Chapter 5
Riding all the way from London alone in a carriage? Celeste had been ready for this. Watching the sweetest countryside rolling by like an endless pastoral setting? She had been ready for this. Arriving at the most gorgeous estate ever? She had been… partially ready for this.
Alighting from a carriage straight into ferocious dogs?
That had been chaotic and comedic, a mishap worthy of a lead role, the kind of entrance that earned applause…
But climbing the General’s back, his arms around her, holding her close as though she were a comrade to be shielded from cannon fire?
No. She hadn’t been ready for that scene… Phew, what a way to start her new life.
Her pulse was still a little too quick. Calm down, Celeste. This was only the first act. Surely she’d find her footing before the curtain rose.
The doors shut behind her. Celeste blinked into the hush and came face to face with a footman. Tall. Liveried. Male.
Her fingers tightened around Othello until he gave a muffled grunt. Heat rushed up her neck, her breath catching high in her chest. She felt the floor tilt as Papillon tried to break free.
“Lady Cecilia.”
The general’s voice cut through the haze. Her gaze snapped to him. Yes. She was Lady Cecilia now—not Papillon. Lady Cecilia stood among strangers as if they were old friends. She didn’t believe they meant her harm. They were here to help her on the only mission that mattered—finding her prince.
And she was not alone. She had this unconquerable general, her own brooding Fairy Godfather in a military coat.
She entered the house at his side. If she focused on his quiet authority, she could pretend she was not the frightened girl she had been, but the poised lady she meant to be.
The foyer ended, opening into a hall as vast as Covent Garden’s audience.
She couldn’t move.
The general leaned in. “Are you cold?”
She turned, startled.
He was already unfastening the top buttons of his coat. The gesture was automatic, like he’d done it a hundred times on the field—stripping warmth from his own back to give it to someone more vulnerable.
Her throat tightened, and she suppressed her shivers. “No,” she said quickly. “I’m…”
She almost said shaken—by the dogs, the strangers, the sheer size of it all. She almost said I’m not used to being stared at without stage lights in my eyes. She almost said I don’t know my lines.
“I’m fine.”
He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he reached out and placed a warm hand on the center of her back.
It was the second time he had touched her today.
The first had been the scramble of limbs and snarling dogs.
But this… this was a choice. She waited for her breath to catch, for her skin to prickle with warning.
But Papillon felt strangely quiet inside of her.
Celeste didn’t pause to consider why. Once a reprieve was given, a person ought not judge it. So she didn’t. She simply let the touch anchor her, like a cue whispered from the wings, and stepped onto the stage.
Two lines of servants awaited her, poised, every head inclined at the same angle, as if the scene had been blocked and rehearsed for weeks.
She was used to backstage chaos—hairpins flying, dancers exchanging costumes and gossip, the frantic last-minute stitch that kept a bodice from coming apart mid-leap. This still-life was… unnerving.
The general inspected the servants and then turned to her. Celeste straightened without meaning to, as if she, too, were part of his regiment.
“This is my ward, Lady Cecilia Stratton. You will treat her with the respect due to a daughter of the house.”
The servants dipped in bows and curtsies, a most impressive feat of coordination, but the chorus of creaks rising from their knees and backs made her flinch. Poor souls. They mustn’t have stretched in years. Did the general forbid it?
After the orchestra of creaking joints came to the blessed coda, he pointed to a broad man in immaculate regimentals.
“Lady Cecilia,” Hawk said, “this is Captain Ambrose Graves. He will be in command of your daily agenda.”
The captain inclined his head with battlefield precision.
“It is an honor, Lady Cecilia. You will… ah… find me dependable. I shall endeavor not to treat you like a recruit—though I do advise to keep your back straight, your chin level, and your eyes forward at all times.”
She didn’t know what to feel or think. Her hours had so far been regulated by the theater, and Katherina seemed to scowl even worse than this lamppost of a captain…
but there was a quirkiness to his bearing, and the way he looked at her, as if she was the one who might bite… It made him endearing to her.
