Page 38 of The General's Gift
The general grinning. This could not be. And yet… behold! As the bard would have said, ‘tis a thing of beauty.’ And she had painted that smile on his forbidden lips.
“Did the Earl of Hawkhurst just make a joke? Perhaps structure is not so bleary-eyed after all. If I wake at dawn, do you think I might find myself an officer from your regiment?”
His grip tightened, and the smile turned into a scowl. “Not if they want to survive drills the next morning. The regiment is forbidden ground for you.”
Shame curled around her like smoke. Why was it so important that she made a good impression on him? Because he would help her find the love of her life. This thing of not being afraid was so new... But the irony of ironies. Her... being thought of as wanton.
She stiffened. “I spoke out of turn. I didn’t mean to imply... I—I’m not a coquette, my lord.”
The scolding lines on his forehead smoothed. He brought her closer, his fingers splayed at her waist. It was strange, but it soothed her.
“Then it is not your custom to do verbal battle while waltzing?”
“Perhaps it will be. I don’t know.” She smiled, looking up at him. “This is the first time I've danced with a partner.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her pulse leaped. She shouldn’t have said that. He would see the Papillon now. And he would pity her.
He stilled. “What?”
The music stopped.
The dance master clapped his hands, the crude sound echoing through the ballroom. “See, Celeste? You danced with a man at last, and he did not eat you.”
Hawk’s gaze followed the sway of her skirts as she bolted away from him. The door groaned on its hinges as she pushed it wide, a slice of light spilling in before she vanished.
The silence was too loud, and the ballroom too still. What in God’s name had just happened? One moment, she was sparring, teasing, full of fire, and the next, she slipped from his grasp like water.
“What did you just say?” Hawk turned to the ballet master.
“Bah, my lord. I’ve known those girls for years—called themselves the Swans of Paris. But that little redhead? She never danced with a partner. She could’ve been great. They coddled her—that’s what they did. Langley and Katherina. Had something to do with an attack she suffered as a child.”
Hawk’s breath shortened, and a violent edge cut through his line of reason.
Before the master could finish his diatribe, Hawk strode from the ballroom. He spotted her walking toward the guest wing. Her shoulders were stiff, her steps quick as if she could out-walk what had transpired between them.
“Celeste.”
She froze. Then, she turned, enough for him to catch the rawness clouding her gaze. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Instead, she increased her pace.
Damn it.
His boots struck the floor in pursuit, the corridor narrowing. Just as he was catching up with her, pain burst through his left knee. His leg became stiff and useless. A curse tore from his lips, and he braced against the wall.
He could only watch as she entered her room. Panting, he limped to the chaise across from her door and sank onto it with a grunt. Pain shot from the joint up to his thigh and down to the soles of his feet.
He was cursing the damned French hussar who had speared him all those years past, when the door of her bedchamber clicked open. Her face appeared.
He shifted to stand, but groaned in pain.
“Are you alright?” she whispered.
“Nothing. Just an old battle wound.”
She vanished back inside.
Hawk sighed. What game are we playing now, Little Tulle?
The door opened again. This time, his runaway ballerina stepped out of the bedchamber, carrying something in her fair hands.
