Chapter 3
Celeste forced her legs to take measured steps.
The grass was wet, and soon her slippers would be stained, but she buried her nose in Othello’s fur and trudged on, hoping no one was watching her shameful escape.
Her arms shook as she released Othello. While he sniffed the tulips, she watched her wavering reflection in the water.
She resisted the impulse to sprinkle her flaming cheeks.
Instead, she took great gulps of air, trying to calm herself.
She had done it again. Allowed Papillon to control her.
And now here she was, hiding in the garden like a child caught peeking at rehearsals.
What was wrong with her? She had been perfectly safe.
But the way he had looked at her hair—like she were some kind of apparition.
Her stomach had dropped, and her legs had carried her off before she could stop them.
What sort of heroine fled before the first act even began?
He must think her the gauchest of creatures.
She chanced a peek into the office. Through the glass doors, she saw only his massive silhouette. Perhaps he would send her away. At least she would never have to see him again and die of shame.
The door creaked open. When her Caesar-like host stepped into the garden, she braced herself to be more than a sad Ophelia, but Othello attacked.
Barking like mad, he latched onto the general’s boots—thankfully, he could not reach higher—and pressed his teeth into the leather.
The general stilled and looked down. Then, with an aplomb that had to be ingrained from birth, he lifted one incredulous brow.
Celeste gasped, reaching to scoop up her misguided warrior. “Othello! No!”
Dislodging the little menace, she gathered him into her arms. “I am so sorry, my lord. He is not usually so… jealous.”
She dared a glance up, bracing for his disapproval.
His lips quirked. “Perhaps Iago whispered some slander against my boots.”
Celeste blinked, and laughter spilled from her lips before she could stop it. The sound startled her. Not because he had disapproved—but because it had come too easily, slipping out like a secret. She hadn’t expected to laugh in his company, let alone feel lighter for it.
Covering her mouth, she lifted cautious eyes to him. Even Louise, who hated the English, had said he was honorable and well-admired in military circles. The General Who Never Surrendered. That was his epithet, Louise had declared, with more awe than hatred.
“We need to talk, Lady Cecilia,” he said.
He had one of those bass voices that could carry to the back row without shouting. If he ever took to the stage, half the mezzanine would faint on cue and the rest would stand at attention.
Celeste twisted her tulle skirt. “About the plays?”
“About your future.”
Celeste nodded gravely. The garden, with its flowers and merciful lack of guns, seemed far less stuffy than his war room. She sat on the bench and was grateful when he didn’t move to sit by her side. He folded his hands behind his back and kept a respectful distance.
From the cover of her eyelashes, she peeped at his dark blue uniform.
He had no cravat wound at his throat, no perfumed lace spilling from his collar.
Nothing of the oily elegance she dreaded in men.
The fabric was severe, the kind of cloth meant to endure weather and war, not seduce.
And his scent… soap, leather, starch. Not the cloying colognes that clung like stains, heavy with hidden intent.
Against all reason, the soldier’s austerity felt safer than any gentleman’s frill, and Papillon settled her fluttering wings.
“I’m your guardian, and as such, I administer your inheritance. “
How odd. Guardians were old and benevolent, with ruddy cheeks and white beards. Guardians weren’t supposed to look like Julius Caesar with the dash of Hotspur and the scowl to match.
The waning sunlight caressed his tanned skin and reflected in his silvery hair.
Instead of making him look old, the silver added to his gravitas.
The part of her that was wildly imaginative pictured him riding his horse downhill, a saber in his right hand, a battle cry on his lips.
He should count himself fortunate that he was charging male soldiers, because if he went against a group of Amazons, they would probably keep him.
Which was a ridiculous thought if she ever had any, and before he could infer how much, she hugged Othello tighter.
“Why did … did my father choose you?” Speaking the word father left a strange taste in her mouth. She had never allowed herself to think about her parents. Why, when she had been an orphan for as long as she could remember?
“The Marquess of Faversham trusted me to find you,” Hawk said, his voice clipped, official. “And once I did, he trusted me to take care of you.”
Her head tilted. “Take care of me. What do you mean?”
“My duty is to see you established as befits your station.” He looked at her earnestly, as if he carried no subterfuge in his metal blue eyes. “Respected, protected, and safe.”
Safe. The word curled around her like a blanket. Could it be true? That her father had sent this iron general to protect her?
She needed it fixed. Something she could hold on to, before it dissolved like sugar in rain.
“Do you promise it?”
“Lady Cecilia, since this is the first time we've met, and I see you are overwhelmed, I will say this. My word is my honor. As I promised your father on the day he died, I repeat it to you. You are under my protection.”
Her breath released in a rush, and she would’ve shaken his hand if he hadn’t looked so... so formal. So she settled for a smile and a nod.
“I accept.”
For half a heartbeat, his stern mouth eased, as if acknowledging a vow sealed. But then it was gone, smoothed into the same hard lines.
He straightened, folding his arms with finality. “Now, for more pressing matters. Your life is about to change. Do you understand that?”
Celeste bobbed her head several times, but honestly, she hadn’t thought much about it.
