Chapter 8
Two weeks later
Hawk stepped down onto the gravel, every sense tightening. The afternoon air was still. Too still. Not the ordinary peace of a well-run house, but the heavy, unnatural quiet he had heard on battlefields just before the enemy’s guns spoke.
“I’m sure there is a rational explanation, Father,” Nicki said beside him.
“Indeed. Unless the French crossed the channel and made my house their headquarters, I don’t understand why my door is unguarded.”
The dogs came running into the courtyard, the infernal poodle at their heels. Surprise of surprises—the three were wearing matching tulle bows.
Nicki laughed. “You’ve got to give it to the little mongrel. Othello charges like a true dragoon. You should conscript him to the 13th.”
Hawk grunted. “Napoleon seems more fitting a name for this pest—small, territorial, and convinced he rules the world.”
“I’m off to the barracks. Good luck dealing with whomever overran the house.”
Hawk ignored his son’s sarcasm and strode into the gallery. No murmur of voices from the servants’ hall, no faint rattle of crockery from the kitchens.
If anyone had harmed Celeste—a muffled thud carried through the hush.
Then another. Hawk followed the sound to the ballroom.
The noises were clearer now—the scraping of footfalls, and some sort of footwork.
Not the cadence of boots on a parade ground, but irregular, limping, punctuated by a discordant cascade of piano notes that seemed to flee the beat rather than hold it.
Hawk pushed the doors wide.
It was worse than anything he could have anticipated.
The long space had been transformed into what could only be described as an enemy stronghold dedicated to frivolity.
Along the far wall, a line of bodies clung to a makeshift barre.
Not soldiers. Not even civilians of good sense.
His household staff. The butler, sweating under his black coat, knees bent at an unnatural angle.
The cook, cap askew, one meaty arm extended like she meant to fend off a cavalry charge.
Two maids attempting some kind of lunge that looked liable to end in injury and litigation.
And at the piano, God help them all, sat Captain Graves—his most dependable officer—hunched over the keys as if manning an artillery piece, pounding out a tune with all the finesse of a bombardment.
They were holding positions, of a sort. Uncoordinated, inefficient, and entirely useless positions.
Hawk’s gaze traveled down the line, assessing stance and posture the way he might survey raw recruits. And then he reached the one giving the orders.
Celeste.
She stood at the center, that impish smile lighting up the whole room.
She executed her movements with a precision of her own peculiar kind.
Where Hawk’s drill commands were meant to strip men down to identical units, hers seemed designed to draw each person’s individuality.
She moved among them without hurry, adjusting a maid’s shoulder, correcting the cook’s stance, encouraging the butler with a word that made him beam like a boy.
Color poured off her. Not just the red Hawk could see and starve after, but something less tangible and far more dangerous—the living colors of motion and warmth.
A maid asked her a question. Smiling, Celeste shed her shawl.
Beneath it, she wore a tunic of sorts. The garment hugged her lithe curves, making his mouth water.
With a hand poised on the back of a chair, she lifted one leg.
Not a kick. Not a leap. Those Hawk knew and could understand—but not this unfolding, which had no use other than to appease the eyes.
The line of her body stretched longer and longer, her foot rising to the side until she seemed to open herself to the world.
Her skirt slid against her thigh, baring a glimpse of pale skin that stole the air from his chest. Celeste’s every muscle was taut and elegant, and she held the position as if balance was her slave.
Desire hit him like a volley at close range, roaring through his blood. The reaction was undisciplined and unacceptable. A commander could not afford to be distracted by beauty, by softness, by a woman who moved as if the world existed solely to watch her.
Hawk cleared his throat. She turned, caught his gaze, and the surrounding din faded. For a moment, it was only the two of them—her cheeks flushed from exertion, her eyes bright, her bare arms still raised as though she might reach for him.
“You’re home,” she said, breathless.
The cook’s arm dropped first, followed by the butler’s wobbling knee. Graves stopped mid-chord, the sound dying like a gun misfired. Her ballet brigade froze, and then the line collapsed and retreated until only Celeste faced him.
He narrowed his eyes. “Am I?”
***
“Ballet, Graves?” Hawk asked.
Hawk stood before the desk, boots planted square, arms folded behind his back in parade-ground precision.
Across from him, Captain Graves waited at attention, his lengthy frame ramrod straight, heels locked together, hands clasped neatly at the base of his spine. The lines on his face—fifty years of wind, sun, and powder smoke—looked deeper in the muted light filtering through the mullioned windows.
“Explain why I returned to find my household in disorder, and my men absent from their posts.”
“No excuse, sir. I take full responsibility.” Graves’s reply carried no inflection.
A slow nod. No leniency in it. “You were assigned to oversee this house as you would a regiment. Your duty was to enforce order, maintain discipline, and prevent precisely what I witnessed today.”
Hawk let the silence stretch. “I trust you understand the severity of this failure.”
Graves stared straight ahead. “The lady can be very persuasive, sir.”
Hawk’s jaw ticked. “Did she at least complete the agenda? The courses?”
Graves straightened, as if bracing for incoming fire. “Lady Cecilia does not waken at dawn. She believes it is harmful to her disposition.”
A muscle pulled tight between Hawk’s shoulders. “Did she learn her history?”
“The dates and names tired her poor brain.” Graves’s lips compressed. “But the teacher reports they had a marvelous discussion about Homer.”
Hawk shifted his weight, boots creaking on the polished floorboards. “Did Miss Archer teach her how to embroider?”
“No, sir. Lady Cecilia’s fingers are too delicate for the work.”
The air between them seemed to contract.
