Her heart started beating so fast that she could feel it in her throat. The man—her future husband—didn’t say a word. He simply stood in the door of the drawing room, with a black hat in his hand, and stared at her. There was a liquid pool of silence in the room.

Gabby bit her lip and then forced her mouth into a smile. Just as she was about to speak, she heard Quill’s deep voice behind her.

“I gather you’ve been at court, Peter.”

Peter—for it was he—cast a glance at his elder brother. “It’s the second of November, Quill.” He seemed to consider that comment a sufficient explanation.

He tucked his hat under his arm and made a leg toward Gabby. “Your servant.” He turned toward Lucien, who was still holding Phoebe, and made another leg. “You needn’t respond, my dear Boch,” he said. “I can see that you are otherwise occupied.”

Gabby cleared her throat. “November the second?”

The man turned his eyes back to her. He looked her up and down, from the very tip of her stained boots to her tumbled hair. She could read censure in the sharpness of his gaze. “November the second is the duke of Kent’s birthday,” he remarked.

By now Gabby’s stomach had clenched into a little knot.

Peter walked a few steps into the room. “I trust Codswallop has not had an attack of some kind?”

Quill shook his head. “He appears to be uninjured.” Sure enough, Codswallop was back on his feet, adjusting his black frock coat to its usual perfection.

“He tripped on the chair,” Gabby said breathlessly, “and he spilled the tea, and now my dress is quite ruined.” She avoided Quill’s glance.

Peter’s eyes warmed just a trifle. “I believe you are Miss Jerningham? I have been waiting for my brother to introduce me, but he is quite neglecting his responsibilities as a host. I am Mr. Peter Dew—”

Gabby hurried over, tripping a little on the trailing hem of her gown. She grasped Peter’s left hand, the one that was not holding his hat. “Please, call me Gabby. Since I am—since we are—”

Peter choked. He gently withdrew his hand and resisted the impulse to check his gloves for tea stains. After all, it wasn’t Miss Jerningham’s fault that their infernal butler had dropped a teapot on her. She must feel appallingly embarrassed to be standing about in this condition.

“I believe that Miss Jerningham would like to retire to her room,” he said, looking at Quill and deliberately avoiding Gabby’s eyes. “Given that our butler has quite destroyed her ensemble.” Although to call that horror of a gown she was wearing an “ensemble” was gilding the kitchen kettle, to be sure.

He moved to the side to allow Codswallop to leave the room.