Gabby smiled. Quill had left the house directly after their conversation, and while the rest of them ate a glum and rather silent dinner, he was presumably obtaining a special license. But it seemed that he thought about the wedding itself as well.

A few moments later, Lady Sylvia appeared. The wedding was to be held in the viscount’s bedchamber on the upper floor of the inn. Gabby stood rather awkwardly on the side of the room, trying not to peer at the bed. Given that she had never even met the viscount, it seemed very odd to be in his chambers.

Quill was standing beside a young minister as he blessed the viscount. Gabby shivered. She couldn’t help thinking that the occasion was rather morbid. This wasn’t how she had pictured her wedding day. She had envisioned an elaborate ceremony and had seen herself walking up the aisle of an enormous church while Peter watched, his brown eyes alight with adoration. Gabby sighed. Quill had only glanced at her this morning. Except for the fact that he pulled her onto his shoulder in the coach, they might have been nothing more than acquaintances.

Grief had pulled Quill’s face and darkened his eyes; exhaustion was giving him a pronounced limp on the right side. Gabby longed to help him, but had no idea what to do. It didn’t seem correct to move toward the bed.

After what felt like an interminable period, the minister walked over to her and bowed. “Miss Jerningham, my name is Mr. Moir. I am ready to conduct the ceremony.” He, too, was looking pale and strained. This was a most unusual wedding for everyone.

The family moved to the side of the viscount’s bed. Lady Sylvia remained seated at the side of the room, next to the viscount’s doctor.

Quill’s face was expressionless. Gabby stood next to him and the minister, on one side of the bed. Kitty and Peter stood on the other side. Kitty picked up her husband’s limp hand.

“We might as well go ahead,” Quill said. His voice was not rude, but there was no emotion in it at all.

Gabby put her hand on his arm. “Quill,” she half whispered.

“What is it?”

“Will you introduce me to your father?” she asked awkwardly.

“Of course,” Quill said courteously, and he moved away from the bed so that she saw the viscount for the first time. He was a tall man, with an unmistakable resemblance to his elder son. He had Quill’s eyelashes, lying dark against drawn cheeks. Death spoke in the white look of his face. But he also seemed very peaceful, sleeping so quietly that the breath hardly moved in his chest.

Quill stooped over and said, “Father, I would like to introduce you to Gabrielle Jerningham. I am going to marry her.”

There was no response from the sleeping man.