“Dewlands don’t malinger!” the viscount had thundered. “Look to your will, man! Rise from that bed!” And he couldn’t. Quill still remembered his catastrophic sense of failure. He’d tried. And tried again, after his father stamped from the room. Couldn’t do it, and fell on the floor—and even more humiliating, had to remain there until his valet arrived, hours later. He’d wet himself while sprawled on the floor, because he was unable to crawl to the chamber pot and unable to reach the bell cord. Twenty-some years old, and as useless as a newborn babe.

The memory made him feel sick, and a wash of useless anger swept over him. His father was dead. And if he did what Gabby, with every embarrassed tremor of her lips, was asking, he would be unable to make arrangements for his father’s funeral.

The thought stiffened his backbone. He could bed Gabby later. She was his and she could wait. But his mother would never forgive him if he succumbed to a migraine attack when she needed him most.

“Probably it is all for the best,” he said coolly. “We haven’t known each other for very long, after all.” He shrugged. “And bedding is painful for women at first, Gabby. But I suspect you know that?”

Gabby swallowed, yet another flush following the one that had barely faded. “No, I didn’t know that,” she whispered.

Irritation replaced the ugly memory of his father’s disappointment. By God, Gabby was his possession, and she could damned well wait until he had time to see to her. He wasn’t some sort of stallion, to perform on demand from his wife. After they returned to London, they would share a bed only every few weeks. He had far too much work to suffer migraine attacks more frequently than once a month.

He got up and walked to the other side of the room, fierce indignation in the tilt of his chin, rejoicing in the restoration of his self-possession. Gabby had almost lured him into an indecent intimacy, only hours after his father’s death. He took a quick turn at the end of the chamber, turning on his heel next to the bed Gabby had slept in the night before. Anger made him feel careless and cruel.

“I realize that you are a very passionate woman, Gabby.” He tossed it over his shoulder, not bothering to look. “But since we are being frank, let me say that I will not tolerate it if you make sheep’s eyes at anyone other than myself.”

Gabby could hardly breathe. “I won’t,” she said. She was ready to die of mortification. He obviously thought she was a strumpet. He was treating her as if she couldn’t wait until after the funeral to be bedded.

Quill didn’t hear her. “What did you say?” He was inspecting the mantelpiece, running his finger along the polished mahogany slab.