“They are well-designed,” he continued. “You see, Gabby? Having been tussled to your elbow, the bodice jumps up to cover your magnificent bosom, looking none the worse for wear.”

Gabby met Quill’s teasing eyes a bit shyly. What on earth had she been doing, lying about on the carpet? “I hope you are not going to make a habit of this,” she said rather stuffily.

Quill helped her to her feet. Then he bent over and whispered into her ear. “Wait until we are married, Gabby.”

She felt pink rising up her neck. “What do you mean?”

Quill’s dark green eyes were devilish. He reached out his hand and trailed one finger down her neck.

Gabby jerked away, embarrassed by her reaction to his simple caress. “I had better return upstairs,” she said, raising her hands to the waves of hair at her neck. “Lord knows what Margaret will think of my appearance.”

Quill shrugged. “Who cares?”

“How like a man to say so! I care. Otherwise, why would I say it?”

To Quill’s mind, females regularly said all sorts of things they didn’t mean. But the important thing was that Gabby had agreed to marry him—and she did seem to mean that.

“I will send a messenger to Bath and inform my parents of our plans.”

“Oh.” Gabby thought of the viscountess and her invalid husband. “Will your parents be angry?”

“Not at all,” Quill replied. “They initially thought you would marry me, after all.”

“Well, then, why didn’t they send your picture over to India?”

The back of Quill’s neck crawled. The last thing he wanted to do was explain postcoital headaches to his newly betrothed. No doubt she would rethink the engagement if she knew the whole truth. So he shrugged.

His family was well-aware that Quill rarely answered questions and could never be counted upon to keep up his side of a conversation. But to his irritation, Gabby obviously did not understand his personality yet.

“Quill? Why didn’t your father send your picture to India instead of your brother’s? And why does my father think I am marrying a future viscount, given that you are the eldest son?”

“He—” Inspiration struck. “My father is afraid that Peter will not be able to make a match on his own. You see, he’s rather shy.”

“Peter? Rather shy?”

“Oh, yes,” Quill said, more confident now that he was well-embarked on his tale. “Do you remember last night, when you tried to kiss him? How is Peter going to make a marriage when he cares for etiquette above kisses?”

Gabby’s brows drew together. “That is not necessarily the case. Peter is remarkably easy in conversation, and he is a leader of the ton. Madame Carême herself told me so. Certainly he could find a bride if he wished, and he wouldn’t need to break any proprieties to do so.”