Hawk moved on. “And this is Mrs. Rue Archer—your chaperone.”
Celeste’s lips curved. “And what, Mrs. Archer, will you be in command of?”
Rue’s eyes glinted. “Your virtue, my lady. And God help us both, I’ve been in tighter spots.”
Celeste’s laugh escaped before she could stop it. “A formidable guard indeed. Perhaps I should carry a banner that says, ‘Virtue under siege. All rogues beware.’”
The butler coughed. Graves blinked. Rue looked delighted.
The general’s brows lifted, and she thought, for the briefest moment, that the corner of his mouth twitched.
Was he amused? It was either that or he had a mild case of indigestion. Well, if she could make the General who never surrendered laugh (or grimace in that particular way), what couldn’t she accomplish?
As if aware of the direction of her thoughts, the General crossed his arms like a thundercloud in polished boots.
Celeste smiled. Yes. The casting was nearly complete.
Captain Graves—tall, grim, loyal to a fault—was clearly her “noble steward” type.
A cross between Lodovico from Othello and Kent from King Lear—too principled for the spotlight, but always present at the decisive moment, sword drawn, honor intact.
And Mrs. Archer? Oh, she was perfect. A rough-edged Jaques in skirts, or perhaps a dry, battle-worn Nurse from Romeo and Juliet—sharp-tongued, heart of gold, and wholly unimpressed by lace or lunacy.
And the general… she had already cast him as her fairy godfather, hadn’t she?
Granted, today he leaned even less toward enchanted wishes and more toward Julius Caesar after a dashing campaign, or Hotspur in an expertly fitted uniform—glorious, grim, and entirely too handsome for a secondary character…
When she dared a glance upward, his eyes were already on her. Her pulse jumped, and she dropped her gaze fast, telling herself it was only a general’s habit, not the start of a scene.
Still, he would do. They all would. With sheer willpower, she avoided a celebratory pirouette. Now all she lacked was the prince. The one who would see through her layers and love her not in spite of them, but because.
And when he arrived—oh, when he arrived—she would know. Just as Viola knew. Just as Rosalind did. Just as every Shakespearean heroine worth her soliloquies had always known.
***
Celeste perched on the general’s military-issue chair, certain it had been designed by the same mind that invented torture racks.
The seat was as unyielding as a moralist’s glare, and the straight back offered all the comfort of a confessional.
If the general found this tolerable, then his backside deserved a medal, if not a statue in Trafalgar Square.
She shifted once, trying to find a more forgiving angle. There wasn’t one.
The study’s objects had too much stage presence for her tastes—sabers gleaming on the wall, maps arranged like war trophies, books ordered by size.
No flowers, no frills, not even a single cushion.
A couch loomed at the corner, its rusty upholstery looking as if it had survived one too many battles.
Even the air smelled disciplined, as if afraid to carry perfume and be sent to court-martial. She glanced toward the man pacing behind the desk, chin high, every inch of him carved in defiance of softness.
Her spine tingled, and she gripped the edge of her chair.
He halted and turned toward her. “To become an English lady worthy of your lineage will require effort and discipline.”
Celeste blinked. Discipline? Effort? Love was not a siege! It was an accident of proximity and poetry. But she smiled. Because heroines knew when to keep the peace—Act One was far too soon for rebellion.
“I will try my best, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Reveille is at six hundred.”
Celeste blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will wake up at six o’clock for morning exercise.” He said it flatly, as if dawn was meant for stretching limbs rather than dreams.
Celeste chewed on the end of her pencil.
Had any of Shakespeare’s heroines ever risen that early?
Certainly not Viola—she needed her rest for disguises and duels.
Portia was too refined for such indecency.
And Juliet? Please. She’d barely gone to sleep before dawn arrived with its wretched consequences.
Celeste had never once woken before eight, and she could wager Othello’s whiskers that no love worth having had ever been found at six a.m.
