Page 25 of The General's Gift
“No, sir. Lady Cecilia’s fingers are too delicate for the work.”
The air between them seemed to contract. Hawk exhaled once, the sound sharp in the stillness. “This is a disaster. If this were the Peninsula, and you abandoned your post, you’d be court-martialed. As it stands, I will not have an officer in my command who allows insubordination, disorder, and outright anarchy under his watch. Effective immediately, you are relieved of Lady Cecilia’s campaign. You will return to regimental responsibilities, where your skills are better suited.”
“Understood, sir.”
Hawk had underestimated his ward’s powers. Graves had proved no match for her capacity for chaos. Still, if he wanted to turn Celeste into a lady, he would have to do it himself. No matter. He had taken foppish, spoiled aristocrats—boys with more embroidery in their waistcoats than sense in their heads—and stripped them of vanity, forging them into officers who could stand their ground under fire. He had beaten arrogance into obedience, indolence into endurance. And he would do the same with Celeste.
Hawk straightened. “Send the lady in.”
***
Hawk waited by the hearth, hands braced against the carved mantel, staring into the dying embers. He would tighten the reins, reinforce the rules, and remind her who held authority inthis household. A commander never lost command of himself. If he did, he lost the field. And he would not lose to a French ballerina.
The door opened with a soft click.
He kept his eyes forward. Control was his weapon, and he wielded it ruthlessly. Let her feel the weight of his silence.
A whisper of fabric. The delicate rustle of tulle. The sound was insubstantial, yet it brushed against his skin, and he stiffened as if anticipating a blow or a caress.
Then came the soft tread of slippers on parquet. Heat coiled low in his spine, crawling upward, unwelcome and persistent. Irritation, he told himself. Nothing else.
“Oh, my Lord, forgive me. I didn’t realize you were busy staring very hard at the fire. I shall return later.”
Hawk’s mouth twitched despite himself. Clever girl. She had fired the first volley—he had to give her that. But battles were not won with a single shot, and soon the field would be his.
Hawk turned. “I was trying to burn the memory of what I had just witnessed in my ballroom.”
She stood before his desk, her flushed face framed by wisps of red hair. Wherever she went, she carried sunlight with her, even into this paneled war room.
“Oh dear. Was it the cook? She will improve with practice, I promise,” she said.
For one reckless instant, the truth crowded his tongue. It was her. She was burned into him like a brand.
Hawk’s jaw hardened. Focus, damn it. If he maintained order, he would not think about her mouth. Or her hair.
“What offended me was the lack of discipline.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve just learned you’ve made no progress this week—”
“We are in full agreement.” She lifted a shoulder encased in tulle. “I must say, I’m disappointed.”
Heat unfurled beneath his collar, tightening at his throat. “I return from a matter of state to see my house in uproar, andyouare disappointed?”
The light in her hair must be affecting his mental faculties. He could not have heard her correctly. That she had the audacity—inconceivable.
“The ballet class?” she said. “You can thank me later for improving your staff’s morale. Please don’t change the subject. You promised I would find love. I’ve been locked here for two weeks, and I’m no closer to it than when I was in Covent Garden. Tell me this—which of Shakespeare’s heroines found love while waking at dawn and drilling to exhaustion?”
Hawk could only blink, his mouth gaping at the ridiculousness of it all. This was no battlefield of open ground and clear objectives. This was guerrilla warfare, where the enemy did not charge headlong but weaved chaos with nothing more than glances and a tongue brushing a perfect lip.
“Starting tomorrow, you will return to your schedule—”
“I refuse to live a loveless life,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve cast myself as the heroine of my own comedy, and you are my fairy godfather, and you promised to help me find my prince.”
She dared to point at him, her fair skin flushed pink. He wanted to bite her finger and show her exactly who her prince was. He forced the thought down. Lady Cecilia Stratton was a lunatic, a lunatic who did things to his pulse that enemy fire never had.
“I’m glad you understand,” she said, confusing his stupefied silence for agreement. “I have an idea for finding a suitor. We should devise a test, like inThe Merchant of Venice. We’ll have three chests. One gold, one silver, one lead. Each with a riddle. Whoever chooses the right one wins my hand. We could inviteonly the most promising gentlemen. A trial of wit, not just title or fortune.”
What? She wanted to fill his drawing room with eager pups in frilly waistcoats, all craning for a glimpse of her smile, their eyes lingering on the prize that should never have been theirs. His pulse kicked hard, thudding against his collar.The Merchant of Venice?She had indeed reduced them to actors in a play—but this was no noble comedy. This was a farce.The Taming of the Tulle.And if he wanted to tame this tulle, he had to reassert control. He could not descend to her level of madness.
Hawk squared his shoulders and spoke in the voice reserved for rebellious recruits. “You will do no such thing. I am your guardian. I will find you a husband as I see fit. And that is final.”
