Gabby felt a slow burn up her neck, but she grappled with her temper. “Your attitude is not a gracious one. Surely you can see that this is a decision to be made between us?”

“No, it is not.” Quill spaced his words with brutal precision. “When I first had my accident, my mother dictated everything in my sickroom. Had I continued to listen to her, I would be malingering in that bed to this day. She almost killed me with spurious cures, and then she fought tooth and nail against Trankelstein’s ideas—and it was Trankelstein’s massage and exercises that got me out of bed.”

Gabby pressed her lips together. “I fail to see what your mother’s error in judgment has to do with our current situation.”

“I—and I alone—will make all decisions to do with medicine, Gabby. I have no wish to half kill myself by taking a cure given to me by a deranged doctor whom you have heard about over tea.” He folded his arms across his chest, ignoring her frown. “My decision is final.”

“Well,” Gabby said after a moment of silence, “in that case, I must inform you that all decisions pertaining to my body are also my own.”

“Naturally.” Quill nodded.

“Good. Then you will not mind if I have this door”—Gabby pointed to the door leading to the viscount’s bedchamber—“sealed. We have no further use for it.”

“What are you attempting to say?”

“I attempt nothing.” She shrugged. “I merely point out to you, husband”—she gave it a delicate emphasis—“that my body is no longer at your disposal. Thus you will suffer no more migraines and will have no need for deranged cures.” She turned about briskly and began pulling pins from her coronet.

“And if I visit a concubine?” Quill’s voice was dangerously steely and came from somewhere behind her left shoulder.

Gabby didn’t look. “That is your choice, as it always will be. I may sympathize with the migraine you incur, but at least I won’t be responsible for it.”

“And as for yourself?” His voice was a sneer. “How will you achieve satisfaction, Gabby? Are you planning to make me a cuckold?”

She bit her lip hard. Her throat was closing with tears. But she had to do this right, or Quill would incur that pain again—and it would be her fault.

“Oh, no,” she said, managing an airy tone. She shook out her hair and began brushing it. “While I enjoyed our night together”—she paused just enough to lend doubt to that statement—“I see no particular reason to engage in that kind of behavior again. It was pleasant, but not…necessary.” Some part of her was amazed at how difficult it was to tell Quill this particular lie. It felt as if she were stamping on her own heart to say so.