She walked down the stairs as if she were a Frenchwoman going to execution. In fact, before she noticed it, she had woven a little story in which she was a marquise, keeping her head high as she made her way tearlessly to the guillotine.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Gabby whispered to herself. The last thing she should be doing was making up foolish tales. That was what got her in trouble last night.

Quill must have been listening for her, because he spoke before she entered. “Come in, Gabby.” His deep voice sent butterflies into her stomach. Why did her brother-in-law—well, her future brother-in-law—have this effect on her?

Gabby walked into the room feeling rather defiant. It wasn’t her fault that Madame Carême’s bodices were badly designed. In fact, that all of her gowns were ill-constructed. It was Peter’s fault. He had chosen the modiste who created the gown.

Quill was standing with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him. He had his utterly impenetrable look on, Gabby thought to herself. He looked like a piece of granite.

Now that she thought about it, it wasn’t Peter’s fault—the whole thing was Quill’s fault. She scowled at him rather than say good morning.

Quill opened his mouth and then saw that Gabby had left the door open. He’d be damned if he was going to voice any bibble-babble when a footman might hear him. He walked past her and shut the door firmly. After a second’s thought, he turned the key as well.

Then he turned around. “Gabby,” he announced, “I have something to say.” This was a preface that worked to great effect in business meetings. Invariably, a whole circle of men would fall into a hushed silence and wait with bated breath for his pronouncement.

It didn’t seem quite so successful this time. “So do I,” Gabby responded. She scowled at him again.

Quill pressed his lips together. Better to get the difficult matter out of the way first. “I’m pining to marry you,” he said.

The scowl disappeared from Gabby’s face, replaced by a look of utter astonishment.

“I’m burning and pining to marry you,” Quill said. Then he remembered the whole line. “Burning, pining, and perishing,” he added.

“Perishing?” Gabby repeated blankly.

“Precisely.”

There was a moment of silence while Quill prepared his next lines. This wasn’t as hard as he had anticipated.

“When I saw you on the dock, your breath perfumed the hair.”

Gabby looked perplexed.

“Sorry,” Quill corrected himself. “Air! Air. When I first saw you on the dock, your breath perfumed the air. And then I discovered that your eyes were like spangled stars.” He was taking a few liberties with Shakespeare, but he liked his version better.