A Lady In Need Of An Heir. Louise Allen

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       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.’ Gabrielle took a sip from her own glass and allowed her lips to relax.

      Gray crossed his legs. ‘Not 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.’

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