Miles jerked his head toward the retreating Escobaran and murmured, “So what did you finally say to get rid of him, love?”

Quinn’s eyes shifted to identify the man, and crinkled, laughing. “If I told you, you’d be embarrassed.”

“No, I won’t. Tell me.”

“I told him you could do push-ups with your tongue. He must have decided he couldn’t compete.”

Miles reddened.

“I wouldn’t have led him on so far, except that I wasn’t totally sure at first that he wasn’t some kind of agent,” she added apologetically.

“You sure now?”

“Yeah. Too bad. It might have been more entertaining.”

“Not to me. I was ready for a little vacation.”

“Yes, and you look the better for it. Rested.”

“I really like this married-couple cover, for travel,” he remarked. “It suits me.” He took a slightly deeper breath. “So we’ve had the honeymoon, why don’t we have the wedding to go with it?”

“You never give up, do you?” She kept her tone light. Only the slight flinch of her arm, under his, told him his words had given pain, and he silently cursed himself.

“I’m sorry. I promised I’d keep off that subject.”

She shrugged her unburdened shoulder, incidentally unlinking elbows, and let her arm swing aggressively as she walked. “Trouble is, you don’t want me to be Madame Naismith, Dread of the Dendarii. You want me to be Lady Vorkosigan of Barrayar. That’s a downside post. I’m spacer-born. Even if I did marry a dirtsucker, go down into some gravity well and never come up again … Barrayar is not the pit I’d pick. Not to insult your home.”