She looked up when the solid mahogany door opened and Quill strolled in.

“Hello, wife,” he said.

Gabby blushed. She hadn’t seen him in private since the afternoon in Bath, after they were married. Does one curtsy to one’s husband even in the privacy of the bedchamber?

Quill’s eyes were shining with a wicked appreciation that made all of Gabby’s worries fly out of her head.

He walked toward her like a tiger stalking a goat. And Gabby danced backward, just as a goat might dance on its nimble hooves in the spray of the Indian Ocean.

“The bell will ring for dinner in a few minutes,” she said nervously.

Quill was grinning at her. “So it will,” he replied. His voice was deep and sent tendrils of heat down Gabby’s spine. “Perhaps we should have a small meal here, in your room,” then he corrected himself, with a glance at the adjoining door, “or perhaps in our bedchamber?”

Gabby’s mouth felt dry. “Quill,” she said, before she lost all capacity for speech, “we need to have a rational discussion.”

“Do you know, you request rational conversation quite regularly?” Quill was laughing at her.

“My father believes that women are unable to be rational,” Gabby explained. “I’m afraid that I adopted the phrase out of desperation.” And then she added, “My father’s conversation is often incoherent.”

Quill ambled toward her again. “You must tell me all about your father someday,” he said, his voice as smooth and liquid as silk. “He sounds like a fool.”

“He isn’t,” Gabby protested, nervously retreating a step. “Quill, I meant it when I said we need to speak! Before we…do anything further.”

A chill touched Quill’s spine, but he courteously stood still. “Have you decided that you would prefer to annul the marriage?” he asked, quite as he would ask for a cup of tea.

Gabby frowned. “Rational conversation, Quill,” she said pointedly. She turned her back and walked toward the fireplace, sitting down in an upholstered rocking chair.

Quill sat down opposite her and steepled his fingers. “All right, Gabby, what have we to discuss?” He was well-aware that he had limped throughout the funeral. His leg was dog-tired from days of walking the estate. During the reception, he’d heard more than one muttered speculation about the extent of his injuries. Likely Gabby hadn’t realized just what a useless cripple he was until today.

“I am worried about consummation,” she said, stumbling over pronunciation of the last word.

“Are you concerned about my fitness to do the task?”

“No! That is …”