It was surprising, really. How much she’d come to enjoy his company, even when she’d tried so hard to avoid him.

She knocked again, her chin lifting. Why isn’t he answering?

Perhaps he was asleep. Or in the bath. Or maybe he wasn’t in his room at all. Or maybe a maid was in there after all and…

The door swung open with such abruptness that Celia was forced back a step in retreat.

Gabriel wore only a large white cloth wrapped about his body. The edges were tucked in on one corner, the material slung low on his hips.

Celia swallowed hard. She saw nothing else other than muscles. His chest, God, his chest was a vast expanse of smooth planes. Hard ridges. Bulges. A smattering of dark hair in the center called for her fingers to entwine and explore.

She felt a bit faint. Especially when her gaze dropped lower. The cloth draped so far she could see matching demarcations marking the outer portion of his pelvis. A trail of dark hair began just below Gabriel’s navel and disappeared into the white fabric. On his stomach, droplets of water glistened in the light of the corridor sconces. The liquid slid lazily along that trail of hair, holding Celia’s gaze hostage until the cloth finally absorbed it.

“Ahhh, my future wife graces me with her presence. And it appears you came straight from the stables, did you not?”

Startled by the simmering anger in his tone, Celia met his gaze. Her knees actually shook when she saw the flare of desire evident in the darkened depths.

“I came at once when they told me you were here.” She cleared her throat, hoping to sound a bit stronger than she felt. “So, it is done then? You are the new marquess and a special license has been granted for our marriage?”

Gabriel leaned onto the door jamb, one shoulder propped against the wooden frame. His hair was damp. Swept off his forehead, it curled a bit at the nape of his neck. It made him seem much younger, like an innocent, mischievous youth. A direct contradiction to the wicked scoundrel Celia knew him to be.

“So eager to become my wife,” he drawled.

“I’m anxious to avoid scandal,” she shot back in an elevated voice.

When a lock of hair flopped over his forehead, his scarred eyebrow lifting in disbelief, Celia nearly reached up with the intent of sweeping it back for him.

Her lips tightened and her hand clenched into a fist instead. She must remain immune to the rakish image he currently presented. Difficult though the task would be. “Did the queen give— “

“Yes, yes, my prickly sugarplum. And I would wed you tonight if your parents were here to witness the ceremony. The queen’s blessing means there will be no backing out of our engagement. Not that I would allow that.”

“I’ve no intention of jilting you at the altar, Lord Rosenthorne.” Celia took another step back into the safety of the corridor, but Gabriel caught her by the wrist.