Quill froze and barely stopped himself from lunging at Gabby and carrying her straight out of the room.

With a deep breath, he shakily reassembled his self-control and made another stab—not quite so successful—at a flirtatious tone. “Damn it, Gabby, you’re supposed to make pleasant conversation, not drive me into a frenzy of lust. Just look at the condition I’m in now.” He cast a disgusted look into his lap.

Gabby looked at his pantaloons, but she didn’t see anything unusual.

Her husband broke into laughter and she scowled at him. “I don’t see anything funny about it,” she said with dignity.

With a sudden movement Quill bent his head and took his viscountess’s mouth, kissing her with a languorous thoroughness that sent scorching spikes of heat through his body.

When he pulled back, Gabby’s eyes were dazed and had gone a dusky brandy color. Quill caught up her hand and kissed her palm. She shivered instinctively. He took that hand and deliberately placed it on his groin.

Gabby jumped and tried to pull her hand away.

“Remember what I said I would do to you?” Quill said, his voice a hoarse promise.

Gabby nodded.

“Will you do the same to me?”

Gabby’s eyes grew round with surprise. At least Quill hoped it was surprise, rather than horror. He lifted his hand, and to his eternal delight, Gabby didn’t pull away from him. In fact, she didn’t move at all. It was a new kind of torture.

Finally he had to remove her warm hand himself and sweep her into another kiss, or who knew where they would end up. Probably making love on a bed of crumbled scones.

That kiss, not to mention Gabby’s touch, did nothing for Quill’s condition, as he’d described it to her. In fact, when Lady Sylvia walked into the room accompanied by two whining Graces (Beauty was temporarily living in the servants’ quarters, as the move had proved too disturbing for her fragile bladder), Quill had to sit in his place and eat approximately five scones more than he cared for, because he was unable to walk from the room.

The viscount was laid to rest the following morning in the chancel of St. Margaret’s. Gabby had met many members of the London ton at Lady Fester’s ball; she met members of the county nobility over funeral baked meats. What was most surprising was how exhausting it all was.

Gabby curtsied, and curtsied, and curtsied again. She accepted congratulations on her marriage. She encountered delicately raised eyebrows when it was revealed that she was not, in fact, married to her fiancé but to his brother, the new viscount.