“You are not only a lady, but a great heiress with properties in England and on the continent. There is no time to waste. Next week you will move to my estate in Kent for the summer—”
“A vacation? How lovely.”
“Not a vacation. You will have tutors and deportment lessons.”
He believed her uneducated? Katherina had never neglected their etiquette. “Why?”
“You will marry.”
His voice came out lower than before, roughened, as though the word resisted him. Celeste’s heart jolted at the sound, and she glanced at Othello’s ears, pretending sudden fascination with their twitch.
“Must I?” she asked softly.
“Isn’t marriage the goal of every young lady? You must think about your future.”
What a dear concept. Was there a future beyond the end of a season, beyond the next role, the next curtain call?
What use was dreaming when girls without pasts didn’t get futures?
Gentlemen never married ballerinas. They watched them dance, applauded their leaps and pirouettes, then beckoned them offstage to become some man’s mistress, some patron’s amusement.
“I was chosen to dance a principal part.”
The weight of his gaze fell on her posture, the line of her shoulders, and then his frown forced her to look away.
“I’m a ballerina… Ballerinas dance, I believe, just as generals fight, is it not?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and then a sound escaped him.
Was that a chuckle? Whatever it was, it certainly was not the laugh that warmed a room.
It should have frightened her. Papillon ought to have stirred, wings beating against her ribs.
But instead the little creature was still, oddly soothed, as though she recognized something steady there.
He might never surrender, this guardian of hers, but he certainly was not very good at laughing. Someone ought to teach him—if only to prove that even Hotspur could be coaxed into comedy.
“As Lady Cecilia, you can be a respectable wife. Build a family. Become a hostess and have a positive influence on society.”
Celeste opened her mouth—and faltered. The name still felt like a costume she wasn’t sure she could dance in—but maybe, it didn’t have to be a role.
What if she could dream past the next pas de chat?
What if, as Lady Cecilia, she could script her own story?
A romantic comedy worthy of Shakespeare, where she found her prince, not in the stage, but in real life?
Perhaps…. Perhaps Lady Cecilia didn’t have to flee like the Papillon—fluttering away at the first unexpected cue. Lady Cecilia could stay and step into the light. Be bold, like Rosalind in the forest, or Viola, shipwrecked but smiling. Worthy of love.
A thrill rushed through her like the rise of music in the pit.
She stood abruptly, pressing a hand to her racing heart.
There was just so much to think about. Every romantic play required a setting.
She had no Forest of Arden, but surely a country estate in Kent would do.
Wasn’t Much Ado set in a sun-drenched house with too many corridors for propriety and just enough corners for overheard confessions?
The general frowned. “Where exactly are you going?”
Her legs could not stay still. She ought to make a list. Costumes and props…
She was terrible with banter and only witty when alone, and she could not abide monologues—those were frightfully dull after Act II.
Also, it was impossible to carry a proper romantic arc without at least one duel of words.
And what of the supporting characters? She needed a confidante and perhaps a nurse, no, not a nurse. And she didn’t want a villain—
Warm hands gripped her shoulders, making her halt.
“Lady Cecilia,” the general said. “What is the matter? You’re shaking.”
She stilled. Her breath hitched. “To get it all,” she whispered, “this life… the chance to belong somewhere, to be someone who isn’t just waiting in the wings—it’s too important.” To her utter horror, her eyes were moist. “I cannot let it slip, I cannot—”
“You are under my protection now,” he said. “And I do not begin campaigns I do not intend to win.”
Celeste looked up. And for a beat, the world hushed. A thrill curled along her spine, steady and startling. Not the Papillon’s panic—but something deeper. A flutter, yes, but not of fear. It pulsed in her center, like a whispered promise.
She inhaled slowly, and the trembling receded. Every heroine, after all, needed a guide. A figure of strength who stood beside her at the crossing of acts, ready to offer aid—or at the very least, a sharp nudge in the right direction.
Yes, that was it.
The general would be her fairy godfather.
Of course, he was rather tall and imposing… Like Oberon, the king of the fairies, he carried an air of command, his presence impossible to ignore. Wasn’t it best if her protector was a warrior? A man forged in battle, strong and mighty, a figure of unwavering power? Threatening to all but not her?
Yes, Lady Cecilia Stratton would have a general for her fairy godfather. And he would see her through the curtain rise of this new life—even if he scowled at every flourish along the way.
Now then. All that remained was to cast the prince.
Her lips curved faintly, astonished at herself. A quarter hour ago, she’d been Papillon—fluttering, frightened, ready to vanish stage left. And now? Now she stood in the spotlight, spine straight, heart steady. Lady Cecilia Stratton, heroine of her own play.
Not even Shakespeare could have plotted such a turn—flight to triumph, in a single scene.
“Then, Lady Cecilia,” the general said, his voice low and unreadable, “are we in agreement? Will you leave the theater and move to Kent to begin your new life?”
Her fairy godfather’s eyes lingered long enough to set her spine tingling. She ducked her head and blamed the heat.
“Yes, my lord,” Celeste said softly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I will surrender my slippers.”