Page 49 of My Darling Rogue
Gabriel’s eyes flared with understanding, the irises turning so dark and fiery, Celia wondered if she might burn to a cinder from the heat of his stare.
When his lips curled the slightest bit, she was irrationally struck with an urge to press her mouth to the corners of his and taste his amusement.
“And so you shall.” The door was already swinging closed when Gabriel added in a voice laced with conviction. “But not until we are truly husband and wife, and there is no possibility of escape for either of us.”
* * *
After Gabrielso unceremoniously shut the door in her face, Celia had no choice but to slink back to her room.
There, she considered her future husband’s cryptic statement. There were so many things of which she remained naïve when it came to matters between a man and a woman. Gabriel would most certainly teach her, but it was an unavoidable truth that her previous experience with intimacy was a disastrous event.
Memories of the awful night five years before often flooded Celia’s mind. During the dark of night, the bedside lamp would often burn low and she would awaken in a state of panic. Heart pounding, drenched in a cold sweat, and gasping for air. Imagining the hand was still clamped so tight over her mouth that she could not draw a proper breath.
During those terrifying moments between consciousness and sleep, Celia would remember Bryan Flannigan’s hot breath brushing across her cheek. His calloused fingers pushing into secret places in ways she’d thought both exciting and shocking at first.
And she always remembered how the pleasure disintegrated into the foreign sensation of flesh tearing when he pushed her skirts higher and shoved himself into her body.
How would she ever forget digging her nails into his lightly muscled forearms, trying without words to make him stop? Despite her struggles, Bryan’s sinewy body, lean and hard from years of working menial tasks, had surged forward. Taking her innocence and shattering the trust she’d placed in his hands.
It was difficult understanding how she once found Bryan’s attention exhilarating. His teasing kisses always suffused her with warmth and filled her head with wicked thoughts of allowing him to do even more. She indulged in silly, impossible daydreams. Fantasies in which she and the handsome groomsman were married. They would live in the country, far from society’s censorship and her parents’ disappointment. Bryan would find work in another nobleman’s stable to make a living. He would come home to the little cottage they shared. He’d call her ‘lass’ and give her sweet kisses on the cheek.
How stupid she’d been. Bryan was ten years older than her tender age of nearly sixteen that summer. Celia recognized now the whole affair was borne of immature infatuation on her part. She allowed him to take advantage, and Bryan relished the opportunity to take her innocence. She’d been a silly, headstrong girl caught up in her first romantic crush and she’d paid a dear price for her naivety.
She’d been so caught up in Bryan’s affections. Eagerly agreeing when he said they must keep their relationship a secret or else he’d lose his employment. She accepted everything he’d said she must do. Believed the bounder’s promise that they would be together forever. Believed him when he whispered if she would let him kiss her, touch her, it would prove how much she loved him.
She allowed him liberties, even when her inner voice screamed she should rethink matters. She let him talk her into meeting him in the stables that night. Eager to see the surprise he said was special and only for her. She’d gone willingly. Gave in without a peep, until it all went too far. When she attempted pushing him away, he simply laughed and captured her hands in one of his. He continued as he pleased until she cried out in muffled pain from behind the hand clasped over her mouth.
Only then did Bryan stop.
Withdrawing abruptly from Celia, he reached down between his legs. He began working himself with his own hand until a groan echoed in the secluded, darkened stall.
When Bryan collapsed against her with a huff of satisfaction, his hand still clamped over her mouth, a splash of hot liquid landed on Celia’s thigh.
When he finally leaned away from her, the face Celia once thought so handsome, with his blue eyes and shock of reddish blonde hair, was now that of a stranger.
“You better keep your bloody mouth shut about this if you know what’s good for you,” he’d sneered at her, his Irish heritage evident in the dismissive lilt of his voice. “I’ll not go swinging from the hangman’s noose just because a toff’s whore daughter couldn’t keep her legs from spreading. So, you keep that maw shut, or I’ll do it for ya.”
And with that, he hopped up to his feet. While Celia lay sprawled in the musty straw lost in a state of dazed, pained confusion, Bryan shoved his cock back into the confines of his trousers. “Clean yourself up and get back to your room before someone comes looking for you.”
She never saw Bryan again after that night. Descending into a state of melancholy, Celia discovered hiding the bruises on her upper arms from her mother difficult but not impossible. But there was no concealing the nightmares she suffered for months afterward. She began insisting on a lamp being lit during the night, even when her older brother, Tristan, teased her about being afraid of the dark and how she was too old for such childishness.
Celia brushed aside Lady Darby’s attempts at discussing her daughter’s odd behavior. Eventually, her mother stopped her worried prodding, attributing Celia’s condition to the impending introduction to society. That rationalization apparently suited everyone. Even Celia, herself.
After screwing up the courage to enter the stables a month following the incident, Celia learned Bryan left weeks before. He’d collected his wages and abruptly left for other employment. Celia did not know where or for whom. She only cared that the man was far from the Darby estate.
Celia overcame the fears plaguing her with great determination. She made herself dance with the various men seeking her out. She even allowed their kisses. It was strange, but somehow, the fear morphed into something entirely different over the years.
Soon, shewasdifferent. Drawn to men who snatched inappropriate liberties. That reckless feeling of adrenaline, the fear of getting caught, was enthralling. Addictive. She did dangerous, scandalous things in the shadows. And she realized it was imperative she must find a husband who did not give a pauper’s halfpenny for anything that transpired in her past. It left her searching for the perfect mate, with little hope of ever finding him.
That is, until she met Gabriel.
Gabriel Lawrence Rosenthorne. Now, the new Marquess of Rosenthorne and Lord of several lesser estates.
He was the perfect blend of dangerously imperfect and socially acceptable. A man battling his own secrets and demons and yet possessing admirable strengths and qualities. She was marrying a man who might have been crafted specifically for her.
But was it possible he truly did not care about her past? Nor learning the identity of the man who took her virginity?
Gabriel’s cold indifference on that particular subject seemed too good to be true, but it was part of the reason she agreed to wed him.
