Chapter 4
Hawk dismissed the regiment for the day and turned toward the house. He had no time to speak with officers or inspect the barracks. Lady Cecilia was due to arrive—and he had yet to prepare his household for something far worse than war: a French heiress wrapped in a cloud of tulle.
Nicki stepped up beside him. The summer light caught his son’s proud profile. “May I have a word, sir?”
Hawk didn’t need a lunette to know what he wanted. A promotion. Hawk had carried the same hungry look throughout much of his youth. The kind of soldier who charged into fire chasing glory because he hadn’t learned how long it took to bury a man.
“Prove yourself on the ground. I might reconsider.”
Nicki’s jaw tensed. “But I—”
Hawk cut him off. “We are late. Lady Cecilia Stratton arrives within the hour. I’ve yet to brief Major Graves.”
“So, you’ve got time to deal with a ballerina, but not your own son?”
Hawk stopped walking.
Nicki nearly collided with him.
“Lady Cecilia Stratton comes to us from the Convento das Flores, a sacred institution in Portugal where she was raised after the Revolution. That is what we will tell society. I will tolerate nothing less than the utmost respect toward her. From everyone.”
Nicki flinched. “Sir, you must know I will protect her with my life.”
“I know you will.” Hawk held Nicki’s gaze for a beat longer, then resumed walking.
“But Graves? You’re assigning Lady Cecilia to Graves? He’s never set foot in Covent Garden. Never even laid a hand on a woman, I’d wager.”
Hawk didn’t respond. He was not in the habit of discussing battle plans.
They passed through the eastern gate. The estate unfolded before them like a regiment on inspection.
Not a rose out of place in the hedgerows.
Not a weed dared show its face among the gravel.
Gardeners clipped with military precision, tools gleaming, eyes forward.
One straightened, touched his cap in salute.
This was how a house should run. Unlike those disorderly piles the aristocracy called homes, where parlors bled into drawing rooms and no one knew where the housekeeper kept the brandy, here, every man had a task. Every task, a purpose. Every hour, accounted for.
The butler opened the door, and they crossed to the study.
Major Graves stood by the hearth, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back. At Hawk’s entrance, he pivoted smartly and saluted.
“You requested my presence, sir?”
“You’re assigned to Lady Cecilia Stratton,” Hawk said.
Graves nodded, his brow tightening. “May I inquire as to the nature of the mission?”
“Transformation,” Hawk said. “The subject will be trained and molded into a proper English lady, one fit for polite society and, most critically, marriage. She will converse without embellishment, dine without disaster, and, by God, she will not quote Shakespeare at the table.”
If he enforced order, this mission would be a success. His duty, done. No more late nights thinking about that trembling gaze, and how she alone carried all the color in the world.
“Understood, sir.”
Nicki cleared his throat and made for the couch, stretching like he meant to sprawl across the cushions.
Hawk raised one brow.
The boy froze mid-recline, reconsidered, and lowered himself into the armchair instead.
Only Hawk sat on that couch. His staff knew it.
His son knew it. He had brought the ugly thing back from India.
The monsoon had come down like the judgment of God, and Hawk—then just a green-blooded captain—had held it as a barricade against a French-led ambush.
With three wounded men as his only support and a saber jammed under the frame to brace it, he hadn’t surrendered. Not then. Not ever.
Later, a surgeon had stitched him atop those very cushions, muttering that the damned furniture had more holes than the man. They’d tried to burn it. He’d had it crated and shipped home.
Hawk had earned his first promotion that day. And his name. The Hawk Who Never Surrenders.
Hawk crossed his arms. “The Lady is spirited, Major Graves. Unorthodox. You’ll need to be firm, but patient. And never let her know you’re afraid.”
Graves stood at attention, but something in the rigid line of his jaw betrayed him. The man had faced musket fire with less tension. “With all due respect, sir... why me?”
“You served with honor in the Peninsula. You prefer order. You’re not easily distracted by… tulle.”
“Sir, I’ve held lines under cannon fire. But this—this—”
“You’ve marched through Salamanca on one biscuit a day and been shot at by French hussars dressed as nuns,” Hawk said dryly. “I doubt Lady Cecilia will pose much greater risk.”
Graves exhaled slowly. “Is this truly a military assignment, sir?”
Hawk’s voice turned iron. “This is a campaign. And like all campaigns, it requires discipline, patience, and a willingness to face the enemy without flinching.”
Major Graves exhaled slowly, and then nodded. “Tactics, sir?
Hawk leaned over the desk, hands braced. “During phase one, absolute secrecy. Information is distributed strictly on a need-to-know basis. I won’t have opportunists infesting the park.”
Nicki cocked an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to keep a ballerina hidden in Kent? Chain her to a practice barre?”
“She will be managed,” Hawk said, not looking at his impertinent son.
Graves cleared his throat. “What about the regiment, sir?”
Hawk moved to the window. From there, he could see the long barrack roofs behind the stables—the heart of the 13th Dragoons, the regiment his great-grandfather had raised and bled for.
A brotherhood that had thundered across continents, from the forests of Germany to the jungles of India, and now stood as a wall against Napoleon’s ambitions.
“No interactions. No casual encounters. The gardens and house grounds are now off-limits to troopers and officers. Anyone caught trespassing will face immediate disciplinary action.”
Graves nodded. “And during the deployment phase, sir? I imagine several eligible names will surface. The Marquess of Worcester. His Grace, the young Duke of Leighton…”
Hawk’s grip tightened around the window frame. The very name made something twist in his gut. Leighton—young, clever, politically blessed.
