A little over an hour later, Quentin cornered Peter Harte in an unoccupied corridor not far from the Pettigrews’ drawing room. “Where is she, Harte?” he demanded on a low growl.

“She who?” Harte said in apparent confusion—an act Quentin didn’t believe for an instant.

“You know exactly who. Miss Byron.”

The younger man shrugged, his gazing darting sideways. “How should I know? Haven’t seen her lately.”

He leaned closer, using his greater height in a way he knew to be intimidating. “Lately or since the picnic? I watched you hand her into your carriage, but no one has seen her since.”

After the outing, Quentin had driven straight back to the Pettigrews’. While the other guests continued to arrive, he’d gone upstairs to his bedchamber to change his clothes. On his return downstairs, he’d seen Harte, but not India. At the time, he assumed she’d already retired to her room to nap and relax before dinner like many of the other ladies, and thought nothing of her absence.

But as the minutes continued to tick past, he began to wonder.

And worry.

Perhaps it was some sixth sense, but his gut told him something wasn’t right. Having learned long ago always to trust his instincts, he went back upstairs and knocked on her door. Her maid answered, informing him that Miss India hadn’t yet returned. Even more deeply concerned, he’d set out in search of Harte.

“So,” he now insisted. “Where is India? You did bring her home, did you not?”

A muscle twitched in Harte’s cheek. “Of course I brought her home. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Probably off gabbing with one of the other girls. You know how females are. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way to the drawing room for a libation.”

When Harte started to move around him, he grabbed his arm and pushed him back against the wall. “You’re lying. I can see it on your ferrety little face. Out with it, or so help me I’ll make sure you’re drinking your meals through a straw for the next several weeks.”

Harte’s eyes rounded, the heightened color in his face draining to white. “I…I…”

A sick sensation twisted inside Quentin’s vitals, his grip on Harte’s arm tightening so much the other man let out a yelp of pain. “You what? What have you done with her? If you’ve hurt her I’ll—”

“No, no, of course I didn’t hurt her. What do you take me for? I would never injure Miss Byron.”

Relief swept through him. “Well, then, let’s have it. And I want the truth this time.”

“I…I…left her.”

He scowled. “What do you mean, left her?”

“We had a quarrel…and well…in the heat of the moment, I drove off. B-but I’m sure she’ll find her way back,” Harte rushed to assure. “She’s pr-probably found a ride with a farmer or tradesman and is walking through the door even as we speak.”

Quentin stared, wondering if Harte was daft or just stupid? Has he any idea of the potential danger he’s placed her in?

The younger man let out a fresh yelp, as Quentin’s grip tightened another inch. “You mean you abandoned her? That she’s out there alone somewhere right now, while you were about to have drinks and dinner with the rest of the guests? Why you insufferable toad. You’re beneath contempt. While I can still stand to look at you, tell me everything that happened today between you and India, and don’t leave out so much as a single detail.”

Harte gulped and began his recitation. By the time he was done, the sick sensation had blossomed once again inside Quentin’s gut. His hands fisted, terrified to know that India was alone and lost in unfamiliar country, miles away from the nearest town. The thought of what could happen to her, especially if she were to be set upon by highwaymen or other unsavory types…well, he didn’t want to contemplate the possibilities.

With a hard shove, he pushed Harte away.

The other man curled against the wall, gingerly rubbing his bruised arm.

“You’re not to say a word of this to anyone, do you hear?” he told him in a menacing tone. “Well, do you?”

Harte nodded.

“You’re to pack your bags and clear out now. I don’t care what excuse you use so long as neither my name nor Miss Byron’s is included. Then I want you gone.”

Harte straightened in clear surprise. “W-what do you mean, gone?”

“Out! Right now. You won’t even have time for that libation you were craving. Or at least, you won’t if you have any sense, since I expect to find you gone long before my return. If I see so much as your shadow when I get back, well, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

Beads of nervous sweat gleamed on Harte’s brow, as he nodded for a second time. “All right, I’ll go.”

“Good.” He took a couple steps away, then swung around again. “Oh, and Harte.”

The man glanced up. “What?”

“This.” Using his fisted knuckles, he punched him square in the face.

