LITMIR.BIZ

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so little. He’s my height now.’ Still spoilt, still inclined to be pompous. Selfish? Gray had no idea, although it was to be expected that the indulged heir to an earldom would have a well-developed sense of entitlement. For himself the army had knocked any self-importance that he’d had out of him, but George, Viscount Welford, had never been allowed near anything as dangerous as a militia exercise, let alone a battlefield. ‘I have to admit, he is not exactly the sharpest knife in the box, but he is not an idiot and it is a good match.’ He took a more restrained sip of the port. He deserved it. ‘And she cannot force you to the altar.’

      ‘She will nag and cajole and lecture and hector and make my visit an absolute misery. But let us assume that I am foolish enough to do as you ask and weak enough to give way to my aunt’s matchmaking. Let me calculate who gains what.’ Gabrielle, whose wits were clearly as sharp as any boning knife, began to mark off points on her fingers. ‘I gain the heir to an earldom, the expectation of becoming a countess one day and the opportunity to enjoy the English climate—I understand that rain is supposed to be good for the complexion. In return I give up my inheritance, cease the work I love, subjugate myself to the dictates of a man less intelligent than myself and who would run the business into the ground and surrender to being bullied by my aunt. Somehow I do not think that a title and clear skin weigh more heavily in the scales.

      ‘George, on the other hand, gains a very valuable wine estate and me. With all due modesty, I believe I am wealthier, more intelligent and better-looking than he is. Of course, there is a something on the negative side for him, too—I would make his life a living hell in every way I could think of.’

      Put like that, Gray could sympathise. In her shoes he would not want to marry Lord Welford either. ‘Leaving aside Lord Welford—’

      ‘By all means, please let us do that.’ She was positively smiling now. One glossy lock of brown hair slid out of the combs that she wore in it, Spanish-style, and slithered down to her shoulder. Gabrielle moved her head at the touch on her neck and the curling strand settled on the curve of her breast, chocolate against warm cream.

      He could not keep crossing his legs. Gray ground his wine glass rather vigorously in his lap, refrained from wincing and ploughed on. If he had wanted to spend his life negotiating with hostile powers, he would have joined the diplomatic corps, not the army. ‘Leaving him aside, you clearly cannot remain here.’

      ‘Why ever not?’

      ‘You are single.’

      ‘Portugal is full of single women.’

      ‘You are inadequately chaperoned.’

      ‘Fiddlesticks.’

      ‘Fiddlesticks? You admit to having had a lover—what kind of chaperonage does that argue?’

      ‘The kind I want. I am very glad I had a lover. That lover.’ Her chin came up, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hinted at tears suppressed. Or anger.

      ‘Very well.’ Clearly he couldn’t shame her into doing the right thing. ‘Who are you going to leave this quinta to? I hope you have a long and healthy life, but one day, you will need an heir.’

      ‘To leave it to my own child would be ideal. Unfortunately that requires a marriage.’ She shrugged. ‘Back to the problem with husbands.’

      He tried for a lighter note. ‘They are really such a problem?’

      ‘If I marry a local man, the quinta will vanish into a larger holding and lose its identity. If I was fool enough to marry in England, what husband is going to want the trouble of an asset so far away? He will sell it or hand it over to some impersonal manager. It will no longer be Frost’s, either way. “By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage.” That is William Blackstone, the legal writer. Believe me, I have read all round this. How would you like your very being suspended? More port?’

      ‘Thank you. And, no, I would not like it. But then, I am a man.’ Gray got to his feet, glass in hand as she glared, tight-lipped. He needed to move before he gave in to the urge to shake the infuriating female. Or kiss her. That combination of temper and intelligence and sensual beauty was intoxicating and he was tired after a virtually sleepless, uncomfortable river journey, exasperated and, totally against his will, aroused.

      If he had not been concentrating on the sideboard and the decanters, he would have seen her rise, too. As it was, they collided, her forehead fetching him a painful rap on the chin. Gabrielle clutched at him one-handed. He did the same to her and they swayed together off balance, breast to breast.

      She smelled of roses and rosemary and something else herbal he could not identify. Her breath was hot through the thin linen of his shirt and her body was soft and supple against his, which was as hard as iron. Gray steadied them both, set her back a safe six inches and took the glass from her hand. ‘I’ll get the wine.’

      From the grip that she had on her glass, and the second or two it took for her to relax it, that collision had shaken her as much as it had him. Gray made something of a business of pouring the port, careful about drips, precise in replacing the stopper in the decanter, anything to give them both time to compose themselves from whatever that had been. Other than lust.

      ‘Thank you.’ When he turned back, Gabrielle was seated again, fingers laced demurely in her lap. She took the wine from him, her hand as steady as his was, and he wondered again at her composure. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

      ‘What are your plans for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Please, feel free to rise at any time that suits you. If you could look in at the kitchen on your way past as you leave this evening and tell them when you would like hot water brought over and breakfast prepared, that would be helpful for the staff.’

      Gray wrenched his thoughts away from speculation about how her skin would taste. Plans? Was there any point in staying here other than to torture himself? Gabrielle’s answer to his godmother’s demand that she travel to England was clear enough and he couldn’t blame any woman with a choice in the matter for not wanting to marry George.

      On the other hand he had promised to try. A good night’s sleep might present him with an idea and more time might show him a lever to use against that strong will of hers. After all, she did not have to marry George: London was full of eligible young men whom any sensible lady would be happy to marry. After such plain speaking, surely even his godmother would realise that a match with her stepson was a lost cause and would focus her attention on finding her niece an acceptable partner.

      Gabrielle was attractive. She had a flourishing vineyard and port business as a dowry. Her connections were good and no one needed know about the lover unless she had an inconvenient conscience and decided to confess. She could make a highly respectable match if she would only control her devastating frankness. He should make some effort to persuade her, he told himself. She might be set against marriage now but, surely, all it would take would be to find the right man.

      As a gentleman he could not, with a clear conscience, leave her alone out here even though she showed every sign of being completely in control of her world. As a gentleman, he reminded himself, he should not be thinking about her in the way he was.

      Gabrielle cleared her throat and he recalled that she had asked him a question. ‘Plans? I would like to see your vineyards, if that is possible. Learn a little about the production of this elixir.’ He toasted her with a lift of his glass and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. The curl slid across the swell of her breast, and another, he was certain, was about to slip free. Breathe. ‘And this is far better than anything I have. You are right, I should see about adding some to my cellar. I will rely on your advice.’

      Gabrielle did not seem too disturbed by his intention to stay a few more days. Perhaps the opportunity to sell him an expensive cellarful of wine counterbalanced the irritation his presence caused her. Perhaps she had failed to notice that he was fighting arousal with all of his willpower. Probably every man she came into contact with simply seethed with desire around her and she ignored them all.

      ‘Stay,

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