Page 37 of The General's Gift
Why was she facing him? She could have left. She could have pleaded a migraine. Swooned. Simply refused. She had more excuses for not dancing than she had hairpins.
But this was her fairy godfather, she reminded herself—and he had spent the night in her room, fighting her nightmares.
And there was a sparkle in his metal blue eyes, challenging her to deny him. The general saw not the Papillon, the one who couldn’t. But Lady Cecilia, the one who dared.
So when he caught her hand in his and then his palm landed on her waist, she let him. She smelled horses and grass in his coat. The music beat one, two, three, and they were off. Pointe, pointe, balls of her feet. Just a waltz. She danced countless timeson her own. Breathe, breathe, hold and then release.
At the first turn, she looked at the door. Then she tried to hasten her steps, so her fear would not catch up. Hawk didn’t let her. His lead was just that. A lead. Either her fear was too slow, or her partner was so formidable that her fear was afraid of him. What a wondrous notion. So this was freedom. A bubble of laughter fizzled in her chest, and she controlled a reckless wish to tip her head back and get dizzy.
“For someone above dancing with partners, you acquit yourself passably well.”
The bass of his voice startled her, and she looked into his mouth for any traces of mockery. Found only straight lines.
She inspected him from under her eyelashes. “For someone who leads thousands into battle, you handle a mere slip of a girl with remarkable caution. Do you fear I might overpower you?”
He looked beyond her shoulder, and there was something boyish about the stoic general at that moment. As if she had caught him stealing a sweet. “It would be foolish to underestimate an opponent before knowing their full capabilities.”
Her full capabilities? She liked that. Celeste trembled at shadows. Lady Cecilia had mysterious skills.
She smiled. “So the general who never surrendered considers me dangerous.”
His pupils flared, darkening for a heartbeat. Was that a hitch in his breath? For someone who was always fighting her body’s reactions, watching him react to her banter melted on her tongue like a chocolate croissant. Look at her—she had always been a harp, trembling only at another’s touch. And now, she was making fingers miss their tune.
Giddy with success, she let her hand slip just a fraction lower on his shoulder. His frame tightened beneath her palm.Encouraged, she held his gaze instead of looking away, her steps light as if the floor was an accomplice of her daring.
He frowned, the way he did when she surprised him, and he was trying to mask it. “There are several types of danger. A stray cannon in the distance, for instance. Loud. Unpredictable. Occasionally disastrous.”
She tilted her head. “And yet, you are still holding me.”
She felt his thumb brush softly against her bodice. The touch sent a shiver racing down her spine. Had she imagined it?
And then he turned her, and any lingering thoughts escaped her. She had never waltzed, but could tell he knew his way around music. She had never waltzed, but the heroine in her told her it was fate, saving her first for him. Which was a puzzling thought. Lead females didn’t save waltzes for fairy godfathers. But the general didn’t look at her like a fairy godfather would, and his palm on her back didn’t feel undemanding or non-threatening. It felt heavy and thrilling. As if her body knew that this perfect moment would arrive. Which was a mistake. And it meant that she had to find her prince before any of these mistakes took root.
“I like this thing of waltzing. Do you think I might attract a suitor by dancing instead of waking at dawn?”
His grip tightened on her hand. “It depends on what traits you value in a suitor.”
“Do you mean there is a choice between dashing and fun-loving versus sleepy and red-eyed?”
“I meant structure versus excitement. If a woman lacks the ability to know what is best for her, the duty will fall on her guardian.”
She smiled sweetly. “How fortunate, then, my lord, that you won’t have to carry such a burden. I’m very wise, and I know exactly what I want.”
And it was not a brooding general who had used his sword arm more than his laughing muscles.
His black brows lifted to his silvery hair. “The whole Shakespearean scheme. I see. A wealth of reason.”
Only the fact that she would hurt herself over his sturdy boots contained the impulse to step over his toes. “I’ll have you know the Bard understands more about love than—”
“Lady Cecilia,” he murmured, voice low, almost dangerous. “I have an important matter to impart.”
Waltzing was nice, but perhaps she would need sturdier clothes next time. The fabric of her gown seemed too thin to provide any barrier against the warmth seeping from his chest.
Celeste opened her lips to say—something. Anything. But her breath caught, trapped behind her ribs, and she forgot how to release it. “Yes?”
Oh, dear... This feeling was not part of any comedy, was it? And how could it be? There was just too much of him. And too close.
“A lady does not rave during a waltz. It is against ballroom etiquette,” he said, and heaven forbid, he smiled.