“Ow!” Harte cried, reeling away as he raised a hand to cover his cheek. “What’d you do that for?”

“That was for India. I thought she deserved a measure of retribution after everything you’ve put her through. Now, get out of my sight before I decide to take my own pound of flesh.”

Harte’s hazel eyes goggled—or at least one of them did, since the other was busy swelling shut and turning the color of a squashed blackberry. With a whimper, he wheeled around and fled down the hall.

Quentin didn’t remain long enough to watch him further, turning instead on his boot heel to go find India.

 

India stopped and took off her slipper, then turned it over to shake out a pebble. As she did, a fierce gust of wind rose up, slamming her so hard it nearly ripped the silken shoe out of her hand. Managing somehow to hold on, she quickly slid her foot into the slipper once more and retied the ribbons, her skirts whirling in a frenzied dance around her ankles.

Straightening, she took a moment to survey the fields of windblown grass and the empty road ahead. With a sigh, she started forward again. But with every step, her chest grew tighter, burgeoning alarm threatening to squeeze the breath from her lungs.

She’d been walking for nearly an hour and hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of another person. Besides the occasional bird and rabbit, the only animals she’d encountered were a few sheep on a distant hill, but no farmstead or farmer. Worse yet, she was irretrievably lost.

Initially, she’d followed the marks left by Peter’s carriage, but far too soon those faded away, leaving her unsure which direction to go. After another quarter mile, she was well and truly lost, having no idea whether she was walking toward the Pettigrews’ or away.

Perhaps she should have stopped at that point and waited for someone to find her. But what if no one did? Because as much as she told herself not to worry, she couldn’t help but fear nightfall, wondering what she would do if she was still out here alone when the sun sank from the sky for the day.

And so she’d continued on.

Luckily, it was summer, so there was still plenty of light. Or rather, there would have been plenty of light were it not for the increasingly angry band of storm clouds gathering overhead. She kept expecting the rain to start, but so far it had held off. Judging by the rapidly blackening sky, though, she knew her reprieve couldn’t last too much longer.

Blast Peter Harte! When she got back, she was going to make him wish he’d never laid eyes on her. Until then, she had no choice but to continue on and pray someone would come to her rescue.

Five minutes later she was still walking, her bonnet-covered head lowered against the wind, when she heard a rumbling sound coming up behind her—a noise that sounded distinctly like carriage wheels.

Turning around, her heart quickened with relief when she saw a curricle. She raised an arm to signal the driver, but to her dawning joy she realized she had no need. The vehicle slowed, its large male occupant reassuringly familiar.

Quentin! He’s come for me!

Drawing his horses to a stop, he secured the reins; the leather carriage hood he’d pulled up against the weather shaking in the wind. “India. Thank God,” he said, jumping out of the vehicle and coming to her side. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

He opened his arms, and she went into them without a moment’s hesitation, reveling in his warmth and strength as her fears dissolved like so much pixie dust. “How did you know?”

“Where to find you, you mean? It was Harte. When I noticed you were missing, he and I had a talk.”

So Quentin realized I was gone and came looking. Pleasure spread through her at the knowledge. “He told you what he did?”

“Not without a bit of persuasion, but I wrung the truth from him soon enough. Although I have to say you’re a fair distance from where he said he left you. A good thing I decided to drive east a couple extra miles, or else I might have been searching for you half the night.”

She trembled, a grateful lump forming in her throat to know he wouldn’t have given up looking for her no matter how long it took.

“Come, though,” he said.” We can talk later. Right now, we need to be on our way back before this storm decides to let loose.”

As though prompted by his words, a cluster of fat raindrops splattered to the ground, another one landing in a wet plop against her cheek. As the water slid over her skin, a second cluster of drops fell in an abrupt staccato.

Three seconds later, the sky split wide and turned everything as wet as a sea.

Together they raced for the carriage, Quentin tossing her up onto the seat as quickly as he could before climbing in after her. With rain pelting them in a fury, he set the horses in motion. The curricle’s hood provided some measure of protection, but not enough to keep them dry. Especially not with the wind blowing the rain toward them rather than away.

Thunder crashed in an earsplitting boom, making the horses shy in fright. Quentin kept them steady, but not without a great deal of effort and skilled control. “We need to find shelter,” he shouted over the storm, as he continued to urge the team forward.

