Now desire rocketed down his body, shocked him awake again and again, filled him with the conviction that he—no less than the besotted Patrick Foakes with his Lady Sophie—could not wait three months to marry Gabby. He could not wait a week to touch Gabby’s satiny skin, the silk of her shoulders, let his hands drift lower, and lower still.

Quill decided to rise. Given that he obviously wasn’t going to be able to sleep, he decided to do some research. Gabby was a romantic, and Gabby liked to attend plays. Fine. He would memorize a few bits of theatrical nonsense and use them to convince her that he was in love. Because as dawn coldly lit the far corner of the garden wall, Quill was painfully aware that Gabby was unlikely to find his admission of hopeless love convincing. Damn it, he’d never been in love, and he saw no possibility for the future. Peter was right. He simply wasn’t the type. He hadn’t the faintest notion how to act besotted.

Quill threw off the covers and pulled the bell cord. When a bewildered early-rising footman appeared, Quill requested bathwater and then collected some research materials from the library. Luckily for him, there were reams of poems that discussed the effects of love. He had always found in transactions of business that research gave him a satisfactory edge over his opponent.

And his research was eminently satisfactory. By an hour later, Quill was bathed and seated by a roaring fire, surrounded by books marked with slips of paper. It was fortunate that he had an excellent memory. The only question was whether to borrow from Shakespeare—there was a possibility that Gabby might recognize the words—or from a more obscure playwright.

Shakespeare was an enticing possibility. I burn, I pine, I perish. Quill liked the sound of that. Of course, it was all nonsense, except perhaps the burning part. He was burning, all right. The question was: How much of this nonsense did he have to spout in order to make his point?

There was another good bit in the same play: With her breath she did perfume the air. Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.

Under his breath, Quill tried it out. “With your breath you did perfume—no.” He tried again. “When I first saw you on the dock, she—you—your breath perfumed the air. And everything I saw was sacred and sweet.”

That was along the right lines. What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, As those two eyes become that heavenly face?

Quill muttered it a few times. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. What if his valet walked into the room? It was rubbish. He had thought Shakespeare didn’t write such twaddle.