Her future husband—Peter—had skin that was even whiter than hers. Peter was perfection, Gabby thought with a rather delicious shiver, from the top of his precisely cut brown locks to his white skin.

Quill was a darker hue altogether. Even in the dawn light his hair took on wine-colored glints, a mahogany that glowed in the rosy light and matched the toasty warm color of his skin. He needed a haircut, Gabby thought. She smiled. Quill needed someone to take care of him. She would make sure that he found a wife, just as soon as she made some London acquaintances.

Silently, Gabby tiptoed forward and seated herself trimly next to Quill on the bench.

To Gabby’s dismay, he woke with a choked gasp. “I’m so sorry,” Gabby said. “I thought you were daydreaming.”

Quill looked at her without a word. His eyes were heavy-lidded, so dark that she couldn’t see any color.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone in the garden,” Gabby explained cheerfully. She was used to people who woke in an irritable state. “And I certainly wouldn’t have woken you if I’d known you were asleep. You haven’t been out here all night, have you?”

Quill just stared at her as if she were a ghost. Gabby felt a prickle of annoyance. She had already ascertained that he felt that talking was an occupation below him.

Then she grinned at him. She really liked her big, silent brother-in-law. “You might say, ‘Good morning, Gabby. How did you sleep on your first night in England?’

“I may not know much about English manners,” Gabby added, “but I am quite certain that greeting your future family members is customary.”

His response was rather less friendly. “What the devil!”

Gabby’s smile dimmed a bit. “I trust this is not your garden? No one told me that I should not come into the garden. And I do apologize for interrupting your sleep, but I was so pleased to see someone here, because I would dearly love to ask—”

Quill interrupted her. “Gabby.”

“Yes?”

“Gabby, you are not dressed.”

That seemed self-evident to Gabby. “Well, I am dressed,” she explained. “I am wearing my night-robe, and my boots, as you can see.” She stuck out her small boot from below the hem of her robe, and they both stared at it for a moment.

“You needn’t worry about proprieties,” Gabby said brightly. “After all, it’s just us out here. The servants aren’t even awake yet. And we won’t tell anyone.” By which she meant, we won’t tell Peter. It was clear to her, after less than twenty-four hours in Peter’s presence, that he had a fearful sense of propriety.