A Lady In Need Of An Heir. Louise Allen

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.’