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Gabrielle certainly did not seem inclined to flirtation with her neighbour, whom she appeared to regard in the light of a brother. He’s younger than her in years and in experience, Gray decided, watching covertly as he was introduced to the other guests. There were several neighbouring wine producers and their wives, the owner to the biggest cask-making business in the area with his two daughters and a Portuguese gentleman who appeared to hold some government position in the nearby town.
He was perfectly capable of keeping up social chit-chat while thinking of two other things at the same time and Gray circulated, keeping one eye on Gabrielle as he did so. Yes, she was far more mature than the MacFarlane son and he doubted she had ever given young Angus a second thought as a potential husband. His father was clearly playing a long game and he certainly would not want her lured back to England and the many marriage prospects there.
The meal was pleasant enough, he found. The food was excellent, the wines, of course, superlative. Gray was seated next to Mrs MacFarlane with
the wife of one of the wine producers on his other side and was kept busy attempting to describe the latest London fashions to the ladies. He invented details without a qualm and wondered if in a few weeks the ladies of the Douro valley would be flaunting braided trims on their hems, lavender muslin with yellow dots for daywear and high puffed sleeves with crimson ribbon bows for evening. Pastel colours, he declared, were positively passé for all but the youngest girls.
Best to change the subject before he gave his ignorance away entirely. ‘I had not realised that there were Scots so involved in the port business,’ Gray remarked to Mrs MacFarlane.
‘Oh, yes.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Since the events of last century many Scottish younger sons found the Continent, and Portugal, healthier politically. And the gentlemen of Edinburgh enjoy their port wine.’
By events he assumed she was referring to the Jacobite uprisings. Perhaps he was in the house of Stuart supporters and a health to King George might not be tactful. Gray turned the subject yet again.
Gabrielle was partnered by Angus but, from what he could see, she was ignoring him in favour of an energetic discussion with the husband of Gray’s own dinner partner. Comments about grafted root stocks and declaring a vintage and ridiculous duties floated down the table. Miss Frost was most certainly not engaged in flirtation. He caught her eye as he thought it and smiled. Gabrielle smiled back and he was conscious of Mrs MacFarlane beside him stiffening.
The ladies, including Gabrielle, departed after the dessert course, leaving the gentlemen to their port and nuts. MacFarlane did not resume his seat as most of the men did once the ladies were out of the room, but strolled down to Gray.
‘Did you develop a liking for cigarillos when you were in the Peninsula, Lord Leybourne?’
‘I did. Not enough to seek them out in London, though, I must confess. Finding a reliable supplier is tricky. Too many seem dry.’
‘Shall we go out on to the terrace and blow a cloud? I can recommend an importer if you like this sort.’
Not the subtlest of approaches, Gray thought, picking up his glass and taking a sip as he followed his host outside on to the stone-flagged platform that appeared to run right around the house. But if he wants to sell me some of this port, I’ll not put up too much of a fight.
MacFarlane struck a light, then leaned against the balustrade, drawing slowly on his cigarillo. ‘You are a relation of Gabrielle’s, I believe.’
So, this is not about port, after all. ‘No, not at all. My godmother, Lady Orford, is her aunt. There is no blood tie.’ He blew a cloud of fragrant smoke, recalling evenings by the campfire when coarse cigarillos were smoked more as insect repellent than anything.
‘Ah. I had assumed you were here on family business.’
‘My godmother wishes Miss Frost to spend a Season in London and I am both messenger and, should she decide to accept the invitation, escort.’ Telling his host to mind his own business was tempting, but ill-mannered. Gabrielle thought of him as an uncle, after all.
‘Lady Orford intends to thrust Gabrielle into the London Marriage Mart, then?’ There was no humour in the query, and in the spill of light from the dining room Gray could see that the older man’s colour was up over his cheekbones.
‘I am not given to questioning a lady’s motives,’ Gray said, regretting his good manners a moment before. ‘Although Lady Orford certainly made a most advantageous match herself when her family sent her to London as a young lady to make her come-out. Her aunt is very concerned for Gabrielle’s welfare, as one might expect.’ There was someone behind him in the shadows, he realised, his awareness of their presence suddenly uncomfortable. Instinctively he shifted, putting his back to the balustrade, balancing his weight.
For goodness’ sake, he chided himself. This is a dinner party, not the start of a brawl.
‘Or perhaps you have hopes of pre-empting that visit?’ MacFarlane’s tone was forced, but he put just enough jocularity into the remark for Gray to choose to shrug it off as misplaced levity following too much wine, rather than insulting curiosity. If he chose. He decided that he did not wish to.
‘Nor am I in the habit of bandying a lady’s name about in speculation on such matters.’ The presence in the darkness moved out and revealed itself to be Angus MacFarlane. Father and son together made a formidable bulwark in the fading light.
Oh, for... He was not going to stand up straight, start facing off with these two like a trio of stags on the rutting ground, but if they thought he was going to be intimidated into scuttling back to Porto, they could think again. There was the sound of voices further along the terrace, chatter and a feminine trill of amusement. Gray took a long drag on his cigarillo, slumped comfortably against the balustrade and blew smoke gently into Angus’s face.
‘You cannot have her. Gabrielle is not so foolish as to be dazzled by a title. She belongs here, with me.’ Angus drew back his impressive shoulders and Gray contemplated his options if the pair of them decided to try dumping him over the side into the bushes below.
It really did not do to engage in fisticuffs with one’s host, but knocking some manners into young MacFarlane was tempting. ‘Fustian,’ he remarked so mildly that it was a provocation in itself.
Angus took an abrupt step forward and Gray pushed himself to his feet. Nonchalance was one thing, finding himself pinned against the stonework with his nose in the other man’s neckcloth quite another.
‘I am marrying Gabrielle Frost and you have nothing to say to the matter.’
Really, it would be too easy. A fist in the stomach, sweep his legs out from under him and the young idiot would go down like a felled oak—
‘Certainly Lord Leybourne has nothing to say about my marriage.’ Gabrielle stepped out from the shrubbery. ‘Angus, what nonsense is this?’ From her tone he might have been a scrubby schoolboy who had brought a bucket of frogs into the drawing room.
‘I... We...’
