Free Enchanting Pleasures by Eloisa James Page A

ruined.”
“That reminds me,” Gabby said with a frown. “Why am I marrying Peter? Not,” she added quickly, “that I have any reluctance to do so.”
And Quill could tell by her sunny smile that she didn’t.
“But I am quite certain that my papa thinks I am marrying you,” Gabby said confusedly. “Or rather, he thinks that Peter is you. I am afraid that he believes that I will be a viscountess someday. But that won’t happen, will it, Quill? Your wife will be the viscountess.”
“You may never be a viscountess. But your son will surely be a viscount. I shall never marry.”
“But—”
He cut her off. “Gabby, you must return to your chambers now. Go!” And he pushed her toward the Yellow Drawing Room.
Gabby had no recourse but to do as he told her. So she trotted up the steps and slipped through the door to the house, thinking intently about what Quill had said. Of course he would marry! She didn’t care a bit about being a viscountess, and what her father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. But Quill was lonely. She could see it in the bleak look in his eyes. He needed someone to coax him into speech and make him laugh—even if he did laugh only with his eyes.
Back in her room, Gabby took off her half boots and neatly stowed them under her bed, hiding the wet toes under her counterpane. Then she climbed back into bed and rang for a maid.
She forgot about the spray of blooms that she brought from the garden until a young girl named Margaret appeared. The first thing she said, after a proper curtsy, was “What lovely flowers, miss!”
“Yes, aren’t they beautiful?” Gabby said cheerfully. “Did you say your name was Margaret? That’s such an English name. We don’t have flowers like this in India. This came from a pudding-pipe tree, which sounds so English as well, doesn’t it?”
Enchanted by Gabby’s friendly eyes, Margaret bustled about straightening up the room and building up a fire. She didn’t even notice Gabby’s wet boots, although she tucked them under her arm to be cleaned and polished. And she didn’t think twice about the newly picked flowers now residing in a glass by the young mistress’s bed. She’d never met a gentry lady who was so friendly and all. Why, she treated her exactly as if she, Margaret, were a friend of hers.
By the time Gabby appeared in the breakfast room holding Phoebe by the hand, Margaret had coaxed Gabby’s hair into smooth curls and confined them away from her face with a bandeau.
To Quill’s intense irritation, Gabby’s face lit up when she saw that Peter was in the breakfast chamber.
“Good morning, Peter!” she said happily. And then, “Hello, Quill.”
“Good morning, Miss Jerningham, Miss Phoebe,” Peter responded, rather more coolly. Mornings were never Peter’s favorite time of day. But he felt it behooved him to wrench himself out of bed at this untimely hour in order to escort his betrothed to a mantua-maker. He’d slay himself if any of his friends glimpsed his future wife in those appalling garments she affected.
Peter waited until Gabby and Phoebe had been given breakfast by the footman. “After you break your fast, I shall escort you to the establishment of Madame Carême,” he announced.
“How lovely,” Gabby said, helping herself lavishly to more jelly. “Do you know, this is the most delicious toast I have ever eaten in my life. What kind of jelly is this, Phillip?”
To Peter’s horror, he realized that Gabby was addressing the footman. And the said footman was smiling back at her as if they were equals. “It is blackberry jelly, miss.”
Phillip snapped back to attention against the wall, instinctively sensing Peter’s infuriated eyes on him.
“Mmmm,” Gabby said dreamily. “I love blackberry jelly. What do you think, Phoebe?”
Phoebe looked doubtfully at the jelly. “My ayah never let me have sugared things on my toast because they may make me fat. And then I could not get married.”
“Your ayah was a tyrant! Try