Page 64 of The General's Gift
Rue sniffed. “If a man can’t recognize a marriage proposal when it’s shouted straight into his mouth, he deserves to end his days polishing boots.”
Oh, dear. Clearly, Shakespeare had underestimated the dangers of taking love into one’s own hands. “We’ll sort it all out. I promise. Now I have to meet the general downstairs. Wish me luck.”
***
The grand stairs felt a mile long as she descended to the foyer. When her eyes landed on Hawk, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over her, she nearly lost her footing.
Her stomach fluttered madly, like a flock of startled birds beneath her ribs.
Afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, catching in the silver threads of his hair, illuminating his proud stance. Her general ought to be forbidden from wearing dark blue. It made him look impossibly regal—almost unbearably kissable.
She floated down to him with breath held tight. But as she reached the foyer, his expression was grim.
“Well, then, my lord, if you can’t muster excitement for biscuits and jam, I guarantee I have enough for both of us. Enthusiasm, not biscuits. I hate those—”
“Lady Cecilia.” His jaw tightened, eyes guarded. “Nicki will be your escort.”
Celeste blinked, her gaze shifting from the general to the side, where his son leaned against the wall.
Nicki? Her stomach plunged, an awful, sickening sensation like missing the final stair and stepping into empty air.
“Oh,” she whispered faintly, hating the fragility in her voice.
A hot blush scorched her cheeks, shame spreading outward from her chest. She had misunderstood. Hawk had never planned to spend time with her.
Foolish, foolish girl.
“Of course you won’t,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “Everybody knows generals hate jam…”
“It is time you entered the society of people your age,” he said, in that voice that invited no discussions.
Nicki raised his arm, and the footman opened the door. The light nearly blinded her. She stared at the well-shaped arm presented to her. Her hand stayed firmly in place.
“Lady Cecilia?”
The voice was Nicki’s.
Then Hawk’s shadow engulfed her. He caught her hand. She lifted her eyes to him. She was certain a boulder weighed less than her chin.
Some of the grimness left him as he held her gaze and placed her palm over his son’s arm.
“You can trust Nicki with your life.”
Could she? Celeste swallowed against a dry throat. That was reassuring—though she could only hope Nicki would handle her heart with more care than his father.
***
“I’m sorry the general put you into this. I’m certain escorting me must feel like the most horrid of chores,” Celeste said, trying to match Nicki’s longer strides.
Her escort walked silently beside her. He had his father’s height and bearing, but he lacked Hawk’s warmth—or perhaps just his patience.
She twisted the ribbon of her bonnet. “I promise to eat quickly.” Her voice brightened with forced cheerfulness. “And Ican race to the hill if you wish. In fact, do you think we can walk around the house once and return?”
His mouth tightened slightly, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “I don’t think a short stroll qualifies as a picnic, Lady Cecilia.”
At least he spoke. That was progress. Her breath eased, just a fraction. Hawk’s plan—to cure her fear of men in gentle doses—could still work. Even if this particular dose was sullen and begrudgingly administered. She glanced at Nicki’s profile. “Well, I've never been to a picnic before. What if we take a sweetbread and eat on the go?”
His lips twitched, a small crack in the cold facade.
