Page 7 of The General's Gift
Hawk’s spine stiffened as the runner entered his study, followed by a tall woman with the bearing of a queen. Too old to be Lady Cecilia. Then, behind her, glided a concoction of tulle, the white contrasting with the dark paneled walls. The girl—if there was one beneath all that tissue—took two steps inside and stood motionless. A bonnet and a veil sealed her head, gloves swallowed her hands, and in her arms, she carried a ridiculous little mongrel like a defensive ball of fur.
“My lord,” Crowther said. “May I present to you Madam Katherina Fontaine, ballet mistress of the Covent Garden Theater, under whose guardianship the lady has resided these past years.”
The woman offered the briefest inclination of her head, her dark gaze meeting Hawk’s with cool assessment.
Then, Crowther stepped aside. “And here is Lady Cecilia Stratton, daughter of the Marquess of Faversham.”
Hawk crossed his arms. “Is this a joke? I don’t see Lady Cecilia, but a French bonbon wrapped in enough tulle to swaddle a battalion.”
The dog growled in the girl’s arms. Crowther sprang into a heated defense, and the tulle bonbon entrenched herself in the shadows. Guilt pricked in his gut, but he smothered it. One would think that after all these years, the adventuresses sniffing for Philip’s fortune would know he never surrendered to pretty tears or sad stories.
“If this is the sort of reception my pupil will receive, we will leave, Earl.”
The ballet mistress scowled like a sergeant major, enough to make a veteran double-check his buttons. But in his house, his authority was absolute.
Hawk leaned forward, addressing the girl. “I need to assure myself of your identity. I cannot determine whether you are the Marquess of Faversham’s daughter if I cannot see you. Remove the tulle and the dog, if you please.”
Katherina gasped. “This is certainly—”
“There is no terror in your threats, for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind.” Her voice was lilting, edged with the faintest trace of France, but it trembled at the ends of words, like a violin string tuned just shy of breaking.
Hawk had braced for weeping, some coquette’s plea, or the kind of theatrics that turned men soft. But a quote from Julius Caesar? He had to admire her defiance, even if she had to borrow another man’s words.
He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping across the floor, and crossed the room toward her.
“A bonbon who quotes Shakespeare…” He lowered his voice. “I do not seek to terrify you. But I must see you. It is not a threat—it is a necessity. Surrender your veil and your little beast.”
After a sigh, she passed the dog into Katherina’s arms. Then her tapered fingers worked on the buttons on her neck. The pelisse slid from her shoulders, whispering over a slender silhouette hugged by a silk bodice. She was graceful, poised, more woman than girl. When she reached for the veil that covered her face, Hawk leaned in, his breathing shallow, as if he were a boy by a Christmas tree, waiting for the unwrapping of a gift. Which was ridiculous. Soldiers had no use for gifts, and this girl would prove to be another adventuress angling for Philip’s estate.
The tulle brushed against the curve of her jaw and went up, revealing pale skin splattered with the occasional freckle. Her mouth—shaped like a heart and lifted in the corners as if laughter liked to play there—was so like Angélique’s that for a moment, he thought he had traveled back in time.
The lock of hair in his pocket seemed to pulse, and he covered it with his hand. What was wrong with him?
Her gaze was tremulous as she reached for the ties of her bonnet. He could not discern the color of her eyes, but would stake every medal he had earned that they were green.
With a flick of her wrist, the hat was gone. Her hair tumbled down her back, cascading in waves he could almost feel brushing against his hand. The strands burned and gleamed, deep as hammered copper, bright as molten gold.
He knew that hair. Intimately.
Hawk stopped breathing. He felt the same shock he remembered as a boy, when the lid lifted and the hidden treasure was his. Only now, the treasure breathed, and it carried the only color in his world.
His center split in two. The part that kept him alive through a dozen campaigns rallied at once. Hold the line. Reinforce the breach. Beauty was no gift. It was a weapon, and men had been felled by it as surely as by musket fire.
But the other part had already dropped the saber, needing to feel that color and erase the years of gray.
He lifted his hand, inches away from her face.
She ducked beneath his arm, and in a blur of copper hair and tulle skirts, flew across the room, and scooped the mongrel into her arms.
“Othello gets suffocated in confined spaces,” she said, too quickly, too brightly. “May I take him to the garden?”
Hawk lowered his hand—damned traitorous thing—and shoved it into his pocket. “You named a poodle Othello?”
She hugged the creature tighter, chin lifting with that strange blend of yielding and defiance. “He is a tragic figure.”
“By all means,” Hawk said, opening the doors wide.
She did not meet his eyes and made sure not to brush against him as she passed. And then she was gone, leaving him with the echo of color still burning behind his lids.
