by Eloisa James
Tenderness was a thing of the past. He crushed her mouth under his. Hips, hands, tongue made demands that sent liquid fire between her legs and stole the breath from her chest.
“Gabby, shall we—” The sounds of his own hoarse voice, strained with longing, woke Quill as if from a deep sleep. “Oh, my God.” He snatched his hands away from Gabby’s body. He lurched backward and then turned around, taking a deep breath. “I’ll summon a carriage.”
Gabby swayed a bit as Quill’s big, warm hands fell away. Her whole body raced with a fiery liquor.
“Need we leave…immediately?”
Gabby’s husky voice was more seductive than that of a practiced coquette. Quill turned around slowly, almost afraid to look at her again. “I should shoot myself.”
“Why? Don’t you enjoy kissing?”
Quill closed his eyes for a moment. Gabby was the only woman he’d ever met whose every emotion spoke in her eyes. Pleasure shot through his groin at what he read there: pure, unadulterated longing. Longing for him, for Quill.
She walked over and stood just before him again. Then she wound her arms around his neck and put her lips against his. She breathed against his lower lip, and Quill felt as if he must—must—bend her backward, sweep her forward, carry her outside. Anything to press that luscious body against his again.
God forgive him, the promise of her cherry-dark lips was too much. Quill pulled Gabby sharply against his body and took her mouth. It was different this time. Gabby knew something of kissing now. She opened those beautiful lips, strained toward him, uttered a little strangled moan in the back of her throat, met his tongue with her own.
And so they danced, a kissing dance. Until Quill realized that he had shaken all the pins out of Gabby’s coiffure, and that he was sliding his hands through the indescribable silk of her hair. Realized that his kisses had become a fierce possession, a sexual dance, and—rather more slowly—that Gabby’s hands were also tangled in his hair and that her body was matching the sinuous movement of his hips.
Worse.
The door handle leading to the hallway moved against his back.
He broke the kiss, pulled her arms from his neck, and barked, “Go away,” at the closed door.
Gabby looked up at him in wonder and smiled a glimmering, shining smile of discovery and pleasure.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I had no idea that kisses were so…so much fun,” Gabby said, her voice still husky. “Fun is not the right word. Fun is pale compared to this. To kissing.” She moved toward him again and Quill held out his hand, stopping her. She smiled without resentment.
“Now I see why my father never let me spend any time with gentlemen. And I am truly sorry that Peter went to Bath with your mother!”
The world stilled for a moment.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Quill managed. How had Gabby managed to grow up with such ignorance of men and women?
“Gabby, you must not request kisses from men other than—than your future husband,” Quill said hoarsely. He couldn’t seem to mention Peter’s name.
Her eyes cleared and then danced. “I should never, never have guessed, Quill. About kissing, I mean.”
“Ah,” he said, rather faintly. He needed a brandy, although it was only early afternoon. “You’d best go upstairs and reorder your hair.” He wrenched open the door. “I will accompany you to Hoare’s Bank later this afternoon.”
Gabby watched him leave as if the Furies were after him, with a pang of regret. Obviously he was sorry he’d kissed her. With a sigh, she dismissed Quill from her mind.
She went upstairs, her eyes dreamy. Perhaps by the time Peter returned, she would have her new wardrobe from Madame Carême, and Peter would look at her with the same sort of fiery appreciation that she glimpsed in Quill. Sternly, she brought to mind the many sermons she had heard regarding the evils of lust.
But they had never conveyed to her how…how indescribably lovely kissing was. For some reason it was difficult to imagine Peter jerking her into his arms and almost devouring her as Quill had. No doubt kissing Peter would be a gentler business, Gabby thought.
Up in her chamber, she took out the miniature of Peter that his father had sent her. The sight of his smiling, sweet eyes and soft brown curls steadied her.
Gabby smiled. Marriage was going to be very enjoyable at this rate. She couldn’t wait for Peter to return!
LADY SYLVIA ARRIVED an hour or so later. Gabby had just concluded a satisfactory interview with Codswallop. Not finding him in the front hallway, she had descended into the servants’ quarters to make absolutely certain that he was not injured by his tumble onto the parlor floor. And she had even swallowed her pride and apologized for fibbing about it.
“Quill knows everything,” she told Codswallop earnestly, “and he assures me that Viscount Dewland will never let you go.”
Codswallop gave a little half bow and an utterly understanding smile. There wasn’t a servant in the house who wasn’t aware of Peter’s finicky ways; he couldn’t blame the young lady for being taken aback. “Now, Miss Jerningham,” Codswallop said comfortingly. “We’ll think no more about it. As far as I’m concerned, ‘twas an angel that tripped me up and made me drop the teapot.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Gabby said penitently. “I’m a butterfingers, and I always have been.”
