“Will you always be the one to ask for kisses?” he asked in a casually conversational way, bending over her.

He swallowed her indignant denial with his mouth, stilling her with the fierce sweetness that overcame him every time he looked at Gabby’s lips, every time he saw her eyes shining or heard her husky voice tripping on and on…. He took her mouth, then took her head in his rough hands, shook out those curls, came dangerously close to pulling his own jacket from around her shoulders. But he stopped himself.

What was the state of Gabby’s bodice now? If her bodice was still at her waist, if he would tug off that jacket, only to find creamy flesh…Quill shuddered at the thought and deepened the kiss, turning it to a dangerously passionate entreaty.

Gabby uttered a little moan, a throaty sound, and twisted up against him, her arms sliding around his neck. And the jacket slipped, fell from satiny smooth shoulders, dropped to the carriage seat.

AN HOUR LATER, as he stared blindly at the crumbling ashes on the hearth, Quill could only think that madness had struck him. Yes, he thought, in an inspired sort of way, perhaps he could excuse himself by referring to a sudden fit of insanity. He pictured Peter’s scandalized face. Or perhaps not. It was too late for buying tickets to Persia or the North Pole now.

One does not caress the disrobed figure of one’s future sister-in-law and hope to escape scot-free. Quill just hoped he could talk to Peter about it without going into details. Even remembering that moment—all right, more than one moment—before Quill regained his sanity, made his pantaloons uncomfortably tight and his breathing quicken.

The study door opened quietly.

“Codswallop said you wished to speak to me.”

Quill turned about. Peter had already walked into the study and closed the door behind him.

Before Quill could open his mouth, Peter spoke. “It’s off, Quill.” His voice was defiant. His brown eyes were glowing with anger.

Guilt rolled through Quill’s stomach. He had betrayed his brother, his only brother.

“I’ll admit—”

“I can’t do it,” Peter continued with a fierce vigor that was strange to him. “I won’t do it.”

“Won’t? Won’t do what?”

“I won’t marry that—I won’t marry Gabrielle Jerningham,” Peter managed jerkily. “I thought I could. But she’s—” He broke off again.

Quill saw that Peter was descending into one of his hysterical, sullen sulks, where he could stay for days.

Peter’s bitterness spilled out like acid: “She’s gawky, and overfleshy. And she practically—”

Quill’s breath caught in his chest. “Gabby is not gawky or overfleshy!”