There was just a trace of conscience left in Quill’s soul, and he summoned it to the forefront.

“Even given—”

“Even if you were thrown under a carriage on the way home,” Gabby said.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Quill said, gathering together the shards of his self-control. He picked up Gabby and placed her on the seat, his fingers only lingering for a second on the delicious curve of her bottom.

Gabby picked up her bonnet, with trembling fingers, and pulled it over her tumbled hair.

Quill shot her a glance as he maneuvered the horses back onto the drive once more. “I’m afraid that I’ve dented your reputation once again.”

“That’s all right.” Gabby’s heart was singing. She was in love and he was in love and they were going to be married. She was marrying Quill—great, huge, beautiful Quill.

“Will you speak to Peter this evening?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe that he will mind terribly,” Gabby said meditatively, picking up her gloves from the carriage floor as it swept around the corner into Piccadilly, heading toward St. James’s Square.

“You may be right,” Quill returned, his face deliberately noncommittal.

Chapter 13

QUILL HELPED GABBY down from the curricle, with a secret smile that warmed her to the tips of her toes. She fled upstairs to dress for dinner, only to be thoroughly scolded by Margaret. Margaret had no belief in the benefits of fresh air and felt that winter was no time to be taking drives in an open curricle. She dismissed Gabby’s rather feeble excuses with a sniff.

“You’ll be sick as a stout, no doubt about that. And you coming from a warm country as well! Just mind what Mr. Peter says about this. I expect he won’t want you to be tucked away in bed for the next few weeks.”

“Actually, I have decided not to marry Peter,” Gabby said cheerfully, helping Margaret remove what few pins remained in her hair.

Margaret’s mouth fell open. “You’re not marrying Mr. Peter?”

“I have decided to marry Erskine instead.”

Margaret crowed. “You’re going to be a viscountess! Oh, this is splendid!” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “I’m going to be a personal maid to a viscountess!” Then her face fell. “That is, if you still want me. Perhaps you had better hire one of those French maids. Viscountess Dewland has an awfully starched maid named Stimple. She calls herself a mademoiselle-de-service, rather than a plain maid.”

Gabby laughed. “Never fear, Margaret. You will be a lady’s maid to a viscountess. But not for a long time, hmmm? I wouldn’t wish the viscount any ill.”