“An angel’s foot got in your way,” Codswallop said. “That’s what my mother used to tell us when we returned to the house with scrapes on our knees.”
Gabby smiled. “Your mother sounds very kind.”
By the time Codswallop ushered her back through the braise door into the main hallway, they were the best of friends.
As Gabby walked through the servants’ door, she realized immediately that her chaperone, Lady Sylvia, had arrived. And what a chaperone she was! Gabby’s mouth almost fell open and she paused with her back to the door.
Kitty’s cousin, Lady Sylvia, was as unlike Quill’s mournful, emotional mother as possible. At the moment she was guffawing in response to something Quill had said to her. She was wearing a bright pink, beribboned gown with a startlingly low bodice. And she was surrounded by three yapping dogs, all of whom had matching pink bows adorning their waving topknots.
Yet for all the femininity of her attire, Lady Sylvia’s face looked more like a man’s than a woman’s, to Gabby’s mind. And she was smoking a cheroot.
Then Quill looked over his shoulder at Gabby. “Here is Miss Jerningham now,” he announced. “Lady Sylvia, may I introduce my brother’s betrothed, Miss Gabrielle Jerningham? Miss Jerningham, this is Lady Sylvia Breaknettle.”
Lady Sylvia glanced at Gabby and then back at Quill. “What was the gel doin’ in the servants’ quarters, Dewland? You aren’t trying to make a purse out of a sow’s ear, are you? I don’t approve of associating with the help.” Her voice was a squawking, nasal bellow, although it had a shrewd note to it.
“Well? Cat got yer tongue, gel?”
Gabby suddenly got her bearings and bobbed a curtsy. “I was consulting with Mrs. Farsalter regarding the menus, my lady.”
“Got the air of a servant,” Lady Sylvia proclaimed.
Gabby felt pink creeping up the back of her neck.
“That the best curtsy you can do, gel?”
“My name is Gabrielle Jerningham,” Gabby said. “I was also taught la révérence en arrière.” She swept into a low curtsy. Then she straightened. “However, I was instructed to do so only in the presence of royalty.”
Lady Sylvia smirked at the slight edge in Gabby’s tone. “Well, at least you’ve got some backbone, gel.”
Gabby gave up on the idea of Lady Sylvia using her proper name. Clearly she considered her “gel,” and nothing else.
“These are my Three Graces,” Lady Sylvia said, gesturing at the dogs with her burning cheroot so that little wisps of blue smoke flew around her head.
“Charming,” Gabby murmured.
“Hope, Truth, a
nd—” Lady Sylvia peered around. “Oh, yes, that one is Beauty.”
Everyone looked where she pointed. Beauty had just squatted under one of the chairs lining the entryway. A small trickle was creeping across the marble floor.
“She’s too intelligent to pay mind to me,” Lady Sylvia said blandly. “All three dogs are French, and they behave just like Frenchmen. Decorative but peevish.”
Codswallop coughed politely. “Will the Three Graces be housed in your chamber, my lady?”
“Naturally, Codswallop. And you don’t have to take up the carpet. Beauty is only letting us know that she is disgruntled about the carriage ride. She’ll settle down soon enough.”
Codswallop gestured to a footman, who bent down and tried to pick up Beauty. She promptly bit him on the hand.
“Burn my breeches!” Lady Sylvia exclaimed. “Never had ought to do with dogs, Codswallop? They won’t let a stranger pick them up. Too intelligent for that.”
Given the expression on the footman’s face, it was clear that he would have liked to boot the intelligent dog out the door. But Lady Sylvia had swiveled about and was hallooing through the open door.
“Dessie? Dessie, get in here, gel! That’s my companion,” she explained to Gabby. “Desdemona, she’s called. She’ll take charge of the little dears.”
A cheerful-looking woman entered the door. “I’ve sent your trunks around to the back, my lady. I don’t believe they’ll fit in the front door.”
“Look what’s happened, Dessie. Naughty little Beauty has made a statement on the floor.”
Dessie bent down and picked up the dog in question and briskly swatted it on the bottom. “You know better than that.”
Gabby watched, fascinated, as Beauty’s topknot wilted and her small face drooped.
“Those dogs won’t give me the time of day,” Lady Sylvia said with approval, “but they positively adore Dessie. Good thing too. I don’t mind if Beauty makes a water closet out of Dewland’s front hall, but she’d be mincemeat if she tried that in my house.”
Gabby choked back a giggle. Dessie had gathered all three dogs in her arms and was heading up the stairs behind Codswallop, whose rigid back indicated strong disapproval.
Quill cleared his throat. “May I escort you to your chamber, Lady Sylvia?” He held out his arm.
