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to stem the flow of tea off the table with her gloved hand—but that merely diverted the stream so that it swung left and splashed down onto Phoebe’s gown.
Phoebe took one look at the stain on her gown and burst into sobs.
“Oh, Phoebe,” Gabby said, taken by surprise again. “I’m so sorry.” She leapt up to give the child a hug, but as she did so her tiger-adorned chair toppled backward on its spindly legs.
Gabby tried to catch her chair. But she missed when her foot caught in the hem of her gown. There was a loud ripping noise as she fell facedown across Quill’s lap.
At that moment, Codswallop dove for the chair. He managed to grab the back, but when the chair fell, he fell. Butler and chair both crashed to the ground amidst much impressive splintering and grunting.
Lucien smothered a laugh, stood up, and plucked Phoebe into his arms as if he had known the little girl for years.
“Now, my little chicken,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “Tell me why you are crying over a mere tea stain.” He strolled over toward the other side of the room, instinctively rubbing his cheek against Phoebe’s ringlets, as she choked out a list of tragedies in which her new mama’s disappearance interwove confusingly with the length of her dress, and now its tea stain, and her ayah, and what her ayah thought of messy little girls.
Gabby, who had been thrown across Quill’s legs as if she were a lap rug, wiggled desperately, trying to get her feet solidly on the ground so she could scramble off his lap. Tears pricked her eyes. She was like to die from pure mortification.
In one smooth motion, Quill’s hands closed around her shoulders and he put her back on her feet, rising as he did so.
Gabby didn’t dare look at him. She had spilled the tea, and her best gloves had horrid-looking yellow stains on them. The same stains adorned the bodice of her best gown, and its hem was ripped clear off. The gown had been fashioned with an extra panel at the bottom in a Greek key pattern, and that panel was trailing on the ground. Quill must think she showed a complete lack of refinement.
Strong fingers closed around her elbow.
“Shall we adjourn? Our presence at the table is now superfluous.” To her surprise, Quill’s eyes were dancing with merriment.
Gabby looked back at the table. It was empty; the footmen were clustered around Codswallop, attempting to hoist him to his feet. She paled. “Codswallop is injured.”
“I believe he is merely winded by his dash across the room,” Quill observed.
Gabby still looked worried, so he added, “Don’t you think the footmen resemble amateur tooth-drawers clustering around a resistant patient?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You are laughing at me, sir!”
“Not a bit of it,” Quill said, his face almost earnest enough to convince her. “I would never be such a rudesby. Alike accidents have happened to those of the highest decorum. I believe that Codswallop’s dignity is perhaps offended, but his person is intact.”
“Well,” Gabby said, looking down at herself. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you that I am a lady of the highest decorum, is there?”
She met Quill’s eyes, and the merriment there so warmed her backbone that she giggled.
Quill, who was still rather intoxicated by the melting bundle of soft curves that had fallen so providentially into his lap, chuckled in response. Finally Gabby burst into laughter.
And that was how Peter found them when he pushed open the door to the drawing room.

G ABBY HEARD THE SOUND of the door opening and swung about quickly. For a moment she didn’t register who was standing a mere ten feet before her. Quill’s laughing eyes had made her feel prickly all over.
But she forgot that sensation in an instant as she took in the new arrival.
It was Peter. Her husband-to-be. She took a quick step toward him and then stopped. Peter was—Surely it was he. His eyes were a rather sweet brown.
But it was impossible to