But for some reason, in the last weeks he was restless even here. He failed to concentrate on the many reports that awaited his opinion. He walked up and down the paths, but could think of no significant improvement to the garden. The delights of the last five years seemed stifling, the garden a walled prison, his study a dusty cage.

Young George stood politely until Quill raised his eyes. He didn’t wait for a question; the young master never spoke unless he had to. “The Plassey has docked, sir, and Mr. Codswallop does not know Mr. Peter Dewland’s whereabouts—”

Quill stood up. “Inform Codswallop that I shall fetch Miss Jerningham myself.”

That was just what he needed: a trip down to the bustling docks. Even if it was to fetch his brother’s bride.

Thirty minutes later, his elegantly hung cabriolet rounded Commercial Road. He threw the reins to his tiger and strode down the dock road himself rather than trying to weave the carriage down the crowded street.

Suddenly a voice bellowed, “Hi! Dewland! Hello, sir! Are you here to see a shipment come in?” Mr. Timothy Waddell couldn’t suppress his curiosity. Everyone knew that whatever Dewland touched turned to gold. He would love to know the man’s opinion of the Domiago cotton he’d just bought on speculation.

“Not today,” Quill responded.

He turned away, his face so unwelcoming of further communication that Waddell quailed and didn’t ask for an opinion of the cotton.

“Damned cold bastard,” he muttered, watching Quill disappear into the crowd.

Quill didn’t notice the man’s affront. It hadn’t occurred to him that Waddell expected more than a simple answer.

When he reached number fourteen, Quill’s eyes fell on a woman, obviously a passenger recently disembarked from the Plassey. As he approached, Quill realized that she was holding a child by the hand. In all likelihood, Peter’s bride, being a delicate Frenchwoman, had waited for an escort before she left the vessel.

He strode to the end of the dock, unerringly picking out the Plassey‘s purser. “Where shall I find Miss Jerningham?”

The purser smirked. “Right behind ye, int she?”

Slowly Quill turned around. The woman was looking at him inquiringly. Damn! Quill thought. And damn, damn, damn! Miss Jerningham was beautiful. No doubt about that. She had the most luscious, ripe mouth he’d ever seen, and her eyes…her eyes were brandy-colored, a warm, sweet hue. But it was her hair that caught Quill’s attention. It was golden-brown, the color of burnished brass—and it was falling, loops and curls of it, falling into rumpled curls that made Gabrielle Jerningham look as if she had just risen from bed. A happy bed. In fact, she was quite the opposite of a poised, elegant Frenchwoman. Damn.

Then he realized that he was standing stock-still, staring at the woman without even introducing himself.