“Course you may,” she answered. “Reckon I’ll never be old enough to turn down a gentleman’s escort to my chambers.” Lady Sylvia looked around for somewhere to put her cheroot. When she didn’t glimpse an appropriate receptacle, she tossed it straight out the open door.
Gabby watched as the smoking cheroot arced out the door and landed on the white marble steps. This time she couldn’t stop herself, and a little chortle of laughter escaped her.
Lady Sylvia looked at her sharply. “Not as missish as you look, are you, gel? I can’t stand a milk-and-water miss. I haven’t done any of this chaperoning business, since Lionel and I never had progeny. Only said I’d do it as a promise to Kitty. Poor thing’s liable to cry up an ocean over Thurlow’s latest attack.
“You, gel!” Lady Sylvia said suddenly, turning her head just as she began climbing the stairs.
“Yes, Lady Sylvia?” Gabby replied.
“I shall retire to my chamber for a rest. But I will join you for supper, and I do not wish to see that appalling gown at the table. You’re too big for it; any fool could see that. If you want to dress like a light woman, I’m not going to stop you. I fancy a lady should exhibit her assets.” She gave her own magnificent chest a proud glance. “But you might as well get yerself some clothes that fit. Don’t see that my job as a chaperone extends to dressing you.”
Gabby colored and looked down at her front. She’d completely forgotten that she meant to keep a shawl clutched around her shoulders.
Lady Sylvia cackled. “Quill has probably been enjoying it, gel. No harm in that. But I’d hate to see that bodice give out over the first course. Might put me off my feed.” She elbowed Quill. “Expect you don’t share my feelings, eh?”
Quill gave Gabby a long-suffering look. Lady Sylvia had always been a liability to the family, and if she hadn’t had one of the longest lineages in England, likely no one would have anything to do with her.
Gabby curtsied again and Quill accompanied Lady Sylvia up the stairs.
“Nice to see you on your feet, Erskine,” Lady Sylvia said jovially, as they walked down the corridor toward her chamber. “It’s a pity, a real pity, what happened to you on that horse. Mind you, it could have been worse. You’ll have to tell me why your father has the heiress marrying young Peter, though. Yer the eldest. I don’t mind telling you, it’s causing a bit of a stir amongst the gabsters. Wondering if you survived that accident unscathed.”
Quill shuddered inwardly. He had no wish to air his incapacities with the forthright Lady Sylvia.
“I take it your silence means they’re right,” Lady Sylvia said after a moment.
“No,” Quill corrected her. “I could consummate a marriage, but it is unclear whether there would be children.”
“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.
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.”
To his surprise, Phoebe looked stricken rather than joyful. “Oh, no,” she cried. “My clothing isn’t ready.”
“Your clo
thing,” Quill repeated.
Big tears spilled down Phoebe’s cheeks. “My new mama will think that I’m dowdy!”
“I doubt it,” Quill said dryly. “She’s more likely to think that you’re a nursling.”
Phoebe turned her face into Gabby’s shoulder. “I’m not a nursling,” she said around her sobs. “I don’t want my mama to see me like this! I want to wear my new gown with—with the pin—pin—pin tucks!”
Just then Lady Sylvia bustled into the room, followed by three scurrying dogs. “Well, well, what have we here?” She paused.
The fierce training Phoebe’s ayah had ladled out held her in good stead. As Gabby put her on her feet, Phoebe dropped a beautiful curtsy, despite the little sob that escaped her on the way down.
“Lady Sylvia, may I present Miss Phoebe Pensington?” Quill said. “Miss Phoebe has been staying with us. At the moment she is feeling some concern about her apparel.”
“Don’t know about that,” Lady Sylvia barked. “As I told you yesterday, I can’t take on the business of dressing others. I’ve enough trouble dressing myself.”
Gabby barely suppressed a grin. Lady Sylvia was magnificently attired in a pale-green morning dress with sprigs of lace let in the bosom. Her gloves, shoes, and dogs’ bows all matched.
Lady Sylvia sank into a chair and idly waved a green handkerchief at Codswallop. “I shall have naught but a cup of hot chocolate and perhaps one or two pieces of toast. I’m considering a reducing diet.”
Phoebe was leaning against Gabby’s shoulder, still mourning the pin-tucked dress.
“Yer a pretty little gel,” Lady Sylvia told her. “What are you blubbering about?”
Phoebe flushed. “I was being unladylike,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”
“Nonsense! Nothing more ladylike than crying. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Erskine’s mother!” Lady Sylvia gave a bark of laughter.
“Phoebe,” Gabby said firmly, “your new mother will not care a pin about the length of your dress. A new dress could never make anyone love you more than they would naturally.”