“As if we could keep him away,” Ivy scoffed, her expression softening when Celia’s expression showed her distress. “Do not be afraid, Celia. Your new husband, as rough as he may seem, will take care of you.”

“I should like some brandy as well.” Celia’s voice was shaky. She did not miss the look which passed between Ivy and Gabriel and his subsequent nod of agreement. And that made her almost angry. That her actions would now be scrutinized and either approved or denied. Under English law, Gabriel now had complete control of her life. Her fate. Her happiness and her despair.

When her chin took on a mulish tilt, Gabriel smiled while excusing himself from the other men.

Placing a finger beneath her chin, he lifted until her gaze met his. “One glass, Lady Rosenthorne. And mark my words, I will know if you exceed that.”

Both Sara and Ivy averted their eyes during this exchange, but they certainly heard Gabriel’s low murmur. Ivy bit back a grin of comprehension and whispered something in Sara’s ear which made her giggle.

Celia considered a moment of defiance. She would, and could, drink as much brandy as she liked. And he couldn’t stop her. But for some reason, she simply nodded her head, disappointed by the sense of belonging she felt when he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

How could he be so damned charming and tyrannical at the same time?

How odd was it to hear herself referred to as ‘Lady Rosenthorne’?

It would take some getting used to, but she truly was his marchioness now.

The clock was striking midnight when Gabriel turned the door handle to his suite of rooms. Passing through the sitting area, he entered the bedroom and paused. A lamp on the bedside table and the low fire cracking in the fireplace lent a rosy glow to the masculine space. When he inhaled deep, he caught both the faint smell of woodsmoke and the far more feminine scent of roses and lemons.

A wave of tenderness overtook him as his gaze drifted over the mound of blankets on his bed and the body they conformed around. His bride. His wife. His Celia.

She was finally his and she waited for him in his bed. Anticipation swelled to almost unbearable portions, even as he reminded himself he would not press her tonight. It had been a long, trying day for them both. And he was certain Celia would not welcome his advances after enduring the stress of a near abduction and subsequent marriage.

On a table near the fireplace, he noted a decanter of brandy and a glass. The decanter verged on empty.

Gabriel frowned. Had she imbibed more than the single drought he’d allowed her?

With a sigh, he sat on a bench positioned at the end of the bed and began removing his clothes. He’d slept in the nude for years and had no intention of changing his habits now, regardless of the risk he might offend his new wife.