A Lady In Need Of An Heir. Louise Allen

am Leybourne. You should be expecting me. You should have had a letter informing you of my arrival. Your Aunt Henrietta, Lady Orford, wrote at least a month ago.’

      One lock of dark brown hair slipped from its combs and fell against her cheek. Miss Frost tucked it back behind her ear without taking her hostile gaze from his face. ‘In that case it went on the fire, as do most of her communications when she is in a managing mood. You are her godson, then, and if I remember rightly, Lord Leybourne. So you know what she is like.’

      ‘Yes.’ Gray held on to his temper with the same control he had used when faced with damn-fool orders from superior officers and offered no opinion on the Dowager. She was an imperious and tactless old bat, true enough, but she was doubtless right about what should be done with her niece.

      ‘And you expect to stay here?’ Miss Frost looked at the fast disappearing stern of the boat, her lips a tight line. A rhetorical question—unless she intended to refuse him hospitality. There were no other houses within sight and the nearest village was several miles away.

      Doubtless Godmama Orford’s intentions were correct, but he was beginning to wonder if marrying off this prickly female suitably was going to be as easy as she thought. Miss Frost might be lovely to look at, but her tongue had been dipped in vinegar, not honey. ‘If that would not be inconvenient. I do not believe there is any other lodging nearby.’

      ‘You can stay in the Gentlemen’s House.’ Miss Frost turned on her heel and walked away towards the buildings without waiting to see if he would follow. ‘It is empty at this time of year,’ she tossed back over her shoulder. ‘We use it for visitors when buyers and officials come and there are none now, just after the harvest.’

      Gray discovered that he was more amused than annoyed as he followed her. The performance was impressive, the rear view enticing and he found himself in some sympathy with anyone who consigned his godmother’s missives to the flames. On the other hand, this was clearly not the life a single young woman of aristocratic family should be living.

      A stocky, swarthy man in baggy breeches with a red sash around his substantial midriff hurried out of the house towards them. ‘Senhora Gabrielle?’

      ‘This gentleman is the Earl of Leybourne, Baltasar,’ she said in English. ‘He will spend tonight in the Casa dos Cavalheiros and take dinner with me. Please send one of the men over to make sure he has everything he needs until then. He will require the carriage in the morning to take him back to Porto.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Gray arrived at her side and deposited the bags in a heap on the front step. ‘However, I fear our business will take rather longer than one night, Miss Frost.’

      ‘Our business?’ Her eyebrows rose. Gray found himself admiring the curve of them, the length of her lashes as she gave him a very direct look. He could admire the entire effect, to be honest with himself. She had all the charm of an irritated hornet, true, but that temper brought rosy colour to her slightly olive complexion. The Frosts had married into the local gentry at some time in the past; that was clear. Then he reminded himself that he had to extract her from this place and endure the hornet stings all the way back to England, and her allure faded.

      ‘I can assure you I have not returned to Portugal on my own account, Miss Frost.’ He kept his voice pleasant, which appeared to make her more annoyed.

      ‘You mean you travelled all this way simply as the messenger boy for my dear aunt? I had no idea that earls were so easily imposed upon. I cannot believe it will take me very long to say no to whatever it is she wants, but, please, make yourself at home, Lord Leybourne.’ She made a sweeping gesture at the grounds. ‘And stay for a week if that is what it takes to convince her that I want nothing whatsoever to do with her.’

      * * *

      Gaby watched the earl follow Baltasar along the winding path to the little lodge where they accommodated wine buyers, shippers and gentlemen calling to view the quinta. As an unmarried lady it was sensible to keep male house guests separate for the good of her reputation, although Gabrielle Frost of Quinta do Falcão was regarded almost as an honorary man in the neighbourhood, at least in her business dealings.

      This man was definitely best kept at a distance. She had never encountered her aunt’s godson that she was aware of, but then she had not been in England since she was seventeen. The war had seen to that. She turned away with a mutter of irritation when she realised she had watched him out of sight. The man was quite self-confident enough without having confirmation that his tall figure drew the female eye. He had been an officer, she recalled. That reference to returning must mean he’d been in Portugal during the war and he still moved like a soldier—upright, alert, fit. Dangerous in more ways than one. She should be on her guard.

      The earl was probably well aware already that women looked at him, she thought, as she pushed open the kitchen door. He looked right back at them: she hadn’t missed the leisurely assessment he had given her on the dock.

      Maria—the cook and Baltasar’s wife—looked up from the intricate pastry work she was creating at the kitchen table. ‘Maria, temos um convidado.’ She almost smiled at the word. Convidado sounded too much like convivial to translate guest in this particular case. ‘An English earl, a connection of my family. Baltasar is taking him to the Gentlemen’s House. Send over refreshments, please. He will join me for dinner.’

      ‘Sim, senhora.’ Maria gave a final flourish of the glaze brush over the pastry. She looked pleased, but then she enjoyed showing off her skills and Gabrielle, although appreciative, could only eat so much. As for Jane Moseley, her companion, she was a fussy eater who still, after almost ten years in Portugal, yearned for good plain English cooking.

      Alfonso and Danilo were talking loudly in the scullery. From the sounds of splashing and clanking, they had been sent to fetch hot water for the earl’s bath.

      Everything was under control, as was to be expected. The household ran like clockwork with rarely change or challenge to distract her from growing grapes and making and selling port. The goodwill of the staff and the calm efficiency of Miss Moseley saw to that.

      Which left Gaby free to get on with managing the quinta and the business of creating fine wine. And that was what she should be doing now—keeping the record books up to date in the precious lull after the hectic and exhausting harvest time and before the routines of the autumn and winter work. She let herself into her office and sat down at the desk, which had, of course, a good view of the Gentlemen’s House to distract her.

      She flipped open the inkwell, dipped her pen and continued with her notes about the terrace on the southern bank that needed clearing and replanting. Her father had once told her that in England there was a saying—you plant walnuts and pears for your heirs. It was not quite that bad with vines, but it would be many years before she saw a good return from the new planting, so best to get on with it at once.

      She knew what Aunt Henrietta would ask about that: What was the good of maintaining and improving the quinta for posterity when Gaby had no one to leave it to? She asked herself the same question often enough, and the answer was that, eventually, she would find someone she thought worthy of it, even though she was the last of the Frosts.

       Four dozen grafted rootstocks...

      She stopped in the middle of a sentence and nibbled the end of the quill meditatively. But that was why Leybourne was here, of course. He had come to nag her into returning to England, leaving the quinta and surrendering to her aunt’s marriage plans. How her aunt had managed to persuade him to make the journey was a mystery, unless he had simply fled the country to escape her persistence, which was cowardly but understandable. Perhaps he was nostalgic for his war years in the Peninsula—she had caught his good Portuguese when he was talking to the boatmen and he had understood her first question.

      Where were you in October five years ago, my lord? she wondered. Behind the lines of Torres Vedras, protecting Lisbon with Viscount Wellington, as Wellesley had just become, or skirmishing around as a riding officer seeking out intelligence on the advancing French? Perhaps he had been a friend of