Page 73 of My Darling Rogue
He ordered another when that one was done, then sat and stared at the fire for a long time.
“Begging your pardon, milord.”
Gabriel glanced up to see a man standing at his table. He might have been the same age as Gabriel himself, but it was difficult saying if that was truly the case. His face was haggard, although there were faint indications he’d been a rather handsome man at some point in his life.
The dark air of desperation and imminent poverty stamped across the man’s features were evidence of a rough, hard-scrabble existence. He was Irish as well, which was yet another strike against a man choosing to live in England.
“Yes?”
“You’re the new Marquess of Rosenthorne?”
Gabriel glanced around the man for Tessa. Seven hells, but he needed another ale. “I am,” he said in reply to the man’s question. Tamping down his impatience, Gabriel turned his attention to the man who’d disrupted his reflection on the episode shared with Celia.
“Heard you were looking for workers at Rosenthorne Park. If ya are needing stable hands or carpentry, I’ve got years of experience. Good with horses and fixin’ anything that needs fixin’.” The man ducked his head, twisting his cap in his hands. “I’ve worked at some of the largest estates in England. Name’s Flannigan.”
Gabriel did not care where this man had worked, nor what his name was. He simply wanted another ale before retreating to his room where his wife, no doubt, was crying herself to sleep in a room lit by a single lamp.
“We are in recent need, that’s true. If what you say is true, then you may seek out my estate manager there,” Gabriel said, distracted by the sight of Tessa coming toward him with a fresh tankard of brew. “He will know of the positions available.”
The man smiled, sweeping his thinning reddish blonde hair back under a threadbare cap. “I’ll do that, milord. It’s said you and the marchioness are newlyweds. She’s a right beauty, she is, milord, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’re certainly a man what has the luck. A man rising above his common status is something most of us can only dream of.”
A man born to the aristocracy might have berated Flannigan for his inappropriate compliment, but Gabriel distractedly waved the man’s words away. He was bound to hear such sentiments from others with his first steps into the venerable House of Parliament. Taking his seat among gentlemen who’d been there for years would certainly result in hearing statements far less flattering than Flannigan’s.
Tessa set down the tankard of ale before Gabriel with a loud thump, but she did not linger. Which was good, considering he’d once again made it clear he had no interest in her flagrant offers. She flounced away with a flip of her hair, and Gabriel smiled to himself. The pretty tart could not hold a candle to the gorgeous wife waiting for him upstairs.
“That will do, Flannigan. Now, if you will excuse me, my preference is to not conduct my business affairs in a public tavern. I wish to finish my ale in solitude before retiring for the evening.”
“Of course, milord.” Flannigan’s lips tightened with the dismissal, but his tone remained even as he continued. “I’ll be sure your man of affairs knows ya gave me your blessing.”
Flannigan retreated with a bow, but Gabriel barely took note of the man’s leaving. With a relieved sigh, he applied himself to drinking his ale.
It gave him something to do rather than brood over the argument with Celia.
* * *
During the night,Gabriel found himself lying on his back with Celia sprawled across him. He stared up at the wood-beamed ceiling, watching the low shadows cast by the lamp dance across the plaster surface as his wife slumbered.
It was surprising how she gravitated to him even after an argument. It was as if she instinctively knew his dedication to protecting what was his. Regardless of the harsh words they traded with one another, she was now his responsibility. He would scorch the world until it melted away like cinders for her.
Gabriel sighed, embracing her a bit tighter. The scent from her hair tickled his nose. Roses and lemons. Fresh. Clean. Sweet.
Celia’s hand laid curled over his chest and he gently picked it up, admiring the sight of his mother’s ring on her finger. He may now be a marquess with untold riches at his disposal, but this ring and the woman now wearing it were the two most precious things in his world.
Pressing a soft kiss to her fingertips, Gabriel considered how much he was coming to care for Celia. He would do whatever was necessary to keep from losing her. And if that meant honoring her wishes and forgoing his search for the man who had assaulted her, he would do that, too.
Even if the decision burned a hole in the pit of his stomach and left behind the taste of ash in his mouth.
He would do it for Celia.
* * *
Their arrivalat Rosenthorne Park the following afternoon threw the entire estate into a full-scale panic. It seemed the marchioness’s suite of rooms was hardly fit for occupation, mostly because of the need for Celia’s desires when it came to décor. The designer hired to update the stale, old-fashioned rooms of the mansion had done what he could up to the point of gaining Celia’s choices.
After enduring an hour of introductions to the staff, Gabriel took Celia by the arm.
“I know you should have your own suite as Marchioness. I will pay whatever is required to expedite the process now that you can select décor and finishes. I instructed them to wait for you, but it is an inconvenience for you.”
Celia stared at him with a calmness she did not feel. Was he that eager to rid himself of her company? Had their explosive night of passion the previous evening proven too intense for her new husband?
