Page 15 of The General's Gift
And she was not alone. She had this unconquerable general, her own brooding Fairy Godfather in a military coat.
She entered the house at his side. If she focused on his quiet authority, she could pretend she was not the frightened girl she had been, but the poised lady she meant to be.
The foyer ended, opening into a hall as vast as Covent Garden’s audience.
She couldn’t move.
The general leaned in. “Are you cold?”
She turned, startled.
He was already unfastening the top buttons of his coat. The gesture was automatic, like he’d done it a hundred times on the field—stripping warmth from his own back to give it to someone more vulnerable.
Her throat tightened, and she suppressed her shivers. “No,” she said quickly. “I’m…”
She almost said shaken—by the dogs, the strangers, the sheer size of it all. She almost said I’m not used to being stared at without stage lights in my eyes. She almost said I don’t know my lines.
“I’m fine.”
He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he reached out and placed a warm hand on the center of her back. It was the second time he had touched her today. The first had been the scramble of limbs and snarling dogs. But this… this was a choice.She waited for her breath to catch, for her skin to prickle with warning. But Papillon felt strangely quiet inside of her.
Celeste didn’t pause to consider why. Once a reprieve was given, a person ought not judge it. So she didn’t. She simply let the touch anchor her, like a cue whispered from the wings, and stepped onto the stage.
Two lines of servants awaited her, poised, every head inclined at the same angle, as if the scene had been blocked and rehearsed for weeks.
She was used to backstage chaos—hairpins flying, dancers exchanging costumes and gossip, the frantic last-minute stitch that kept a bodice from coming apart mid-leap. This still-life was… unnerving.
The general inspected the servants and then turned to her. Celeste straightened without meaning to, as if she, too, were part of his regiment.
“This is my ward, Lady Cecilia Stratton. You will treat her with the respect due to a daughter of the house.”
The servants dipped in bows and curtsies, a most impressive feat of coordination, but the chorus of creaks rising from their knees and backs made her flinch. Poor souls. They mustn’t have stretched in years. Did the general forbid it?
After the orchestra of creaking joints came to the blessed coda, he pointed to a broad man in immaculate regimentals.
“Lady Cecilia,” Hawk said, “this is Captain Ambrose Graves. He will be in command of your daily agenda.”
The captain inclined his head with battlefield precision.
“It is an honor, Lady Cecilia. You will… ah… find me dependable. I shall endeavor not to treat you like a recruit—though I do advise to keep your back straight, your chin level, and your eyes forward at all times.”
She didn’t know what to feel or think. Her hours had so far been regulated by the theater, and Katherina seemed to scowleven worse than this lamppost of a captain… but there was a quirkiness to his bearing, and the way he looked at her, as if she was the one who might bite… It made him endearing to her.
Hawk moved on. “And this is Mrs. Rue Archer—your chaperone.”
Celeste’s lips curved. “And what, Mrs. Archer, will you be in command of?”
Rue’s eyes glinted. “Your virtue, my lady. And God help us both, I’ve been in tighter spots.”
Celeste’s laugh escaped before she could stop it. “A formidable guard indeed. Perhaps I should carry a banner that says, ‘Virtue under siege. All rogues beware.’”
The butler coughed. Graves blinked. Rue looked delighted.
The general’s brows lifted, and she thought, for the briefest moment, that the corner of his mouth twitched.
Was he amused? It was either that or he had a mild case of indigestion. Well, if she could make the General who never surrendered laugh (or grimace in that particular way), what couldn’t she accomplish?
As if aware of the direction of her thoughts, the General crossed his arms like a thundercloud in polished boots.