Only there was no shelter—or at least not the sort that came by way of a barn or house.

India hung on, gripping the edge of the seat as he steered the curricle off the road toward a large stand of old-growth trees. Towering fifty feet tall or more, the oaks’ thick limbs formed a massive canopy of heavy branches and interwoven green leaves.

Driving beneath, he turned the team and the carriage so that both were protected from the brunt of the wind. Now buffered, the rain lessened to a steady patter, a hush descending around them despite the continuing storm. Thunder boomed again but from a greater distance this time.

“We’ll wait until the worst is over,” he said, taking off his hat and giving it a shake. “These summer squalls flare up fast and pass through just as quickly. Twenty minutes or so, and it’ll likely be nothing more than an annoying drizzle.” Quentin paused for a few seconds. “You’re freezing,” he observed with husky concern. “Here, let’s get you warm before you take your death.” Shifting on the seat, he took off his long surtout of lightweight wool. “Come here,” he said, urging her to him.

She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself as a shiver made gooseflesh rise on her damp skin. Her dress was damp as well, the thin muslin that had been so comfortable earlier in the day, now cold and clinging.

“But I’ll get you wet.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Reaching out, he tugged her closer, fitting her against his chest as he swept his coat over them both.

Blissful warmth flowed through her, his male scent and the sensation of his firm-muscled body as intoxicating as a tumbler of hot mulled wine. Closing her eyes, she burrowed nearer, her shivers easing instantly.

“That pretty bonnet of yours needs to come off,” he said. “It’s poking me in the cheek.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me—”

“No, let me,” he hushed, his fingers going to the ribbon under her chin to pull it loose. Her bonnet soon joined his hat on the empty space beside her, then she forgot all about such matters, as he settled her comfortably against him again.

“Better?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

Quiet descended, the muffled roar of the storm and the rustling leaves providing the only sound.

“Quentin?” she ventured after a time.

“Hmm?”

“I…well…thank you. Thank you for coming after me,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t found me. I was so lost and alone, and I would have been caught in this dreadful storm. With night coming on I—”

“You would have managed somehow,” he interrupted in a gentle voice. “You’re a very resilient young woman. But I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through today. I should never have let you leave with Harte this afternoon. When I saw you climb into his carriage, I ought to have stopped it immediately and insisted I be the one to drive you back.”

“I didn’t realize you’d noticed since you were busy talking to that widow,” she said, a glimmer of her earlier jealousy returning.

“What widow?”

“The one with the fluttery blue eyes and the big…” She paused, searching for an acceptable term. “Bodice.”

His mouth turned up in amusement. “Bodice, hmm? I have to admit I didn’t pay much attention to either her eyes or her…bodice. I was too busy watching you at the time.”

“Were you?”

He nodded, shifting slightly so she could meet his gaze, his irises a rich, luminous brown that gleamed even in the storm-darkened light. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I spend a great deal of time watching you. So much so lately that I find myself in a fair way to becoming bewitched. There’s just something about you, India, that has a way of casting a spell over a man.”

Casting a spell? she thought. What does he mean? Might he have feelings for me, after all? Her heart careened into a mad zigzagging rhythm, slowing only when she realized he might simply mean that he desired her.

And if that was all, then what?

“I told your aunt I was coming to look for you,” he said, stroking her arm with a gentle, gliding touch that was no doubt meant to be soothing.

It wasn’t.

A rash of tingles broke out all over her skin, waves of hot and cold assailing her like alternating tides.

“She was greatly alarmed to know what had occurred,” he continued, “but agreed it would be best to let me recover you rather than alert the entire household to the situation. She’s putting out the story that you took a bit too much sun at the picnic and decided to spend the evening in your room. So you needn’t worry for your reputation. It’s safe.”

“But what of you? Won’t you be missed at dinner?”

“I told Lord Pettigrew I had urgent business. Which, as it happens, I did. I just didn’t mention that you were my business this evening.”

“Then no one but Aunt Ava knows we’re here together?” Her pulse hurried faster.

He shook his head. “No one else except Harte, and he left tonight as well.”

“He did? But why?” she asked, surprise further diverting her attention.

