Page 16 of The General's Gift
Celeste smiled. Yes. The casting was nearly complete. Captain Graves—tall, grim, loyal to a fault—was clearly her “noble steward” type. A cross between Lodovico from Othello and Kent from King Lear—too principled for the spotlight, but always present at the decisive moment, sword drawn, honor intact.
And Mrs. Archer? Oh, she was perfect. A rough-edged Jaques in skirts, or perhaps a dry, battle-worn Nurse from Romeo and Juliet—sharp-tongued, heart of gold, and wholly unimpressed by lace or lunacy.
And the general… she had already cast him as her fairy godfather, hadn’t she? Granted, today he leaned even less toward enchanted wishes and more toward Julius Caesar aftera dashing campaign, or Hotspur in an expertly fitted uniform—glorious, grim, and entirely too handsome for a secondary character…
When she dared a glance upward, his eyes were already on her. Her pulse jumped, and she dropped her gaze fast, telling herself it was only a general’s habit, not the start of a scene.
Still, he would do. They all would. With sheer willpower, she avoided a celebratory pirouette. Now all she lacked was the prince. The one who would see through her layers and love her not in spite of them, but because.
And when he arrived—oh, when he arrived—she would know. Just as Viola knew. Just as Rosalind did. Just as every Shakespearean heroine worth her soliloquies had always known.
***
Celeste perched on the general’s military-issue chair, certain it had been designed by the same mind that invented torture racks. The seat was as unyielding as a moralist’s glare, and the straight back offered all the comfort of a confessional. If the general found this tolerable, then his backside deserved a medal, if not a statue in Trafalgar Square.
She shifted once, trying to find a more forgiving angle. There wasn’t one.
The study’s objects had too much stage presence for her tastes—sabers gleaming on the wall, maps arranged like war trophies, books ordered by size. No flowers, no frills, not even a single cushion. A couch loomed at the corner, its rusty upholstery looking as if it had survived one too many battles.
Even the air smelled disciplined, as if afraid to carry perfume and be sent to court-martial. She glanced toward the man pacing behind the desk, chin high, every inch of him carved in defiance of softness.
Her spine tingled, and she gripped the edge of her chair.
He halted and turned toward her. “To become an English lady worthy of your lineage will require effort and discipline.”
Celeste blinked. Discipline? Effort? Love was not a siege! It was an accident of proximity and poetry. But she smiled. Because heroines knew when to keep the peace—Act One was far too soon for rebellion.
“I will try my best, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Reveille is at six hundred.”
Celeste blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will wake up at six o’clock for morning exercise.” He said it flatly, as if dawn was meant for stretching limbs rather than dreams.
Celeste chewed on the end of her pencil. Had any of Shakespeare’s heroines ever risen that early? Certainly not Viola—she needed her rest for disguises and duels. Portia was too refined for such indecency. And Juliet? Please. She’d barely gone to sleep before dawn arrived with its wretched consequences.
Celeste had never once woken before eight, and she could wager Othello’s whiskers that no love worth having had ever been found at six a.m.
He stared at her pencil. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking notes.”
“That’s not necessary,” he replied, frowning. “I have a copy for you here.”
He reached for a sheet of parchment and held it out to her with one hand, the other extended, palm open.
She hesitated a heartbeat too long, then forfeited her pencil.
Their fingers touched, and the contact sent a thrill up her arm that left her blinking. The general’s hand was large, like everything else about him. And firm. Quite firm. The kind of hand that could hold reins, or the world if he so wished it.
She swallowed. Well, it was only sensible that one’s fairy godfather should have a large hand. At the top of her head, she could not think why, but certainly it would come to her. Eventually. Still, her spine straightened with a jolt she could not blame on posture alone.
Celeste brushed her hand against her skirts, but the heat of his skin lingered on her fingertips long after she’d withdrawn.
He walked away again, resuming his circuit behind the desk. “Before lunch, you will attend English etiquette, literature, and history lessons.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Celeste blurted before she could catch herself.