He stared at her pencil. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking notes.”
“That’s not necessary,” he replied, frowning. “I have a copy for you here.”
He reached for a sheet of parchment and held it out to her with one hand, the other extended, palm open.
She hesitated a heartbeat too long, then forfeited her pencil.
Their fingers touched, and the contact sent a thrill up her arm that left her blinking. The general’s hand was large, like everything else about him. And firm. Quite firm. The kind of hand that could hold reins, or the world if he so wished it.
She swallowed. Well, it was only sensible that one’s fairy godfather should have a large hand. At the top of her head, she could not think why, but certainly it would come to her. Eventually. Still, her spine straightened with a jolt she could not blame on posture alone.
Celeste brushed her hand against her skirts, but the heat of his skin lingered on her fingertips long after she’d withdrawn.
He walked away again, resuming his circuit behind the desk. “Before lunch, you will attend English etiquette, literature, and history lessons.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Celeste blurted before she could catch herself.
Hawk turned sharply.
“And utterly necessary,” she added, lifting her chin and trying to appear scholarly rather than insubordinate.
He nodded once and returned to pacing.
Celeste sat frozen for a beat, pencilless, then folded her hands tightly in her lap. Love, real love, did not obey rules. It arrived when mistaken identities collided in the moonlight. When banter led to breathlessness. When hearts leapt, not marched.
This unconquerable general might command armies. But he knew nothing of the heart. She would do well to write her own script. And perhaps he would learn something about laughter and softness. His posterior would thank her. The thought came unbidden, and heat climbed to her cheeks.
“Exactly. Exerting one’s mind and body is the key to achieving excellence.” He glanced up from his list. “How is your saddle, Lady Cecilia?”
She blinked. “I don’t have one.”
“I mean your riding experience.”
“I don’t have that either.”
“That’s unacceptable,” he said, voice hardening. “Why weren’t you taught how to ride?”
The words hit her like a slap. He sounded genuinely offended, as if her lack of equestrian skill were a personal failing. An oversight in her moral education.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, staring at her folded hands, “because a Covent Garden ballerina had no need of horses.”
She had never been ashamed of her past—but somehow, his disapproval made her feel like a chipped porcelain in a cabinet full of crystal.
“If you had found your ward in the circus… she would have learned to ride bareback while juggling fire,” she said and was surprised that her voice didn’t quiver.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The apology landed awkwardly between them, too sincere for her to ignore, too strange to accept outright.
She sat straighter, hands folded tightly. What had her father seen in him? What bound these two men together, such that her fate had been placed in this soldier’s care?
She almost asked. Almost. Whatever answer lay in his heart, it was not one she dared pry loose—not while he loomed in uniform and duty.
“This mistake will be rectified,” he said after a pause. “You will have riding lessons every afternoon.”
“Oh, dear,” she murmured.
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “Any concerns, Lady Cecilia?”
“None at all,” she said. “Only wondering if I’ll survive the season.”
“Not only will you survive,” he said, his voice firm, “but thrive. And if you follow the schedule, by the end of this season, you will be married.”
Celeste smiled sweetly.
“Your future husband will be dependable, and of good reputation.”
Or reckless, she thought, poetic, and mad with love.
Hawk’s tone remained crisp. “You will conduct yourself with grace and dignity.”
Or with wit and mischief, she mused, the sort that might undo even a general with a single laugh.
“The courtship will be simple and respectable.”
Or filled with longing and moonlit meetings. Perhaps a mistaken identity, a borrowed wig, a locked garden gate—plots wild enough to make even General Hawkhurst forget his endless timetables.
Finally, he nodded, satisfaction carved into his patrician face. “Good. I am glad we understand each other.”
Celeste beamed, every inch the dutiful ward. “Oh, entirely, my lord.”
She rose from her torture-chair, smoothed her skirts, and walked out with the grace of a girl already plotting Act two.