“No. She will marry a civilian.” A man untouched by war.
He turned to face them both. “That is why we have phase three: The Summer Ball. If she performs well in early training, we escalate to formal engagement. Her comportment, restraint, and bearing will be observed under pressure. She will attract suitors of appropriate character.”
Nicki rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. The summer ball. Another thrilling evening of tepid punch, waltzes at parade tempo, and the orchestra dismissed before midnight.”
Graves sniffed. “I’ll remind you that the last ball concluded at precisely eleven forty-five. A prudent end time ensures order.”
Nicki grinned. “It ensured a mass exodus to the taverns.”
Hawk didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Graves cleared his throat. “Any anticipated obstacles?”
Hawk’s gaze sharpened. Obstacles? Aside from the lady herself? “There will be none. That’s why structure is paramount. Control the variables. Secure the result.”
Graves opened his notebook. “As per your request, a lady’s maid has been secured. Miss Prudence Templeton. Local. Pious. Looks like she could frighten sin itself into retreat.”
“Excellent,” Hawk said. “And the chaperone?”
“Mrs. Rue Archer arrived at dawn. She assured me that no scandal will cross the Stratton name on her watch.”
“She’ll do.” Hawk folded his arms, expression unreadable. “I expect daily reports: progress, setbacks, compliance.”
Nicki snorted. “You sound like you are talking about the French army and not a girl.”
Hawk’s jaw flexed. Her smile haunted him still, a mutiny of the lips that had no place in a disciplined line.
“Make no mistake, Nicki. The French can be beaten in a season, but a girl will wear you down for a lifetime.”
***
At precisely sixteen hundred, Hawk stood by the front door, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back.
The black traveling chaise came into view, crest glinting in the sun, horses tossing their heads as they pulled onto the circled drive.
She was in there. His pulse sped—any moment now, she would be under his roof.
Barking, sharp and frantic, rang through the courtyard.
Hawk’s head snapped left. His hounds had slipped their leashes, leather straps trailing as they tore across the gravel like a cavalry charge gone rogue. A groom lunged and missed. Another scrambled after the straining leads, only to be dragged into dust.
Just then, the chaise jolted to a halt. Hawk’s chest tightened as if an iron rope were constricting him.
Unaware of the catastrophe, the postilion leapt down and opened the carriage door.
White tulle spilled into the sunlight like mist over a battlefield.
A dainty foot, then the other. She moved as though nothing could touch her.
Every inch a prima ballerina descending a royal staircase. Except this wasn’t St. James.
This was hell.
Hawk’s warning came too late.
Lady Cecilia stepped into the courtyard with that ridiculous poodle in her arms.
The dogs saw the creature. And charged home. It could not have been a better formation if Hawk had led it himself, saber in hand.
The girl’s eyes widened. Her pretty lips opened in a high-pitched squeal, and then she ran.
Panic in motion. Hawk watched the flurry of tulle coming near, his legs frozen to the spot.
A part of him registered ballerinas had more stamina than many men in his regiment.
That was the rational part. The animal part was grabbing her and helping her climb atop him, ready to defend her against the Imperial Guard.
A rush of lilac invaded his lungs, and her sweet breath puffed against his throat. If only all the charges he was involved with could smell so nice.
Panting, he tightened his arms around her. The furious white ball of fluff wedged against his chest, snarling at his ribs.
Utter madness.
The dogs barked. The poodle yelped. Lady Cecilia buried her face in his neck.
And Hawk wanted to crush her closer and snarl at anyone wanting to take her from him.
“Halt!” he ordered.
The dogs skidded to a stop. Even the running grooms placed their hands on their knees, panting.
Her legs locked around his waist. She clung to him, skirts tangled around his sword belt, the heat of her body burning through wool and linen. Unacceptable. And too damned good.
His pulse throbbed in his temples, a dangerous rush of heat.
She lifted her face to his. Thoughts retreated, leaving him stranded. Somewhere it registered that a woman had no business having such lush eyelashes, batting against his cheek like some exotic butterfly wings.
“So much for a grand entrance,” she whispered.
“That was no entrance,” he growled. “It was an ambush.”
It took some effort to dislodge the surprisingly strong grip she had on his neck.
When he finally tore her from him, lowering her down, it was no release—just a slow drag of her body along his, leaving his nerves behind to riot.
Perhaps he would need the pistol after all, to abate the part of him that didn’t care she was his ward and his late friend’s daughter.
When her dainty slippers touched the ground, he held her shoulders, afraid she might swoon or move away. Her eyes lifted to him. A man could get lost in there. A paradise for weary warriors, waiting to receive them with open arms.
A throat cleared behind them.
“Is everything under control, Father?”
Nicki, damn him, trotted down the steps, his uniform crisp and unruffled, not a hair out of place. Lady Cecilia’s attention flicked to him, and her lashes dropped like a shield.
Hawk stepped back as if burned. “Lady Cecilia Stratton, this is my son, Nicholas de Warenne, Viscount Eythorne.”
Nicki bowed like a bloody courtier. “Welcome to Hawkhurst Hall.”
Hawk didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. His son stood beside her, young and composed, as polished as a commission medal. They were of an age. And he? He was dust and war and memory.
Hawk gestured to the great front doors. “Proceed inside, Lady Cecilia.”
She walked past him—her skirts brushing the side of his leg, her scent still clinging to his coat.
“Well, your summer campaign is off to an interesting start, Father,” Nicki’s voice was smug as hell.
Hawk leveled a glower at him. “If you don’t lose that smile, I’ll put you on picket duty until your grandchildren inherit your post.”