“Because I persuaded him that remaining wouldn’t be conducive to his continued good health. Of course, the black eye I gave him didn’t hurt in reinforcing his decision to leave.”

Her mouth fell open. “You gave him a black eye?”

“For abandoning you today? I most certainly did. Considering the shameful way he treated you, he should count himself lucky not to have come away with far worse.”

Warmth of another kind spread through her. Not only had Quentin worried and searched for her, he’d also exacted a measure of retribution on her behalf. Perhaps it was unworthy of her to applaud such violence, but she was glad he’d stood up for her honor. Her very own knight—without any need for the shining armor.

She stroked an idle hand across his chest, pausing to toy with one of the gold buttons on his jacket. “I realize we haven’t known each other long—scarcely three weeks, and not even that if you don’t count our first meeting—”

“How could I not count our first meeting?” he drawled in a throaty tone. “It was one of the most memorable of my life.”

And mine, she thought, powerful memories sweeping through her. Memories of their first glance. Their first touch. Their first kiss.

“I know it’s too soon,” she went on, tracing the pattern on his silk waistcoat. “But I have a deep regard for you. Actually, it’s more than regard—much, much more. Quentin, I think…no, I’m quite certain that I lo—”

“Don’t,” he murmured, laying his fingers over her mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“But why?” she said, freeing her lips from beneath his touch. “Why, when it’s true?”

“Because it isn’t true. This week has been a place out of time, and whatever you think you’re feeling isn’t real. Once you return home to your usual life, you’ll see I’m right. You’ll realize everything we’ve done, everything we’ve felt, is little more than a fantasy.”

“But it’s not.”

“India—”

“No. You’re wrong. How can you say this isn’t real?” Lifting her hand, she trailed her fingers across his cheek. “Can you not feel this?”

She brushed her thumb over his lower lip.

“Or this?” She kissed his chin before feathering more kisses along the faintly bristled edge of his jaw. “How is this not real?”

“Don’t,” he whispered, his eyelids dropping low. “Stop this before we both do something we’ll regret.”

“But I won’t regret a thing,” she told him, threading her fingers into the silvery strands of hair that grew in among the black. “I can’t.” Sliding her fingers deeper, she cupped his head and tugged him closer. “Not when I love you.”

He groaned, and she felt a shudder go through him. Then, with the force of the storm still raging around them, he captured her lips beneath his own.

Pleasure assailed her—hot, heady, and instantaneous. Surrendering without so much as a hint of caution, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth more fully against his.

With her lips parted, she invited him in, eager to claim and be claimed, in any way he desired. Closing her eyes, she followed his command, letting him draw her deeper into a world of sultry heat and indescribable bliss. A moan hummed low in her throat, then another when he reached up and covered one of her breasts with his palm.

Her body throbbed, shivery tremors racing in riotous arcs across her skin. Her nipples drew into taut peaks beneath the damp material of her gown, every new touch of his fingers leaving her in a welter of anticipation for the next. She whimpered, unprepared for the yawning need that poured through her. Using slow, measured strokes and leisurely circles, he caressed her flesh in ways that left her flushed and half-mad with desire.

Their kiss turned frenzied, an ardent joining that drove the very air from her lungs. Growing bolder, she intensified their embrace, turning their kisses into an unspoken challenge to see who could bring the other the greater pleasure.

Point to Quentin, she thought on a gasp as he caught her lower lip between his teeth to worry the tender flesh in a gentle but incredibly erotic way. Releasing her lip, he soothed the abused spot with a warm, wet stroke of his tongue before taking her mouth again in a kiss that was both dark and enthralling.

She shuddered, her head lolling back as he scattered kisses across her cheeks and chin and throat. Apparently unsatisfied at having her still seated next to him, he drew her up and across his lap. Cradling her close, he plundered her mouth again.

Distantly, she sensed him unfastening the buttons on the back of her gown, then tugging open the laces of her stays. Without warning, cool air wafted over her exposed breasts, her bare nipples tightening in a way that was almost painful. But then she had no more time to think, helpless to do anything but feel, as he bent and pressed his open mouth to her breasts—first one, then the other, savoring her as though he’d been invited to a feast.

