“Ah. Well, I’m sorry about that, Erskine. Always thought you were the best of the litter. Mind you, Lionel and I never regretted marrying, even when children didn’t appear. But I don’t suppose we would have done it if we’d known.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Lady Sylvia went on, patting Quill’s arm not unkindly.

He pushed open the door to her chamber to find the Three Graces sitting in a docile line, watching as Desdemona directed a maid to unpack a trunk. Quill bowed and murmured something about seeing Lady Sylvia at supper. She smiled farewell, obviously unaware that he was stiff with anger.

Quill walked down one flight of stairs and closed his study door behind him, belatedly realizing that he was deep in furious plans to marry simply to spite the gossips. What good would that do? He’d have to be remarkably lucky to father a child. And meanwhile, those same scandalmongers would rattle on about his marital failings, likely making his wife more miserable than she already would be, given that she had married a cripple who couldn’t dance, or ride to the horses—or bed her on a regular basis.

Quill bit back a curse and headed toward the garden. Sometimes there was nothing to do but exhaust himself, pacing the brick paths until the pain in his leg was enough to stifle his bitterness.

FROM HER BEDCHAMBER WINDOW, Gabby watched her future brother-in-law as he walked down a garden path. She almost turned to join him—but something about his savage stride cautioned her. She waited for him at supper, but at length Codswallop appeared with a message that Mr. Dewland asked to be excused, as his leg was troubling him.

Chapter 6

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Quill strode into the breakfast room to find Gabby and Phoebe eating alone.

“Lady Sylvia has not yet risen,” Gabby said in answer to Quill’s questioning look. Then she added, “Goodness! It’s happening to me!”

Quill frowned. “What is happening to you?”

“I’m starting to let you get away without speaking. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how everyone caters to your silence, Quill,” she said. “I am determined not to be a party to your family’s indulgence.”

Quill snorted and pointedly bowed to Phoebe. “I have some excellent news.”

“There you are again! Whatever happened to ‘How are you, Gabby?’ or ‘How did you sleep, Phoebe?’” Gabby broke in.

Quill took a deep breath. “How are you, Gabby? And what’s put you in such a churlish mood?”

“There’s nothing churlish about a little courtesy!”

Quill smiled at her, even though he didn’t mean to. She was such a delicious little spitfire. Gabby’s cheeks had turned pink, and her hair was rapidly toppling down from the neat arrangement Margaret had fashioned a mere half hour ago.

“Mrs. Ewing has sent a note. She should be here within the hour.”