“Let me go, Mister Rose.”

Her directive wedged between them like an iceberg. Chilling. Cold. Impersonal. A lady speaking to a servant.

“Of course, sugarplum.”

Gabriel’s arms immediately opened. He watched her scramble off him, his lips twisted in faint mockery.

“Don’t—don’t call me that,” she whispered from behind clenched teeth as she stood beside the settee.

Gabriel did not move from his sprawled position. He merely gazed up at her, the bulge in his trousers unmistakable.

A quivering spasm of bewildering need streaked through Celia. Gabriel had not found the same release she experienced. He was still hard. And he wanted her achingly aware of his current state as the firelight danced in shifting shadows across his features.

Light and dark.

Good and bad.

Merciless and tender.

The voice of an angel residing in the very Devil himself.

A wicked rogue she should stay far away from.

A slow grin of awareness spread across Gabriel’s face. He knew exactly what she was thinking. This was a terrible mistake. And she wouldn’t stop him from doing it again.

“I wish to return to my room now.” Her voice shook.

“I’ve no doubt that you do. After all, what if your mother should wake and find you missing?” He spoke with such calmness that Celia shivered in foreboding. She must escape, and quickly.

“You are no better than Lord Harvey,” she bit out, embarrassment making her words hot and uncharacteristically cruel. “Brutish louts, the pair of you. Rogues willing to take whatever you want from a lady. Worse still, you are nobody. A commoner with no social standing or station, regardless of Ravenswood’s support. I shouldn’t acknowledge your presence, and you should never think so highly of yourself to approach me for any reason. You will keep your distance from here on out. Now, I bid you goodnight, sir.”

During this dressing down, Gabriel merely listened, his manner serene, although his brow lowered at the comparison with the other man. When it became apparent Celia would make her escape, he rose to his feet. His movements were fluid, as smoothly confident as that of any high seated lord in Parliament.

Celia blinked, still taken by surprise when witnessing the innate elegance of his mannerisms.

Taking her elbow into the palm of his large hand, Gabriel rumbled, “You will permit my escort.”

“That is unnecessary.” Celia froze with the warmth of his hand, her anger arrested by a sudden, distressing realization. Only moments before, that same hand had been wrapped around her throat. “I don’t require nor need your aid.”

“I know Beaumont better than anyone. Maybe even better than Lord Ravenswood himself. I’ll return you to your room without detection, and you will remember your promise of avoiding empty gardens and deserted libraries in the dark of night.”

Celia was sorely tempted to snatch herself away from his grip. Promising this man anything left a bitter taste in her mouth. More than anything, she wanted to tell him to go to the Devil. How dare he ignore her demand to stay away? And how dare he not be affected by the insults she’d just hurled at him?