Heat engulfed her like a fiery explosion, each draw of his lips, every devilish swirl of his tongue making her writhe with the most profound delight. And yet she ached, the place between her legs growing damp in the most amazing and disturbing manner. She shifted her legs, restless and craving more.

An enervating quiver chased over her body as he tongued one sensitive tip and suckled even more fervently at her flesh. Her senses spun, her nerve endings burning to the point where she feared she might actually turn to flame. Then his hand slipped under her skirts to introduce her to an entirely new level of torment.

Gliding slowly upward, he trailed his fingers along her calf and knee, pausing for brief moments along the way to draw tantalizing circles on her with the flat of his hand. She trembled when he reached her thigh. Catching her lip between her teeth, she waited in rapt suspense as he stroked her flesh.

A gasp burst from her throat, when she felt him slide his palm behind her to caress the bare curve of her bottom. He played there for several long moments, fondling her with a kind of possessive intimacy that was as shocking as it was intense.

Pleasure surged like a rising tide, a raw quiver crashing through her body, as his hand moved again and settled against her nether curls. Continuing to suckle deeply at her breast, he parted her most tender flesh and slid his fingers along her slick core.

She bucked at the sensation, undone by both his touch and her own sizzling need. A keening moan sang from her mouth, her surrender complete, as he opened her wider and sank a single finger deep inside.

Slowly, he raised his head. “Open your eyes.”

Her lids stayed shut, breath soughing audibly from her parted lips. “I–I c-can’t.”

“Open your eyes, India.”

Somehow she found the strength to look at him this time. “W-why?”

“Because,” he intoned in a near growl. “I want to see you. I want to watch you reach your peak.”

Her peak? What does he mean?

Then he began stroking her, gliding deep inside to massage her willing flesh. He used the rest of his fingers on her as well, painting her with her own moisture until she thought she might go insane.

She gazed at him, staring half-delirious into his beautiful dark eyes.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, as he increased his stroke, rubbing her in a way that drew wild little pants from her lips.

Just when she thought she could take no more, he thrust a second finger into her and sent her hurtling over some invisible edge.

She wailed, her entire body convulsing, as the most-astonishing pleasure poured through her, rapture that bathed her in what felt like a dazzling golden light. She hung on, giddy and weak and utterly in love. She could do this with Quentin forever. Anywhere, anytime, he wished.

Suddenly he was kissing her, taking her mouth in ravenous draughts that left her no time to recover. Not that she wanted to, quite the opposite.

Removing his hand from between her legs, he shifted her, sliding her up and over him so she straddled his hips. His hand went between them, working to open the buttons on his falls.

But even as he did, he suddenly stopped, his entire frame growing rigid. Breaking off their kiss, he turned his head away and sucked in a harsh breath. “Bloody hell,” he cursed.

She frowned. “Quentin?”

Cursing again, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then ever so gently lifted her so that she was sitting beside him again. “I can’t,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Can’t what?”

“Take you, that’s what.” He paused and gulped down a deep breath. “The rain appears to have lessened. Let’s get you dressed, so we can be on our way again.”

 

By Christ, what’s wrong with me? he berated himself, as he took up the reins with shaking hands. How could I have forgotten for a single instant that she’s a virgin? Worse still, how could he have been so lost to passion that he’d been on the verge of taking her—in a curricle no less!

He knew he should offer for her. After the liberties he’d just enjoyed, she had every reason to expect a marriage proposal. But despite her protestations of love, she was young—too young to really know her own mind.

She hadn’t even had a London Season. Hadn’t yet been able to test her wings and take her pick of men. Did he have the right to step in and claim her before she knew who she was and what she wanted?

The barbarian inside him said yes. The civilized man disagreed. No, he told himself, for her own good, and mine as well, I should set her free. A few weeks from now, she’ll thank me. By next spring, she’ll be glad she hadn’t let a whirlwind romance with a virtual stranger determine the rest of her life.

And what of me?

What of him? I’m infatuated, that’s all. Once she returned home, and he wasn’t in her company for long hours each day, her allure would fade. Lovely, effervescent, and delightful as India Byron might be, she would quickly become no more important to him than any other woman. And when they next met, they would do so as ordinary acquaintances—albeit ones who had shared an intense, though brief, passion.

