“Absolutely not,” Quill said firmly. “I’m not having my problems discussed in your village. Besides,” he added ruefully, “if the best doctors in London cannot do anything, I’m afraid that it is unlikely that a poison doctor from an Indian village will do much better.”

She opened her mouth and Quill put a finger on it. “I want your promise, Gabby. I do not wish my migraines to be discussed with anyone. They are a private matter.”

Gabby nodded unwillingly. “But, Quill—”

“No.”

“Well, all right,” Gabby said with a sigh. “We’ll have to work it out ourselves. Could you explain about conjugal felicity, or whatever it was you called it? I know you do it at night, and in bed. What are we going to do?”

Quill looked down at his wife in amusement. Her eyes were clear and full of curiosity. She looked like someone inquiring about the road to Bath. Or the proper way to string a bow. He didn’t answer.

Instead, he swooped fiercely onto that curious little mouth, silencing her logic, her thought, her questions—making her into his Gabby. The Gabby who struggled for a moment and then gave in with a little pant. A second later her eyelids drifted shut and her tongue met his, chasing fire down to his groin.

With a deft twist Quill lifted Gabby to the side and placed her on the bed. From there a liquid collapse backward was inevitable. His body followed hers as naturally as wheat stalks bend together in a high wind.

He caressed her lavishly, feverishly, knowing he had to stop. Gabby twisted beneath him, uttering delightful little noises. He backed off and kissed her forehead and her eyelids and her ears.

But the moment he left her mouth, he heard a voice, breathless but insistent, inquiring whether he had a headache coming on. And so he stopped nibbling on the delicate tips of her ears, slid down the smooth planes of her flushed cheeks, allowed himself that agonizing, delirious moment of surrender when her mouth opened to his and he swallowed her words.

He was throbbing all over. Unfortunately, his head was as clear as a bell. It told him that he couldn’t stay in bed all afternoon. It instructed him loudly that he should be arranging a funeral, comforting his mother (although Peter would do that better than he), posting letters hither and yon. He thrust the inner voice away with a groan and bent to Gabby’s breast. He kissed her through the frail cloth of her chemise, watched her nipple rise in a small circle of damp muslin. He listened to her make a small squeak every time he pulled the nipple back into his mouth, felt a delirious tremor in his body that matched the tremor in hers.

But Gabby kept trying to pull away. “Quill! You must stop!”

With one swift and obstinate movement, Quill ran his hand under Gabby’s chemise.