Page 114 of The General's Gift
“Sir,” Graves began, tone clipped and formal, “with respect, it is my duty to inform you that wedding nights are… not unlike a reconnaissance mission. You will encounter unfamiliar terrain. Best to proceed slowly, observe your surroundings, and avoid… overwhelming the objective. Also, your… um… saber, sir—best not to brandish it too early.”
Hawk swung toward him, aghast. “Do you believe I am a green lad needing bedside instructions?”
Graves lifted his hands as if warding off artillery fire. “I would never presume to instruct you, sir. Only Mrs. Graves insisted—well, ordered—me to pass on her thoughts. She said, and I quote,‘Tell him not to be all brass and bluster—ease her into it, warm her up.’ I have no idea what that means in this context, sir.”
Hawk’s growl rumbled low in his chest. He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Out.”
“Sir, the key is communication. And, ah… hand placement. And breathing. And, er… tempo. It’s rather like dancing, I’m told. Not that I… dance,” he said, a fiery blush rising up to his temples.
Before Hawk could herd him out, the connecting door to Celeste’s chamber creaked open.
Miss Templeton appeared, hands clasped as if she were delivering a condemned soul to the gallows. “The bride is ready for the sacrifice.” She coughed delicately into her gloved hand. “I mean—the groom.”
Hawk closed his eyes, asking for deliverance.
She stepped further in, eyes shining with the zeal of the sanctified. “Before you commit the final act, my lord, I feel compelled to warn you—do not allow the siren’s allure to tempt you into undue… enthusiasm. Many a man has fallen to ruin by forgetting to pace himself in the raptures of the flesh. Think of your… stamina. Think of her eternal soul.”
“I will… bear it in mind,” Hawk managed.
The maid lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper that carried all the same. “And should the moment overcome you, do remember, gentleness is a mercy, but firmness is a blessing. And always… always keep your hips aligned. The Holy Spirit appreciates symmetry.”
Graves coughed into his fist. “Sound tactical advice, that.”
Hawk pointed to the hallway without opening his eyes. “Out. Both of you.”
They retreated, muttering in agreement about “tempo” and “hip alignment,” leaving Hawk alone with the crackling fire, theecho of their counsel, and the certainty that nothing—not even Military School—had prepared him for the overzealous bunch.
Hawk knew how to handle his bride, damn them all. He would touch her as though she were spun from the thinnest silk. Let her set the pace. Let her explore. The thought steadied him, softening the coil in his chest.
Enough waiting.
He strode to the connecting door, hand firm on the latch, anticipation humming in his veins.
The second he stepped into her chamber, Othello shot from the shadows, teeth bared. Hawk staggered back a pace before the beast latched onto his boot.
“Othello—off!” Hawk barked.
The poodle only redoubled his assault, shaking his jaws as if dislodging a Frenchman from a trench.
A silvery laugh, impossibly dear to him, spilled into the air.
Hawk twisted, trying to free his leg, but Othello abandoned the boot in favor of his calf. Hawk swore under his breath. He was at the point of throwing the beast out of the window when the dog released him at last and dove under the bed in triumph.
Hawk stood in the sudden quiet, breathing hard, his dignity listing like the French fleet after Trafalgar.
Her voice floated from the shadows by the fire, warm with mischief. “I told you Othello was jealous.”
Hawk glared at the dog, then at her. “Does this mean I’ll have to fight your poodle every night just to get into bed with my wife?”
She tilted her head, lips curving. “Well… yes. Unless you want to fight your wife to get into bed with my poodle.”
It was so absurd, so utterly Celeste, that laughter broke out of him before he could stop it. The sound startled even him. It was a new thing, these frequent laughs. But he dared say he would enjoy it.
“Are you terribly hurt?” She asked, eyes dancing. “If you limp to the bed, I promise to be gentle.”
He straightened and then—God help him—he really saw her. The tulle illusion of her camisole clung to her like a whisper.
Tulle. Once, he had called it folly. But now, seeing her skirts billow like a cloud of light, he knew better. The tulle was her—laughter spun to fabric, defiance stitched in threads, dreams given form.