Watching the now-lazily-falling rain, he forced down a sigh. Shifting his glance, he saw that she was once again properly attired. Even her bonnet was back on her head, with the ribbon tied in a pretty bow beneath her chin. Reaching for his surtout, he draped the woolen garment over her.

“But haven’t you need of your coat?” she protested in a soft voice. Her luminous green eyes met his, the impact of her gaze seeming to reach into his soul.

Lust. Nothing more than lust, he told himself.

“I won’t have you taking a chill,” he said, his words sounding gruff, even to his own ears.

Giving the reins a sharp snap, he maneuvered the carriage back onto the road and set out for the Pettigrews’.

 

With darkness having fallen, India followed Quentin inside through a servants’ entrance at the rear of the house. Careful to be quiet, the two of them made their way up another back staircase, then down the corridor toward their rooms. Luckily, they didn’t encounter anyone along the way. All the guests were downstairs eating dinner, while the servants were busy seeing to their needs.

Reaching the door to her bedchamber, she stopped, then gazed up at Quentin.

“I’ll send word to your aunt that we have returned,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be along to look in on you as soon as she can. In the meantime, have your maid bring you something to eat. You must be famished by now.”

Actually, food was the farthest thing from her mind, her body still aglow from their passionate encounter in his carriage. He’d been so silent on the journey back, though. Was it because of his frustration at having to put such an abrupt halt to their lovemaking?

Were it not for his restraint, she would have surrendered her virginity to him, and gladly. Maybe she should have told him that then. Mayhap she ought to tell him that now. As brazen as it might sound aloud, she wanted him to be her first.

Her only.

She was trying to find the words when he reached out and caught her hand inside his own.

“I want you to know that what happened between us this evening was my doing and mine alone,” he said. “You are to assume none of the responsibility, do you understand? You’re lovely, India. Sweet and delightful and innocent in every way.”

“But I’m not,” she said, recalling how she’d coaxed him to kiss her and the wanton manner in which she’d responded to his every touch. “N-not innocent, that is.”

He smiled. “But you are, my dear girl. And that’s how I want you to stay.”

“But—”

“Go to your room, eat your dinner, and get some sleep. Everything will seem clearer in the morning.”

She thrust out her lower lip. “You make me sound like a child.”

A rueful laugh rolled from his throat before his gaze darkened with a sensuality she was quickly coming to recognize. “Never fear. I’m well aware you’re a woman. A wonderful, mesmerizing woman, who will continue to grow more beautiful and enchanting with each passing day.”

Lifting her hand, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her palm for a long moment. “Sleep well, India. Dream of sweet thoughts and cherished wishes.”

She trembled, wanting to throw her arms around him and hold him close. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, as he released her hand and took a few steps back. “Good night,” she said.

“Good night.” With a last look, he turned and strode away.

Setting a hand on the door handle to her bedchamber, she stood for a long moment before finally going inside.

 

She awakened early the next morning and rose from bed, anxious to dress quickly and go downstairs. She wanted to find Quentin so they could talk before everyone else joined them for breakfast. Otherwise, she knew she would be compelled to wait for an opportunity to speak with him alone—and risk missing the chance entirely.

Practically running, she flew down the staircase and into the main hall. One of the Pettigrews’ liveried footmen watched her come to a gliding halt, her slippers skating lightly over the polished marble floor.

“Excuse me, but could you tell me if any of the guests have come downstairs yet?”

“One or two,” the young man said with an encouraging smile. “Who are ye looking for, Miss?”

“The Duke of Weybridge. He’s tall and dark with very brown eyes.”

“I know ’im. But I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

“What do you mean? Missed him?” she asked, an odd clenching sensation flexing beneath her breasts.

“He left not long after first light. Helped him out m’self with his luggage and such.”

“Are you quite sure it was His Grace?”

“Can’t miss the silver in that hair o’his. Aye, I’m sure it was him.”

A buzzing rang in her ears, and she swayed.

“Here now, Miss, are ye awright?” He reached a hand toward her, as if concerned she might fall.

She drew away, collecting herself enough to meet his concerned gaze. “Yes. I am quite well.”

Only she wasn’t. Quentin was gone.