Page 22 of My Darling Rogue
“Mother, I’m sure Mister Rose has no interest—”
“Of course, he does!” Lady Darby interrupted with a trill of laughter. She patted Gabriel on the forearm. “Youdohave an interest, don’t you, Mister Rose?”
Gabriel simply nodded, but it was as effective as an impassioned speech on the floor of Parliament.
“I can certainly arrange it,” Ivy said with a bright smile. “Tomorrow night, if Celia is on the mend.”
Gabriel’s crooked smirk was meant for Celia alone. “I would be delighted.”
* * *
Celia roamedthe confines of her room later that evening. Mother insisted she remain abed but she refused. The forced inactivity chafed her nerves more than she could have anticipated.
She’d tried reading one of the several books Sara dropped off earlier, but none held her interest. For a while, she’d sat by the window as the clouds thickened, and the rainstorm that never materialized from earlier that day rebuilt itself and gathered strength. She watched the sun sink below the horizon, the swallows flying home to their nests for the night. When it became too dark to see anything other than the vague outline of distant trees illuminated by the lightning growing increasingly closer, Celia drew the drapes closed.
“I don’t know why I must be confined to my room,” she grumbled, trying to come up with some way of amusing herself. There was a twinge in the affected limb if she turned too quickly, but otherwise, her ankle was perfectly fine. There was no reason she could not walk on it.
“I could venture downstairs,” she reasoned, but quickly dismissed that idea. Mother was obviously concerned about the injury, and Celia had not the heart to go against her wishes.
Perhaps she should spend this forced solitude preparing for the next time she saw Gabriel.
“Oh, Mother. What on earth are you thinking?” Celia asked the empty room. There was no understanding her mother’s eagerness in pairing her with the man. It simply made no sense, especially when neither of her parents had ever indicated any preference for a single suitor over the last two seasons.
It seemed Motherwantedher and Gabriel pushed into close proximity.
Frustrated, Celia flung herself into a plump chair before the fireplace. Crossing her arms over her chest, she pondered what it all meant. Was this her mother’s way of indicating approval without actually forcing the matter?
Her mind wandered to Gabriel and their conversation just before Lady Darby entered the parlor. Celia still felt the sting of his rejection when it came to the matter of courting her. She knew it wasn’t a lack of interest driving the dismissal of her suggestion. Gabriel wanted her. Every action and glance directed her way indicated his desire. But he would not pursue her as a gentleman should.
And that fact left Celia aching even more. What untamed wildness existed beneath the thin veneer of civility Gabriel wore while moving through society? What would it feel like if the darkness she glimpsed behind his kindness was unleashed upon her?
There’d been a hint of recrimination in his tone when he’d asked why she would flee Beaumont. If the man believed she would leave because of what occurred between them, he was sorely mistaken.
He wasn’t chasing her away. Far from it. Within this short timeframe, Celia found herself becoming hopelessly fascinated with the man. And that was dangerous.
Celia closed her eyes, remembering the way her heart began racing the moment Gabriel pulled her over his knee. The excitement had been both exhilarating and terrifying.
The thrill of Gabriel’s fingers trailing so slowly over her flesh had left its mark. She might live the rest of her life feeling the slightly rough material of those black leather gloves.
Restlessness rushed through Celia. She needed to move. She needed a distraction. She needed something or someone occupying her mind other than Gabriel Rose. Twisted ankle or not, she would escape the deafening silence of this room and her own reckless thoughts. No one would know if she went now while everyone was at dinner.
Quickly, she selected a pair of slippers from the armoire. When she lifted her skirts and donned the footwear, she absently noted the faint, purplish bruising. It was visible even through her stockings.
A light shawl was selected as well, thrown over her shoulders for the moment, but useful in case she must conceal herself.
Celia was not sure exactly where she would escape to, only that she must. Perhaps the conservatory. Or the music room. Even the Ravenswood portrait gallery.
Just somewhere other than this empty, quiet room where her own thoughts tormented her.
She opened the door slowly, peeking her head out to determine if the corridor was empty. Then bit back the tiny scream that rose in her throat.
Gabriel stood there in the shadows. Leaning with a casual, dangerous elegance against the paneled wall directly across from her bedroom door. He was dressed formally for supper in a somber-colored suit coat that fit him to perfection. It highlighted the muscles beneath the fabric, the dark iron grey complementing his features and the scruff darkening his jawline.
Does the man not own a single razor?
Gabriel’s scarred eyebrow lifted in question.
“Going somewhere, my lady?”
