Page 85 of The General's Gift
He had heard everything. Oh, Lord. Her skin flamed from collarbone to hairline.
“I—pardon me—I didn’t realize! I thought you knew this gentleman, our maestro.”
“Your maestro is His Royal Highness, the Duke of York.”
The maestro chuckled, seemingly unaffected by one of Hawk’s brutal scolds. He stepped forward elegantly and lifted her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Enchanté, chérie. It was the greatest honor to be mistaken for your musician. And I would love to conduct your orchestra, but I’m afraid I’m tone deaf.”
He returned the makeshift baton to her. Celeste gripped the flower with enough force to break the stem.
She had harangued the Duke of York? His Majesty’s brother? Hawk’s superior?
“Oh, splendid, I’ve just conducted His Royal Highness…” She dipped into a shallow curtsey, then straightened with a bright, brittle smile. “Excuse me while I locate a violin case large enough to crawl into and die with grace.”
His Highness chuckled. “No need to, my lady. You’ve just played the most charming overture I’ve heard in years.”
Celeste stood at the top of the staircase, surveying the Midsummer Dream she had conjured from stubborn will and silk ribbons. She kept her breathing shallow, afraid a deeper breath might shatter the illusion. Strings swelled softly, and the guests—oh, the guests. Military uniforms polished to a hero’s gleam. Ladies in gowns that bloomed in soft pastel colors.
She had charmed the decorators into working miracles, cajoled the regimental cooks into concocting sugared violets and rose-flavored creams... She had even rewritten the music program, demanding just one waltz at the climax of the evening.
A waltz meant for Titania and Oberon.
Everything had been arranged for a midsummer night’s dream where duty and desire might finally meet. Now all that remained was her general.
Her gaze swept the room—left, right, past the musicians. Where was he? Her fingers fluttered, then clutched the folds of her skirts like lifelines. The sand in an hourglass seemed to run out. Tonight, he crossed into her dream, or he never would. Even then, a part of her whispered it was futile, that the gulf betweenthem was too vast to bridge.
The despair nearly broke her—until she saw him.
Alexander de Warenne, Earl of Hawkhurst.
Warmth rushed to her chest, and her lips curved. If any man could breach such a distance, it was he.
The General of His Majesty’s Cavalry.
The king she had chosen.
Her Oberon.
He stood in his uniform, his silver hair catching the flicker of candlelight like a halo of ice. His posture was its own coat of arms. He was not here to be charmed.
But oh, how she wanted to charm him.
His hands were clasped behind his back, legs parted just slightly, as if he were standing atop a parade field instead of polished parquet. He wore no mask, no costume…What had she expected? That he would have remembered she had called him Oberon and donned the fairy king’s crown? No matter. It would be enough if he claimed her for the last waltz.
He watched her. Like she was fragile. Or dangerous. Or both. Her heartbeat stuttered. Oh, how a woman in love became an interpreter of a man’s looks… Was he proud of her? Was he angry she had turned his regimental ball into a fairy tale extravaganza? Could he be jealous of her? Of the attention she might receive tonight, or that her arms were bare and her decolletage was lower than she usually wore?
Or worse—nothing at all.
He showed no sign of crossing the ballroom toward her. Her knees weakened beneath the skirts, but she steadied herself with a single breath. Strength, Celeste. The dream had only just begun.
She forced a smile and descended the stairs. Her gown, layers of gossamer silver and midnight blue, shimmered like moonlight rippling over dark water.
At the landing, Nicki waited.
She took his arm, her fingers curling lightly around his sleeve. “Look who is smiling,” she said. “I take it you prefer balls to picnics?”
Nicki’s grin widened. “It is gratitude. For supplanting Graves in the preparations. I feared I would have to pass another night that lasted 78 hours.”
“Poor Graves. He must be terribly mad at me.”
