Page 73 of The General's Gift
Leighton straightened. “I considered this at length. You, of all people, know I’m not fickle. I’m master of my mind.”
Hawk ought to be pleased with such a result. The victory of his summer campaign. “Lady Cecilia is not ready for such a step. She is young. She never had a season in London.”
Leighton lifted his chin. “She will not find a more suitable suitor in ten seasons.”
Hawk ground his teeth together until pain pulsed in his jaw. Arrogant pup, but it was true. Leighton was everything Celeste deserved.
“It is not a matter of suitability.”
“Is this about Nicki, then? Are you saving her for your son?”
“Nicki does not need me to play his matchmaker.”
Leighton stepped forward, too close to the desk where Celeste had whispered his name.
He fastened his grip on the chair, anchoring himself against the urge to drive Leighton from the room, from Celeste’s life.
“I have met with the Duke of York on his way here. I have it on his authority that the 13th will receive orders for embarkation in the coming days,” Leighton spoke calmly, but his gaze never left Hawk’s. “How will Lady Cecilia’s affairs be conducted while you are on the Peninsula?”
The question struck like a bullet through the chest, exposing a stark truth he’d been avoiding—his mortality. If he fell in battle, what would become of Celeste?
“I will deal with my ward’s affairs,” Hawk said through gritted teeth.
All his officers knew when they had pushed him too far.
Leighton stepped back. “Sir, if there is any impediment—”
“There is no impediment,” Hawk forced the words out. Not if he cast aside Lady Cecilia’s bastard of a guardian—a man careless with an innocent girl’s feelings, even now endangering her future. And for what? To keep her near while he marched away? To bind her to him for scraps of stolen desire?
He shut his eyes and expelled the breath he’d been holding.
“There is no impediment,” he said again, this time with a tone that allowed no refusal. “I appreciate your request. I will inform you of my decision.”
After Leighton left, Hawk raked a hand through his hair. He stared at the map before him, but instead of the strategic lines and annotations, he saw only Celeste’s promised-colored eyes and the pain he would cause her.
A quiet shuffle announced Graves’ entry.
The captain surveyed him, concern creasing his brow. “Sir, what did Leighton say to put you in a worse mood than the French artillery at Salamanca?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.” Hawk released a slow breath. “Send for my solicitor. Immediately.”
The afternoon sun warmed Celeste’s back and threatened to scorch the left side of her cheek, but she was too morose to move. She looked out the window where Hawk spoke to Captain Graves. Was there ever alive a more confounding male specimen? She was out of ideas. Shakespeare could not incite him to romance, and even theMerchant of Venusproved feeble against her Hawk's restraint.
Sighing, she returned to her sewing. The dark blue wool was stiff, but she stitched a brass button onto the miniature military coat.
Rue strode in and froze midstep, arms akimbo.
“Why is Othello gnawing Ambrose’s busby?”
Celeste paused mid-stitch and glanced down.
The poodle stood triumphantly over what looked like a furry chamber pot—or some eccentric kitchen contraption.
Celeste nudged it with the toe of her slipper.
“Is it to keep the soup warm?”
“It is his military headgear.”
