Gabby’s eyes weren’t like stars. They were amber brown, except the very rims, which were black, dark black. And they didn’t shine or sparkle or spangle—whatever spangling was. They were kind of a brandy-golden brown. They spoke. To meet Gabby’s eyes was to be invited into her tumbled world of laughter and words, hasty emotion, and lush desire. He was quite certain he had seen her eyes grow hazy with desire. They grew more brandy-colored whenever he kissed her.

Quill rose. The time had come to put the question to the point. He silently rehearsed his little scraps of twiddle-twaddle.

It was seven o’clock in the morning.

The perfect time for a theatrical performance.

Chapter 11

WHEN MARGARET BUSTLED into the room early in the morning and announced that Mr. Erskine had requested to see Gabby immediately, she groaned. She hadn’t slept well at all. Half the time was lost in the throes of humiliation, as she relived the moment when her dress fell off, and the other half was spent reliving the way she’d acted in the carriage.

She was a wanton hussy, no two ways about it. Her father would have tossed her out of the house if he had any idea what she was really like. Perhaps Quill was summoning her for that very purpose. She stared blurrily at the mirror as Margaret brushed out her hair. She’d thrown herself at him the night before. What had come over her?

Margaret stopped brushing for a moment. “You mustn’t take it so hard, miss,” she said earnestly.

Gabby met Margaret’s eyes in the mirror with a profound sense of shock. How did Margaret know? Could the coachman have gotten an idea, or could the footmen who stood behind the carriage have seen something?

“The worst that will happen is that gossip columns will take note.”

Gabby shivered. What an appalling idea. Perhaps returning to India wasn’t such a terrible prospect.

“I’ll send someone out to buy the papers,” Margaret said, starting to brush Gabby’s hair again. “My mum always said that you’re better off facing up to the worst. After all, it must have happened to other ladies before you. Everyone knows those French bodices are just asking to fall off. Perhaps the papers won’t mention what happened. It’s a delicate subject, after all.”

“Hmmm,” Gabby replied. While she was relieved to find that Margaret was talking not about her scandalous behavior in the coach, but about her scandalous behavior at the ball, she had little hope that delicacy would stop a gossip column from elaborating on the collapse of her bodice. She had seen no avoidance of delicate subjects in The Morning Post. Perhaps Quill already had one of those gossip columns, and that’s why he wished to speak to her.