A Lady In Need of an Heir Read online

  She needs an heir...

  But not a husband!

  Gabrielle Frost knows that marrying any man would mean handing over control of her beloved family vineyard in Portugal to her new husband. She won’t take that risk. But she needs an heir! So when Nathaniel Graystone, Earl of Leybourne, arrives to escort her to London, Gabrielle wonders—what if this former soldier, with his courage, strength and dangerous air, could be the one to father her child?

  “Allen writes Regency romances that always become favorites...Readers will enjoy the engaging plot twists and the authentic setting and characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Earl’s Practical Marriage

  “Readers will enjoy the unique setting, the many twists and turns of the plot, and the chance to see the whole Herriard clan together again.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Surrender to the Marquess

  “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,” Gray said.

  “To leave it to my own child would be ideal. Unfortunately, that requires a marriage.” Gabrielle 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 woman. 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.

  Author Note

  I love writing about independent women and about the Regency world away from the drawing rooms of London. A few summers ago, I was cruising along the Douro Valley in Portugal, admiring the spectacular terraces covered in vines (a UNESCO World Heritage site) and the gracious mansions of the port-producing estates, and imagining setting a book in this fascinating area.

  Portugal is England’s oldest ally (since 1386!) and the trade and family links are strong, which made it quite easy to imagine my characters moving between the two countries. Many of the great port wine producers are from English and Scottish stock, and that is the background of Gabrielle Frost, my heroine.

  I hope that A Lady in Need of an Heir might tempt you to visit the Douro Valley, too—or perhaps raise a glass of port to Gray and Gabrielle.

  A note on Oporto, the capital of the port trade—the English spelling is Oporto, the Portuguese, Porto. I have used the latter because that is what Gabrielle would have called it.

  A LADY IN NEED OF AN HEIR

  Louise Allen

  www.millsandboon.com.au

  LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or traveling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @louiseregency and janeaustenslondon.com.

  For A J H. He knows why.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Excerpt from Seduced by the Prince’s Kiss by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  Early October 1815—Douro Valley, Portugal

  It was the same as his memories, yet different as a dream. The river, tricky, pretending to be benign, ran wide here, below the gorges that lurked lethally upstream. The sky was blue, dotted with clouds, a roof over the valley with its tiers of intricate ancient terraces rising on either side. The harvest was over, the grapes stripped away, the leaves hinting at a change to the gold and crimson of autumn.

  There were no sounds of shots or cannon fire, no victims of the fighting clogged the swirling brown waters. From the bushes on the bank a bird sang clear and pure and the scorching heat of summer was turning to something kinder.

  The tranquillity was unsettling, dangerous. This was when the enemy struck, when you were lulled into relaxation, distracted by a moment’s peace, a glimpse of beauty. Gray gave himself a mental shake. There was no enemy. He was no longer Colonel Nathaniel Graystone and the war was over. Twice over, with Bonaparte finally defeated scarcely four months ago on the bloody plains of Belgium.

  Portugal was free from invaders and had been so for four years now. There were no ambushes here, no snipers behind rocks, no cavalry troops to lead into a hell of gunfire and smoke and blood. He was the Earl of Leybourne and he was a civilian now. And he was here on an inconvenient errand, the kind that assuming the title and the headship of his family seemed to involve.

  The two men handling the rabelo shouted something in Portuguese as the sail flapped and Gray translated without having to think about it. He ducked low among the empty barrels as the boom swung over, then tossed a line to the man at the prow.

  Doubtless it was beneath his new dignity to approach the Quinta do Falcão by working boat. He should have creaked for almost a hundred miles along the hilltop road from Porto to Pinhão in one of the lumbering old-fashioned carriages to be hired in the city, then held on to his nerve, his dignity and his hat as it negotiated the hairpin bends of the track leading down to the river. But this was the fast, efficient way to make the journey and twenty months had still not instilled in him the attitudes expected of a peer of the realm. At least, not according to his godmother, Lady Orford.

  It was she, and his own uncomfortable sense of duty, that Gray could blame for his present situation. He was up to his ankles in bilge water and facing a situation that, in his opinion, called for either the skills of a diplomat or those of a kidnapper. And he was neither. It did very little for his mood and even less for the condition of his new boots.

  The man managing the great steering paddle shouted something and jerked his head towards the bank. There were trees and a wide flat area about ten feet above the waterline and through the foliage he could see glimpses of red-tiled rooftops and the whitewashed walls of a low, sprawling house. As the boat steered nearer, fighting against the current, he saw gardens, then a landing stage.

  ‘É aquele Quinta do Falcão?’ he called.

  ‘Sim, senhor.’

  The house, the heart of the quinta or winemaking estate, came fully into sight. It was charmi ng, he thought, something of his edgy mood softening. It was gracious, beautifully kept, radiating prosperity. A pleasant surprise, not the down-at-heel place hanging on by a thread that he had feared from his godmother’s agitation. The boat angled closer, the boatmen struggling to find slack water nearer the bank. Through a grove of trees Gray glimpsed what looked like gravestones and a woman rising from her knees in the midst of them, a flurry of garnet-red skirts against the green. It was like a fashionable sentimental picture, he thought fancifully. Beauty amidst the Sorrows or some such nonsense.

  Then, with a sudden swoop, the boat was alongside the long wooden dock. One man jumped ashore, looped a rope around a bollard and gestured to Gray to throw across his baggage. Three valises hit the dock, then Gray vaulted over beside them as the boatman freed the line and was back on board with the boat slipping fast into the current.

  Gray waved and they waved back, gap-toothed smiles splitting their faces under the broad-brimmed black hats they both wore.

  You may well grin, he thought. The amount I paid you. But money was not the issue. Speed was.

  ‘Quem são você?’

  It was the woman from the graveyard demanding his identity. She made a vivid sight: garnet skirts above soft black ankle boots, a white loose shirt under a tight black waistcoat. Her hands were on her hips; her expression conveyed as little welcome as her tone.

  ‘Good morning,’ Gray said in English as he straightened up from his bags, ignoring her question as he studied her. The scrutiny brought up a flush of angry colour over her cheekbones and the wide brown eyes narrowed.

  ‘This is the private landing stage for Quinta do Falcão.’ She switched easily to unaccented English. Despite the costume and her dark hair, this was the mistress of the place, not one of the staff, he realised.

  ‘Excellent, then I am where I intended to be. It would have been inconvenient to be dropped off ten miles adrift.’ Gray looped the strap of one bag over his shoulder and picked up the others. ‘Miss Frost, I presume?’

  A narrowing of her eyes was all the confirmation she offered. ‘I ask again, sir, who you are.’

  ‘I 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 t o 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.