Page 8 of The General's Gift
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Hawk stood rigid, watching through the glass as she crossed the garden. His hand gripped the door handle with enough force to rip it off. Madness. He had reached for her like a raw recruit dazzled by the glint of steel. Her hair. Could a man be blamed if it had nearly blinded him, after years of ash and greys? A general who never surrendered, felled by a bonnet string and a spill of hair.
Unacceptable. His jaw locked, spine iron-straight. He had let instinct drive him—no more. She was Philip’s daughter. His ward. His duty. Instead of yielding to impulse, he needed a battle plan.
“Mr. Crowder, you can leave,” Hawk said. “I’ll send your payment this afternoon. I trust your absolute discretion in this matter.”
After the runner left, Hawk inspected the ballet mistress. She stood like a sentinel on retreating ground, chin high, fingers tightening on the folds of her skirts. He had several questions about his new charge, and this was the woman to answer them.
“Madam—”
“Before you even ask, nothing is wrong with her.” Her reply came too quickly, a volley fired before the order. “She is frightened. Can you blame her? You receive us in a war room, carved into the heart of Mayfair like a forward command post in enemy territory. And you—” her gaze flicked over him, then skittered aside, “you must know that your appearance is quite impressive.”
Hawk didn’t dispute. “If she cannot face me, how will she withstand society?”
“She is perfectly civil,” Katherina said. “And before you worry about her manners, I taught her proper etiquette. Before the invention of the guillotine, I was a lady-in-waiting for Marie Antoinette.” Her jaw clenched, just slightly. “But she is timid around men. You see, she was sheltered from the opposite sex—”
“If she was raised in the theater, how is that even possible?”
Katherina’s head came up sharply. “We run a ballet company, My Lord, not a brothel.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. He had no business discussing such matters with her. And yet, something in him eased at the words. He was glad the sort of men who prowled theaters had not touched her.
Exhaling, Hawk’s gaze sought the girl in the garden. She glided along the pathways, the dog trailing after her. She seemed at ease with nature, a fairy princess among his regimented hedges, painting color where no color belonged.
“You called her Celeste,” he said. “Why, if her name is Cecilia? And why did you hide her all this time?”
“I didn’t hide her, Earl. I’ve raised her.”
Hawk studied her, the set of her shoulders, the flare of pride she couldn’t suppress. He’d seen men defend their regiments with less conviction.
“The question remains,” he said. “Why did you end up raising her in the first place?”
“That is fate’s doing,” Katherina said, and her voice softened. “When my best friend was sent to La Force, she besieged me to take her daughter away. To escape to London. At first, it was just Helene and two more girls, daughters of other ladies of the queen. But when we were on the boat, preparing to leave in the dead of night…”
Her hands palms trembled faintly as if cradling a memory.
“A maid appeared, carrying a baby in her arms. She was frightened and pleaded with us to take her mistress’s daughter.” Katherina’s breath hitched. Her eyes flicked toward the garden. “I was against it. You see, it was enough that I had to look after the other girls. But a baby?” She shook her head, and her eyes glossed. “But Helene clutched the girl to her chest. And the dogs were coming closer, and the shouts—” She stopped. Pressed her lips tight. “We named her Celeste because she had this light about her. Impossible to ignore.”
Against his will, his gaze found her again. Celeste. A light impossible to ignore.
A faint smile broke through the ballet mistress’s reserve. “She was a handful, to be sure, but of the four girls who came with me from France, she is the most affectionate—”
“From now on, I will be responsible for her,” Hawk cut in, anchoring the moment back into the territory he knew—duty, not sentiment.
Katherina’s head rose sharply, her mouth parting in protest. “Celeste is special. If her transition into society is to be made successful, it has to be slow.”
“She inherited money and property from her father, and she is the last member of a line of French aristocracy that traces back to Saint Louis and the kings of France.” Hawk’s tone darkened. “What do you think will happen when this becomes public? She will have more suitors than fleas in a French camp. I need her safely married before then.”
Katherina’s fingers whitened around her pearl necklace. “Then we keep it a secret. No one has to know—”
“Ms. Katherina, the nation is at war. I can be called back to the front at any moment. There is no time to waste. Before this summer ends, I will turn her into a proper English lady.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Katherina demanded, her chin high.
“I have my methods.”
Hawk had molded the most wastrel sons of the aristocracy into competent officers. He had hammered indolence into discipline, arrogance into obedience, boys into men. He was more than prepared to deal with a French bonbon swaddled in tulle and her ridiculous poodle.
