“Quill! I should very much like to return to Dewland House now!” His future wife spoke in a regrettably shrill voice.

When he was finished setting the brake, Quill turned to Gabby and dragged off his gloves.

Gabby’s eyes darted to his bare hands and then back to his face.

Without a word he reached out and took her left hand. He bent his head and began to painstakingly unbutton the small pearl buttons at her wrist.

Gabby stared at his tousled hair. What the devil was he doing? He tossed her left glove to the floor of the curricle and began on the buttons of the right. Gabby looked up, but when she caught the eyes of a stranger passing in a carriage, she looked back at Quill’s head. He tossed her right glove to the floor.

It was shockingly intimate, the touch of his bare hands on hers. Still without speaking, Quill drew her hands to his mouth and placed a kiss on each palm. His mouth lingered, velvet soft, slipping to her wrist. Gabby shivered as a flush of heat swept down her legs.

One hand rounded her shoulders, slid down her back, leaving a path of molten nerves behind it. Gabby heard Quill’s breath catch in his throat as the hand swooped under her bottom, paused for a moment, and then lifted her onto his lap in one sure movement.

His mouth came down on hers with a shudder. She opened her lips to his silent command, and he plunged into her mouth. Gabby didn’t notice that she was winding her fingers through his hair and holding his head in case he tried to stop kissing her. She had no idea that four separate carriages drove slowly past the curricle, their passengers eagerly assessing the boundaries of the scandal.

In fact, when Quill finally did pull back and say, his voice a hoarse whisper, “Do you still think I want to jilt you, Gabby mine?” she couldn’t find words to reply.

Instead, she leaned toward him and feathered her lips across his. He stopped the torment. A large hand jerked her head against his lips, held her there while his mouth ravaged hers.

But he drew back again, leaving her with choked breathing and a racing pulse. “Do you still think that I want to jilt you?” he repeated.

“No,” Gabby breathed.

“Then don’t ever say it again,” came a growling command. He had pushed off her bonnet, and her hair was falling around her ears.

He pushed both hands into the amazing, beautiful weight of it. “You’re going to be my wife. Not Peter’s wife. Not Peter’s fiancé even. Mine.”

“I would like that,” Gabby whispered. A trace of shyness counteracted the flush high on her cheekbones. “I don’t want to marry Peter, Quill. I want to marry you.”