with this woman. She was three years younger than his own twenty-eight, he knew that. He was an earl, he had been a colonel and yet there was nothing in his experience to give him the slightest clue as to how to handle her.

      His own marriage had hardly been one of perfect tranquillity, but Portia, when unhappy, had sulked and brooded in a ladylike manner, not fought back with sharp words and a complete unconcern for propriety. But then, he reminded himself bitterly, he had made a poor business of marriage and he clearly understood nothing about the female mind.

      ‘Yes, trade,’ Gabrielle agreed now, far too sweetly. ‘The sordid business of working to create something wonderful which you aristocrats can enjoy and for which you may despise us, even as you pay your inherited money to secure it. I am in trade, my lord, just as surely as the tailor who makes your very fine coats to fit your torso to perfection or the bootmaker who moulds that leather to your calves or the gunsmith who creates the perfect balance for your hand.’

      ‘Are there any other parts of the male body you are going to enumerate this afternoon, Miss Frost?’ Gray enquired, hoping for a tone of reproof and probably, he thought irritably, merely managing to sound pompous again.

      ‘I will spare your blushes and refrain from mentioning breeches, my lord,’ she said, with a comprehensive downward glance at his thighs.

      Gray sent up a silent prayer that he was not blushing—and when was the last time he had feared that he was? Ten years ago?—and returned to the attack. ‘You are from an aristocratic family yourself, Miss Frost, hardly in a position to sneer at my title.’

      ‘I do not sneer at your title, Gray. I sneer at the nonsense of looking down on trade and industry and the creation of wealth.’ She smiled suddenly and his breath hitched in his chest. ‘You will join me for dinner, I hope, and sample our port.’

      She was gone, her skirts whisking behind her with the rapidity of her steps, before he could reply. That was probably a very good thing because, he realised, he had been within a hair’s breadth of lowering his head and kissing those full red mocking lips.

      ‘Hell’s teeth.’ Gray sat down again, the better to swear in comfort. What the blazes had come over him? Barring lust, insanity and some sort of brain fever, that was. Gabrielle Frost was infuriatingly unlike any woman he had ever encountered and that included some very fast and dashing widows. She was independent, outspoken, immodest and outrageous. She was a damned nuisance to a man who had intended a rapid return to his own affairs, because he could not think of any way to extract her from her precious quinta short of kidnapping.

      He