Page 84 of The General's Gift
“I’ll hum it,” Celeste said simply. She tapped the tempo against her palm. “It goes like this—da-da-da-da da-da-daaa—”
It was light, airy, full of promise, sunshine, and everything the army ball had never been. Just as she was entering the chorus, Hawk appeared in her line of vision. He stood in the far corner, his uniform dark against the pale paneling, his expression unreadable.
Her tune slowed. How proud he was, how utterly handsome. And her body, traitorous thing it was, remembered him. His weight atop her. His mouth on hers.
A sigh slipped from her lips as her arms curled around herself, her shoulders swaying gently. A soft, slow waltz now. The kind played at the end of a fairytale. The melancholy dance of a woman who dreamed of being held by the one man who never would.
A young bride, the morning after her wedding night, should blush and glow and move with the quiet certainty that her husband was hers. That she belonged to someone who would stay beside her until her hair silvered and her laughter grew lines. But Celeste felt neither quiet nor certain. Her heart ached every time he neared, so aware of the distance between them, as if they stood on opposite shores of a war-torn land.
And her senses? They were traitorous. Hawk barely had to shift his stance, and her blood betrayed her.
Oh, Hawk. I should have trusted you from the start. How much ache might we have spared each other?
A low whistle cut through her reverie. The maestro had added a trill to the tune she hadn’t realized she was still humming.
“That…” he said with a wink, “is a dance I’d very much like to learn.”
Celeste startled. Her cheeks flamed, and she quickly turned her head, dabbing at the single tear that had made it past her lashes. Look at her—since she’d left the theater, she’d become a veritable fountain of tears. A weepy heroine straight from an overwrought melodrama. Utterly ridiculous.
She pasted on a smile.
“Well, gentlemen,” she announced, lifting her voice to carry over the bustle and nerves. “I’m told the 13th Regiment’s annual ball is the most dreadful affair in England. That ladies would rather suffer enemas than attend, and the officers would rather face a cannonade than an evening of polite dancing.”
Several of the musicians chuckled. A footman snorted from behind the curtain.
Celeste squared her shoulders, hands clasped before her like a general before the troops. “This is about to change. We host the 13th Regiment Midsummer Night’s Ball tonight, and I don’t intend for a single guest to leave with their feet or hearts untouched.”
She pointed dramatically toward the violins. “Music is the soul of the gathering. The heartbeat of joy. I expect to kill them with dancing!”
“Kill them all?” the maestro asked, eyes gleaming. “You’ll leave none of the soldiers for Hawk?”
Celeste brightened. “You know the general?”
“You could say we are old friends,” he said, lips quirking.
“Well, then,” she said, smiling. “If you are friends with him, you must know General Hawk wouldn’t even miss the soldiers. He could fight the French single-handedly, I’m told.”
“Oh yes,” said the maestro with mock solemnity. “I’ve marched under his banner. His scowls alone have routed battalions.”
She grinned. “He does brood magnificently, doesn’t he?”
“Like only a Caesar crossing the Rubicon.”
Celeste sighed. “And when he does that thing with his voice?”
The maestro blinked. “What thing?”
Celeste leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Oh, you must know! When he lowers it, like thunder on the horizon, and says,” She dropped her voice into a gravelly imitation, brows knit with dramatic flair. “That was an order. And I gave no room for interpretation.”
The maestro laughed. “You’ve got the tone right, I must say. The fearsome Hawk has met his match.” He tilted his head, studying her with mock suspicion. “You wouldn’t happen to be French, would you?”
“She is not,” came a voice behind her, much more gravelly than hers could ever be.
Celeste froze.
She turned slowly to find Hawk, arms crossed, one dark brow raised in that look. She hadn’t heard him come near. How long had he been standing there?
“This master of interpretation is my ward. Lady Cecilia Stratton. And I would rather have my soldiers fit for combat.”
