Quill could feel an errant and mysterious cheer rising in his heart. He felt like laughing aloud. Peter’s mouth had actually fallen open. “I can consummate a marriage,” Quill explained. “And I would enjoy doing so.”

Peter gaped. “You would?”

“I like Gabby’s flesh.” Quill couldn’t stop himself from grinning, an unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation. “I like her, too. Of course,” Quill pointed out, “if I marry and Gabby has a child, you would never become a viscount.”

Peter’s face grew stony. “That is the most offensive thing you have ever said to me.” His body was rigid.

The smile fell from Quill’s face. “I didn’t mean it as it sounded, Peter. I know you are no title-hound.”

Peter still looked bleak. “You told me to marry Gabby so that I would have money for clothes. I was drunk at the time, but I remembered it clear enough the next day. You and Father both think I’m nothing but a fribble. In fact, Father is incapable of distinguishing between a man of mode and a mindless fop!”

“That would imply that we ignored your First in Classics from Cambridge, Peter. I was trying to make you fall in with Father’s scheme so that I wouldn’t have to be married,” Quill admitted. “I apologize.”

“Why did you tell us that you were unfit for marriage?” Peter asked bluntly. “You know what Father assumed. Was that a lie?”

“It isn’t so far from the truth,” Quill admitted. “My sexual encounters of the past few years have been entirely enjoyable, but followed by a three-day bout of migraine headache.”

“Oh.” Peter’s face was shocked into sympathy. “Your headaches are due to that? Can’t the doctors do anything for you?”

Quill shrugged. “It seems to be a remnant of the head injury. It might go away spontaneously, but likely not.”

“That’s the devil. But if you marry Gabby …” Peter said. “Well, how are you going to marry Gabby?” He looked discomforted. “I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain that she has a penchant for me.”

“Oh, she fancies herself in love with you,” Quill replied cheerfully.

“Well, then, how will you change her mind? We can’t tell her that I refused to go through with the wedding.”

Quill stopped himself from inquiring what Peter had been planning to tell his fiancée when he left for America. “She’s a romantic,” he said. “She’s a storyteller. Half the time she’s dreaming up some improbable tale.”

“You don’t have much in common,” Peter remarked dubiously.

Quill shrugged again. “It’s only a marriage. I’ll tell her I fell in love with her at first sight. The moment I saw her on the dock. And I’ll tell her that my passion is too great to ignore.”

“Do you think she’ll believe it?” Peter’s tone indicated acute disbelief.