Hawk exhaled once, the sound sharp in the stillness.
“This is a disaster. If this were the Peninsula, and you abandoned your post, you’d be court-martialed.
As it stands, I will not have an officer in my command who allows insubordination, disorder, and outright anarchy under his watch.
Effective immediately, you are relieved of Lady Cecilia’s campaign.
You will return to regimental responsibilities, where your skills are better suited. ”
“Understood, sir.”
Hawk had underestimated his ward’s powers.
Graves had proved no match for her capacity for chaos.
Still, if he wanted to turn Celeste into a lady, he would have to do it himself.
No matter. He had taken foppish, spoiled aristocrats—boys with more embroidery in their waistcoats than sense in their heads—and stripped them of vanity, forging them into officers who could stand their ground under fire.
He had beaten arrogance into obedience, indolence into endurance. And he would do the same with Celeste.
Hawk straightened. “Send the lady in.”
***
Hawk waited by the hearth, hands braced against the carved mantel, staring into the dying embers.
He would tighten the reins, reinforce the rules, and remind her who held authority in this household.
A commander never lost command of himself.
If he did, he lost the field. And he would not lose to a French ballerina.
The door opened with a soft click.
He kept his eyes forward. Control was his weapon, and he wielded it ruthlessly. Let her feel the weight of his silence.
A whisper of fabric. The delicate rustle of tulle. The sound was insubstantial, yet it brushed against his skin, and he stiffened as if anticipating a blow or a caress.
Then came the soft tread of slippers on parquet. Heat coiled low in his spine, crawling upward, unwelcome and persistent. Irritation, he told himself. Nothing else.
“Oh, my Lord, forgive me. I didn’t realize you were busy staring very hard at the fire. I shall return later.”
Hawk’s mouth twitched despite himself. Clever girl. She had fired the first volley—he had to give her that. But battles were not won with a single shot, and soon the field would be his.
Hawk turned. “I was trying to burn the memory of what I had just witnessed in my ballroom.”
She stood before his desk, her flushed face framed by wisps of red hair. Wherever she went, she carried sunlight with her, even into this paneled war room.
“Oh dear. Was it the cook? She will improve with practice, I promise,” she said.
For one reckless instant, the truth crowded his tongue. It was her. She was burned into him like a brand.
Hawk’s jaw hardened. Focus, damn it. If he maintained order, he would not think about her mouth. Or her hair.
“What offended me was the lack of discipline.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve just learned you’ve made no progress this week—”
“We are in full agreement.” She lifted a shoulder encased in tulle. “I must say, I’m disappointed.”
Heat unfurled beneath his collar, tightening at his throat. “I return from a matter of state to see my house in uproar, and you are disappointed?”
The light in her hair must be affecting his mental faculties. He could not have heard her correctly. That she had the audacity—inconceivable.
“The ballet class?” she said. “You can thank me later for improving your staff’s morale.
Please don’t change the subject. You promised I would find love.
I’ve been locked here for two weeks, and I’m no closer to it than when I was in Covent Garden.
Tell me this—which of Shakespeare’s heroines found love while waking at dawn and drilling to exhaustion? ”
Hawk could only blink, his mouth gaping at the ridiculousness of it all. This was no battlefield of open ground and clear objectives. This was guerrilla warfare, where the enemy did not charge headlong but weaved chaos with nothing more than glances and a tongue brushing a perfect lip.
“Starting tomorrow, you will return to your schedule—”
“I refuse to live a loveless life,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve cast myself as the heroine of my own comedy, and you are my fairy godfather, and you promised to help me find my prince.”
She dared to point at him, her fair skin flushed pink. He wanted to bite her finger and show her exactly who her prince was. He forced the thought down. Lady Cecilia Stratton was a lunatic, a lunatic who did things to his pulse that enemy fire never had.
“I’m glad you understand,” she said, confusing his stupefied silence for agreement.
“I have an idea for finding a suitor. We should devise a test, like in The Merchant of Venice. We’ll have three chests.
One gold, one silver, one lead. Each with a riddle.
Whoever chooses the right one wins my hand.
We could invite only the most promising gentlemen.
A trial of wit, not just title or fortune. ”
What? She wanted to fill his drawing room with eager pups in frilly waistcoats, all craning for a glimpse of her smile, their eyes lingering on the prize that should never have been theirs.
His pulse kicked hard, thudding against his collar.
The Merchant of Venice? She had indeed reduced them to actors in a play—but this was no noble comedy.
This was a farce. The Taming of the Tulle.
And if he wanted to tame this tulle, he had to reassert control.
He could not descend to her level of madness.
Hawk squared his shoulders and spoke in the voice reserved for rebellious recruits. “You will do no such thing. I am your guardian. I will find you a husband as I see fit. And that is final.”
Her eyes narrowed with a spark of defiance. “And if you choose badly? If you pick someone who doesn’t know what I need?”
The words hit like a gauntlet thrown, a direct challenge to his judgment. A slip of a girl wrapped in tulle, daring to second-guess a man who had commanded cavalry under fire. His pulse pounded in his throat, and his hands tingled to pull her into his lap—to remind her who was in command.
He had to rein in his temper. Treat her like an adult.
He stepped closer and kept her gaze prisoner. “You will return to your room. You will attend your classes tomorrow. And you will follow my orders,” Hawk said through gritted teeth.
She lifted her chin. “And if I don’t?”
She dared to defy him? Heat surged in his chest, pumping into his limbs. Control yourself, damn it. But the words tore free before discipline could stop them. “By God, I’ll put you on my knee and tan your hide.”