Quill reached out and brushed off her nose with his thumb. She had a small, straight, patrician nose that spoke of generations of Jerninghams, all breeding noble and true, at least in the nose category.

“How did your father meet your mother?” He didn’t know much about Richard Jerningham, although he was getting more and more curious.

“She was a French émigré,” Gabby explained, not seeming to find his abrupt question impolite. “My father married her within two weeks of meeting her. They were married less than a year, as she died giving birth to me.”

Quill was increasingly aware of the dappled sunlight that was now warming his back. Gabby seemed to have no idea what would happen if they were found together in the garden. He tugged her around and began to walk briskly back toward the house. Then he stopped. “You must enter alone,” he told her.

“Quill!” Gabby said, her husky voice annoyed. “We were speaking of something important. You are most impolite to ignore me. I said my mother died at my birth, and you should at least offer your sympathies.”

Quill looked down at her and once again stifled the impulse to kiss her into silence. “I would like to hear more about your father and mother,” he said, after a moment. “But I am worried that we will be discovered by the servants. They must be up and around the house by now.”

“Well,” Gabby said, “would that be such a tragedy? We are family, after all.” And she smiled up at him, her eyes as innocent and friendly as a babe’s.

“You are not married to Peter yet,” Quill pointed out. “If we were found in the garden together, people would undoubtedly think the worst. You would be ruined.”

“That reminds me,” Gabby said with a frown. “Why am I marrying Peter? Not,” she added quickly, “that I have any reluctance to do so.”

And Quill could tell by her sunny smile that she didn’t.

“But I am quite certain that my papa thinks I am marrying you,” Gabby said confusedly. “Or rather, he thinks that Peter is you. I am afraid that he believes that I will be a viscountess someday. But that won’t happen, will it, Quill? Your wife will be the viscountess.”

“You may never be a viscountess. But your son will surely be a viscount. I shall never marry.”

“But—”

He cut her off. “Gabby, you must return to your chambers now. Go!” And he pushed her toward the Yellow Drawing Room.