Page 88 of The General's Gift
“Lady Cecilia,” Leighton said, bowing low. “Dance with me?”
Her eyes found Hawk. But he did not move.
Her heart ached. Still, she smiled at Leighton, every inch the shimmering Titania she had conjured from will and longing.
“Of course,” she said softly.
She gazed pleadingly at Hawk one last time. But Alexander de Warenne, Earl of Hawkhurst, did not breach the chasm between them after all… It seemed the lark had come early this evening. And there went her Midsummer Night’s dream.
"Which convent did you say Lady Cecilia was raised?" York asked, chalking his cue.
Hawk lined up his own shot but didn't take it. His gaze was fixed beyond the baize, on the ballroom where Celeste danced with Leighton. Each spin of her skirts felt like a lash against his skin. The damned tulle caught the light, and all he could see was how it had clung to her the night before, damp with longing.
"Covent Garden," Hawk said, the words dry as flint. "She joined a group of noble-born girls escaping the Terror. They were taken in by the ballet's choreographer."
The flickering candlelight caught his friend’s shrewd eyes and aquiline nose. Hawk admired him as prince and soldier both, rare in one man. But tonight, the billiard table, and even York himself, blurred into the periphery.
The duke bent to the table, sighting along his cue, and gave a low whistle as he struck. The ball rolled neatly into a corner pocket. "Poor Philip. He searched so much for her, and she was right under his nose. Still, no one will doubt she was born and raised in gold. She is the picture of grace."
Grace, yes—but it was more than that. She had always been radiant, not from silks or chandeliers, but from within. Every laugh, every spark of rebellion, every breath of her was color and fire. All she had lacked was the courage to spread her wings. And now, watching her glide through the dance, he knew with certainty—she was taking flight.
"You did a remarkable job," York said.
Hawk nodded once, jaw grinding.
If remarkable meant nearly losing all control. If remarkable meant craving her like a starving man. If remarkable meant needing her with a madness that had not abated since the moment he touched her. If it meant almost stealing her virtue and lusting after her every single minute of the day.
York bent low, loosed his shot, and a red ball dropped neatly into the pocket. "I dare say she will make a brilliant match. Leighton looks smitten."
Jealousy slammed through him. White-hot, merciless. It struck low, curling his gut into knots. Hawk ground his molars together until his ears rang. That's what she wanted—young love. A dream of fantasy, of laughter, and endless summer. And Leighton could give that to her. With that olive wreath around his golden head… Leighton had already decided to move into Celeste's world and never leave.
"She deserves it," he managed to say.
His best living friend—after a decade of war, there were few left—stared at him across the green baize with the unflinching honesty that had allowed him to reform the British Army and keep Britain on equal terms with France.
"In all these years, I never took you for a martyr."
Hawk drank his port, then tapped the cue against the floor. "I don't know what you mean."
"She staged a midsummer night's ball, and you are the one playing the fool. You are head over heels for her, and she is likewise. Why not marry the chit and be done with it?"
"I'm old enough to be her father."
The duke scoffed. "No different from half the marriages in the ton."
"What happens if I die on the Peninsula?" His voice cracked. "How can I attach my best friend's daughter to such a fate?"
Damn it. Give her the same cold bed as his late wife? Expect her to bear his children while he was away? To tend his wounds? Or receive a letter that he had perished in a faraway land and that she was denied even the comfort of a tomb to mourn him?
York's hand slowed on the cue, his voice softening. "Stop playing God. Why don't you live and love for today and let fate worry about the future?"
The ballroom shimmered, but none of its beauty touched him. It all felt far away.
"You are sounding like her," Hawk muttered.
York straightened, resting the cue against his shoulder. "Then she is a wise girl. A fit wife for my best general."
His wife.
