Page 65 of The General's Gift
Encouraged, she whispered conspiratorially, “We can dine à la battle. Like soldiers on the march. I’m sure it will be all the rage… once we invent it.”
A chuckle escaped him, and her heart lifted like a kite briefly catching the wind. But then his expression hardened again. He turned slightly toward her, his eyes shaded with something that looked almost like pity.
“Your suitor won’t enjoy the idea, Lady Cecilia.”
Her step faltered, an icy sensation piercing straight through her chest.
“My suitor?” Her voice sounded strangely distant, as if spoken by someone else entirely.
“The Duke of Leighton is not known for hurrying his meals,” Nicki said matter-of-factly, eyes fixed ahead.
Celeste’s stomach churned sickly. Hawk had found her a suitor. He was sending her away, entrusting her to a stranger.
Nicki glanced sideways, caught something in her expression, and slowed his steps, concern tightening his brow. Celeste quickly lowered her lashes, hiding the moisture welling in her eyes. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms through the delicate fabric of her gloves. Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Nicki’s hand covered hers, a quiet warmth enveloping her trembling fingers. “It will be alright,” he said softly.
Heat flooded her cheeks, humiliation blending with gratitude. Her breath shuddered quietly in her chest. He’d noticed her fear. She’d failed again, and worse—someone else had witnessed it. She was transparent, fragile as glass. Was this what Hawk thought of her, too? A brittle girl needing constant protection, incapable of standing on her own?
She forced herself to steady her voice. “How is he, the Duke of Leighton?”
“It seems you are about to find out.” He lifted his chin toward the opposite side of the lawn.
Her gaze followed. A tall, confident figure neared, his flaxen hair glinting in the afternoon. He smiled politely, but his very confidence sent a cold rush down her spine, tightening her breath.
Her fingers gripped the folds of her skirt until the fabric wrinkled, tension radiating through her muscles. Don’t run, she whispered inwardly. Don’t you dare run now.
***
“Lady Cecilia, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Leighton?”
The duke bowed, his blue eyes sweeping over her. “Enchanted.”
Heart stuttering, she stepped closer to Nicki, who pressed her hand. They believed her an heiress. A polished lady, refined and untouchable. They did not see the girl who had once cowered in shadows, who had flinched at a hand too near.
She could not be the Papillon. She would play a part—Portia, the heroine fromThe Merchant of Venice. Also a heiress. Cool and composed, she dealt with the opposite sex with detachment and grace. Portia would not falter beneath a gentleman’s gaze.
Celeste drew a slow breath and dipped into a perfect curtsy.
“And this is his sister, Lady Evelyn.”
Lady Evelyn beamed, all curls and wide-eyed excitement. “Oh, but you are so much lovelier than I imagined!”
The Kentish countryside unfurled around them as they strolled to the picnic. Celeste sat with grace, resting her gloved hands lightly in her lap, in what she hoped was the picture of a composed, elegant lady.
Lady Evelyn bit into a cake. “Where have you been hiding all this time?”
Panic bubbled in her throat. She caught Nicki’s gaze, unable to speak.
Nicki brushed a speck from his epaulet. “Lady Cecilia was raised in a convent in Portugal.”
Celeste reached for a glass of lemonade, taking a slow sip as if savoring the memory.
“A convent! How positively enchanting! Was it filled with mystery? Did you spend your days waiting for a dashing gentleman to rescue you?” Lady Evelyn whispered in awe.
Celeste smiled. “Oh, entirely. A garden of a convent. We lived on poetry and prayer, and the only men we ever saw were carved in stained glass. We were meant to devote ourselves to virtue and contemplation—but I fear I was a rather poor novice.”
Leighton grinned. “And why is that?”
