you leapt into another indelicacy before he’s even recovered from glimpsing your ankles.”
Gabby colored and looked down at her dress. The ripped section of her gown exposed her ankles above her half boots. She met Quill’s eyes as he, too, looked up from her hem. Something in the depth of his eyes gave her a simmering sensation deep in her stomach. She glanced down again. They were perfectly unremarkable ankles, trimly clad in white cotton. And she didn’t believe for a moment that the sight of them stirred Peter in any way.
Quill was discovering that, in fact, his punctilious brother might have been right when he forbade him to accompany Gabby to her bedchamber. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the nearby bed that was making his blood throb. The mere glimpse of Gabby’s slender ankles had thrown him a heady vision of her legs under that drab—and now indecent—gown.
“I forbid you to visit the servants’ quarters,” he said abruptly. “There is no call to throw my brother into more of a frenzy than he is likely to suffer in the natural course of things.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that cryptic phrase, in the natural course of things? I gather you are implying that my espoused husband is going to suffer by marrying me?” she asked. “That he will suffer because…because I am such a bad bargain?”
“He won’t suffer any more than every man does in his marriage,” Quill said. “Loss of bachelor freedom and all that. That’s why they call it ‘leg-shackling.’
But Gabby, of course, was not done talking. “You forbid me? What right have you to forbid me to do anything that I wish?”
The corner of Quill’s mouth twitched. “In the absence of my father, I am the master of the household, you know.”
A little frown crooked Gabby’s brow. Now that she thought about it, it was obvious Quill was considerably older than Peter.
“But I thought—” She broke off. She could inquire later why her father thought she was marrying the viscount’s heir, when in fact she was marrying a younger son. Instead, she changed the subject. “Phoebe needs to be taken to bed.” Her young friend had succumbed to the anxieties of the day and fallen fast asleep in her lap.
“Mrs. Farsalter has appointed a housemaid to look after the child,” Quill said, observing despite himself the way in which Phoebe’s head nestled against Gabby’s breast. “Shall I carry her into the next room?”
Gabby looked at him and pursed her lips. “Will your leg pain you? Perhaps we might carry Phoebe together. She’s not very large, and if you could carry her head and shoulders, I could carry her legs.”
Quill scowled. “I exercise with dumbbells every day, Miss Jerningham. I can certainly hoist a small child into the next room.”
“Dumbbells? What are dumbbells?”
“Short bars weighted at each end with a knob. After my accident I had a good deal of difficulty moving my limbs. We found a German doctor, Trankelstein, who believes that one must force injured limbs back into service by exercising with dumbbells that he devised for the purpose.”
Gabby’s sympathetic brown eyes rested on him for a moment like a caress. Quill shivered. Why was it that it didn’t really bother him when Gabby referred to his disabled limb, whereas he was thrown into a bitter rage when anyone else did so? He scooped up the little girl and carried her into the bedchamber next door.
As Gabby was introducing herself to the housemaid and arranging to have Phoebe’s clothing removed for cleaning and mending, Quill lingered in the doorway, unable to tear himself away.
She was an annoying, clumsy, plump, untidy woman.
She was a seductive jade whose sooty eyelashes and luxurious hair were begging for kisses.
She was an untidy baggage who had fibbed her way out of an unpleasant spot.
She was the first woman in years who spoke to him as if his lame leg was merely an inconvenience.
Obviously he should avoid her at all costs.
He straightened up
Gabby colored and looked down at her dress. The ripped section of her gown exposed her ankles above her half boots. She met Quill’s eyes as he, too, looked up from her hem. Something in the depth of his eyes gave her a simmering sensation deep in her stomach. She glanced down again. They were perfectly unremarkable ankles, trimly clad in white cotton. And she didn’t believe for a moment that the sight of them stirred Peter in any way.
Quill was discovering that, in fact, his punctilious brother might have been right when he forbade him to accompany Gabby to her bedchamber. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the nearby bed that was making his blood throb. The mere glimpse of Gabby’s slender ankles had thrown him a heady vision of her legs under that drab—and now indecent—gown.
“I forbid you to visit the servants’ quarters,” he said abruptly. “There is no call to throw my brother into more of a frenzy than he is likely to suffer in the natural course of things.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that cryptic phrase, in the natural course of things? I gather you are implying that my espoused husband is going to suffer by marrying me?” she asked. “That he will suffer because…because I am such a bad bargain?”
“He won’t suffer any more than every man does in his marriage,” Quill said. “Loss of bachelor freedom and all that. That’s why they call it ‘leg-shackling.’
But Gabby, of course, was not done talking. “You forbid me? What right have you to forbid me to do anything that I wish?”
The corner of Quill’s mouth twitched. “In the absence of my father, I am the master of the household, you know.”
A little frown crooked Gabby’s brow. Now that she thought about it, it was obvious Quill was considerably older than Peter.
“But I thought—” She broke off. She could inquire later why her father thought she was marrying the viscount’s heir, when in fact she was marrying a younger son. Instead, she changed the subject. “Phoebe needs to be taken to bed.” Her young friend had succumbed to the anxieties of the day and fallen fast asleep in her lap.
“Mrs. Farsalter has appointed a housemaid to look after the child,” Quill said, observing despite himself the way in which Phoebe’s head nestled against Gabby’s breast. “Shall I carry her into the next room?”
Gabby looked at him and pursed her lips. “Will your leg pain you? Perhaps we might carry Phoebe together. She’s not very large, and if you could carry her head and shoulders, I could carry her legs.”
Quill scowled. “I exercise with dumbbells every day, Miss Jerningham. I can certainly hoist a small child into the next room.”
“Dumbbells? What are dumbbells?”
“Short bars weighted at each end with a knob. After my accident I had a good deal of difficulty moving my limbs. We found a German doctor, Trankelstein, who believes that one must force injured limbs back into service by exercising with dumbbells that he devised for the purpose.”
Gabby’s sympathetic brown eyes rested on him for a moment like a caress. Quill shivered. Why was it that it didn’t really bother him when Gabby referred to his disabled limb, whereas he was thrown into a bitter rage when anyone else did so? He scooped up the little girl and carried her into the bedchamber next door.
As Gabby was introducing herself to the housemaid and arranging to have Phoebe’s clothing removed for cleaning and mending, Quill lingered in the doorway, unable to tear himself away.
She was an annoying, clumsy, plump, untidy woman.
She was a seductive jade whose sooty eyelashes and luxurious hair were begging for kisses.
She was an untidy baggage who had fibbed her way out of an unpleasant spot.
She was the first woman in years who spoke to him as if his lame leg was merely an inconvenience.
Obviously he should avoid her at all costs.
He straightened up
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