He shakily rose from the bed, and he and Gabby made their way back to London. After a few hours Gabby fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Quill knew why she was tired. Willis was not the only person who had changed his head cloths in the middle of the night. Gabby had come to him as well. He ruthlessly squashed an errant swell of guilt.

Having long ago dismissed the idea of marriage and love, he had wasted no time thinking about the condition. He did recall idly judging that a dependent wife would be quite tiresome.

But of course he was the one in danger of dependency. It was frightening, how much he craved the presence of his talkative, sweet-smelling wife. It gave him a queer twinge in the area of his heart when she whispered “I love you” against his chest, even though he knew perfectly well that the words were romantic fribbles and naught else.

In fact, he almost could have whispered something frivolous himself as he watched Gabby sleeping, as airy curls started to slip from her coronet of braids and tumble free.

Almost.

THEY ARRIVED IN LONDON in ample time for dinner. Quill climbed from the coach and turned to help Gabby. Behind him was a flurry of movement. He turned around, Gabby’s hand warm on his sleeve, to find that the upper servants had formed a neat line on either side of the marble steps leading to the house, with Codswallop magisterially poised at the top.

The butler descended the steps. “Welcome to the household, Viscount Dewland,” he intoned. He bowed. “Lady Dewland.”

Quill gaped, startled by the unexpected display. Of course—it was his house now. They were his servants.

Beside him Gabby inclined her head in greeting. “Codswallop, how kind of you to welcome us on this sad occasion,” she said in her clear voice. All the servants looked approving.

Quill shook himself and escorted her to the steps. “Good evening to all of you,” he said. “This is my wife, the Viscountess Dewland.”

Mrs. Farsalter approached, hands tucked under her apron. “I would be pleased to show you the household accounts whenever you would wish, my lady.” She held out a large ring of keys. “The dowager viscountess always gave me these when she left the house. They rightly belong to you now, my lady.”

“My goodness,” Gabby said. “Mrs. Farsalter, shall we meet tomorrow morning after breakfast? I am quite convinced that your housekeeping skills are so far above mine that I shall have no suggestions to make, but I will be very pleased to help you as much as I am able.”

Mrs. Farsalter beamed. “I’ll serve a light repast in an hour or so, shall I, my lady?”

Quill turned to Gabby and held out his arm. Her fingers rested on his sleeve as he led her into the hallway—my hallway, he thought numbly. “Would you like to rest before dinner?”