“I should be very pleased to visit the Dorset Gardens. One of my favorite Shakespeare plays is being performed: The Taming of the Shrew.”

Every damned thing sounds like a proposition, Quill thought numbly. His brother was marrying a woman whose very voice made feverish promises.

His brother. Peter. Quill reined in his melting control.

“I’m afraid that I forgot an important engagement this evening,” he said stiffly, shifting his chair backward from the table. “I must ask you to forgive me.”

Gabby’s face fell ludicrously. Suddenly the alluring enchantress was replaced by a disappointed child. “But, Quill, I am so tired of staying in the house all day!”

“Peter will be back soon,” Quill promised.

“There is no sign of it in his daily notes,” Gabby pointed out. “I know that Peter is a great comfort to your mother.”

“She doesn’t need any more comfort,” Quill snapped. “Father is doing as well as may be expected. I shall write Peter and tell him to return at once.”

Indeed, Viscount Dewland was resting comfortably, ensconced in the finest of Bath’s inns. Undoubtedly he would never be able to walk, and doctors held out little hope that he would speak again, but he was fully himself, scrawling irascible notes right and left. “From what Peter’s letters have said, Father could go on this way for years,” Quill added.

“Please don’t write to Peter,” Gabby beseeched. “I would not want him to leave your mother at a time when she needs him.”

Quill looked unconvinced.

“You see, Peter and I are going to be married for a long time,” Gabby said earnestly, reaching out to touch Quill’s knee. “It would be fatal if I came between him and his mother. I have seen these situations at home, in India, and it invariably strains the love between a man and his wife.”

Quill’s throat tightened. It was becoming increasingly difficult even to be around Gabby. Especially when her eyes shone so sweetly and she talked about love between man and wife.

He pushed his chair even farther from the desk where she was perched. “I shall inform my brother that you wish an escort to the theater.” Then he couldn’t help adding, “I am sure that when Peter realizes that you are dressed like this”—he gestured at her gown—“he will rush back to town in order to prance you before his cronies.”

Gabby ignored the icy drip of sarcasm in Quill’s voice. His expression had chilled; something she said had infuriated him. Quill was remarkably moody, for a man. But she had always found that it was best to ignore people’s little moods. “Do you think so, Quill? Madame’s gowns are beautiful, are they not?” She was blatantly fishing for a compliment.