Gabby shivered. A Mr. Barlow had taken her out on the balcony earlier in the evening, and she had almost turned into ice. It was virtually December, after all. Why, any moment she might get struck on the head with a huge ice ball. It was not the weather to be outside, especially with her entire bosom exposed.

But Peter was towing her toward one of the three doors leading to small balconies overlooking the gardens. Gabby sighed. It had been, to her mind, a miserably dreary evening. She couldn’t count the number of gentlemen who had accidentally touched her chest or rubbed her back. She felt like a plucked chicken that kept getting pinched by housewives looking for the very plumpest fowl.

The balcony was just as cold as she remembered. Peter left the door wide open. “We are engaged,” he explained, “but I would not want to give anyone cause to question your reputation.”

Gabby opened her mouth and almost remarked that Mr. Barlow had closed the doors. But then she thought better of it. Oddly enough, she found her future husband quite difficult to confide in. Much more so than Quill. That was probably because she was in love with Peter, Gabby reminded herself.

She was absolutely frozen, but perhaps—perhaps this was a good time for their first kiss? Gabby smiled.

She drifted closer to Peter, who looked up in surprise. “It’s quite, quite cold, Peter,” Gabby said. She didn’t want to ask him for a kiss. Peter should kiss her the first time of his own initiative.

Peter peered at her. “Would you like to go inside, then? Have you woken up? You mustn’t look sleepy in the ballroom, Gabby. A lady should always look lively and refreshed, even when in the throes of exhaustion.”

Gabby was now standing so close to Peter that she could easily touch him. She was aware, given the arctic temperature, that her nipples were readily visible through the bodice of Madame’s gown. She had a clear memory of Quill’s groan at discovering the same physical fact in the drawing room.

But Peter was showing no signs of looking at her chest, or of kissing her, for that matter. In fact, he was looking rather discomforted. “Peter,” Gabby said in her sweetest, most docile tone. “Since we are to be married, I think it would be acceptable for you to kiss me.”

Peter practically recoiled. “Absolutely not! No such action is acceptable at a ball, under any circumstances.”

There was an awkward silence.

Gabby swallowed hard. “Do you really mean to say that you don’t wish to kiss me?”

Peter thrust his hand through his brown curls. “Of course I want to kiss you, Gabby.”

Gabby looked at him mutely, appeal in her eyes.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Peter exclaimed. He tipped up her chin and put his lips on hers.