Chapter 17
Graves cleared his throat. “The game is about to start, sir.”
Hawk surveyed the field. Still, try as he might, he could not force his attention to the cavalry drill.
His gaze kept drifting to the house, searching for a flash of red.
His little tulle. Every hour spent in her presence was a test of his control, a slow erosion of the order he lived by. To be near her was to court disaster.
“Do you think Nicki wins this? That’s a challenge, even for your son.”
Graves had not the faintest idea what a challenge really was.
Hawk’s legs and spurs might be pointed to the officer’s competition, but his mind was still on that chaise, cradling Celeste, and feeling her tears against his neck.
Her warmth. Her words. “I’m Papillon” had ripped a hole in his chest, a dull, dangerous one.
He was thirty-nine, and he had never felt anything like this. He could barely breathe when he was not with her.
What in all of Napoleon’s charges would he do? He couldn’t stay near her, desiring her as he did, yet how else could he help her become a confident lady? One who could live her life to the fullest?
His first plan had been based on false intelligence.
Celeste wasn’t spoiled. She was afraid. Fear wasn’t something to break down like arrogance or correct like an officer’s poor posture.
It wasn’t a flaw to be stripped away—it was a wound.
A wound that had been left open too long, one she had learned to mask behind charm and laughter.
He had been ready to tear the tulle, the ribbons, the frippery as if they were a costume she didn’t need. But now? Now he realized they were all she had ever had. Remove them too quickly, and she would disappear with them.
What else could he do? Celeste was afraid of men and if he meant to help her, he would have to draw nearer and ease her fear the way he had eased recruits into battle. Closeness was the cure for her. But closeness was a threat to him. He could not stand near her without risking his sanity.
“Look, Leighton is securing the line. Your son will lose, Hawk. That will be a first.” Graves said.
Hawk brought his attention back to the field.
The game’s objective was to capture the regimental standard.
The Duke of Leighton commanded one side, Nicki the other.
Leighton had more men and more room to maneuver.
He had chosen a cautious strategy, spreading his forces wide, covering the flanks, holding position.
Nicki had fewer troopers and no margin for error.
Dust spiraled into the air, hooves hammering the field until the bright Kent afternoon looked more like Spain.
Hawk watched, arms crossed, as Nicki spurred ahead, a streak of red cutting straight into Leighton’s defensive arc.
His troopers followed without question, and at the last instant, he narrowed his line into a single spearpoint.
The impact shattered Leighton’s formation from within.
Graves let out a stunned breath. “I’ll be damned.”
Hawk didn’t answer. His chest was tight, his throat dry. Watching his son charge with no regard for personal risk amazed him. Look at himself, afraid of the personal cost while his ward needed him. He hoped Philip could not see him now.
She needed someone willing to take the hit for her, to guide her through the chaos, and to break through the barriers of her fear.
Her life had been changed drastically, and he was the only person she trusted.
His reserve could not matter. His desire, his longing—irrelevant.
A commander didn’t abandon his post because the duty was too heavy.
The strongest carried the most weight. That was the way of things. And Celeste needed him to carry this.
“Leighton is a good leader for a dukedom,” Hawk said, watching him leave the field. “But not for war.”
Beside him, Graves hummed in agreement. “Perhaps you’re right. Rumor has it he’ll sell his commission soon and take his seat in the House of Lords.”
Hawk grunted, unsurprised. He had seen it before—a young noble, at first intoxicated by the promise of glory, discovering that war was not about dashing uniforms and shining medals, but about mud, blood, and orders that sent men to their deaths.
Leighton would do better in Parliament. Safer there, where battles were fought with words and not steel.
Graves gave him a pointed look, lifting his bushy brows. “A perfect match for Lady Cecilia, wouldn’t you say? A fine young duke with an untarnished name, a respectable fortune. And she’d be off your hands.”
Hawk’s jaw tightened. “No. She’s not ready.”
Graves nodded slowly, as if considering his words.
“How is Lady Cecilia’s riding progressing?”
Graves blinked at the abrupt shift. “Her riding, sir?”
“Yes.”
“She refuses instruction from anyone but Mrs. Archer.” Graves huffed. “But according to reports, she rides exceptionally well. Light in the saddle, quick to learn.”
Hawk exhaled slowly, his decision settling in his bones. “When does she ride next?”
“In ten minutes, sir.”
He pushed the spyglass into Graves’s hand. “I will take over her lessons.”
“But, sir, what about the drills?”
“You will stand in my place.”
Graves squinted at him as if trying to decode the sudden shift in tactics. “Forgive me, sir, but I thought the plan was to keep her occupied with tutors, not teach her cavalry maneuvers.”
Celeste was not ready for ballrooms, not ready for courtships. She needed to learn to control her own fear.
And if he had to be the one to be burned, then so be it.
***
Hawk strode from the drilling field to the stables.
She had to be downcast after last night’s confession.
He had to reassure her. Make her understand he would guide her through this so she could let go of her fear and live to the fullest. And most important of all.
He would keep his distance. Assume once and for all the position she needed from him—the fairy godfather. Even if it killed him.
It was with these pleasant thoughts that a general had to enter his own stable courtyard and stop dead in his tracks.
She stood by the mounting block, bathed in afternoon light, the breeze teasing at the loose tendrils of her fire-bright hair. It spilled in soft waves down her back, too long, too untamed for regulation. What in blazes was she wearing? Was that his regiment’s uniform?
The coat hugged her shoulders, braided silver gleaming. It should have made her look soldierly. It did not. The jacket was too fitted, molding to her waist before flaring just slightly at her hips. Seeing her in the 13th Dragoons’ colors—his colors—pierced the void in his chest.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. Beneath it, she wore cavalry breeches, tucked into polished black boots. A white tulle skirt fluttered over it, absurdly sheer, catching the wind like the wings of some ethereal creature. The light fabric shifted as she moved, barely concealing her thighs.
Hawk’s pulse slammed against his throat. If she rode into battle like that, the enemy wouldn’t know whether to fight her or fall to their knees.
“I believed your trousseau included riding habits, Lady Cecilia.”
The wind lifted her ridiculous skirt, and Hawk was sure—utterly sure—that this campaign was about to become his most difficult yet.
Mrs. Archer, too, was wearing a version of the uniform. But in her, it was practical, even masculine, while Celeste looked straight out of a midsummer wet dream.
“The trousseau hasn’t arrived, so we improvised, my lord,” the chaperone said.
Hawk dragged a hand down his face, forcing his expression to be neutral. His fingers flexed, itching to adjust the collar settling against Celeste’s delicate neck.
Hawk grunted. “I’ll take over Lady Cecilia’s lessons.”
The chaperone’s gaze flicked to Celeste—a mother hen defending her charge. In any other instance, he would not tolerate insubordination. Still, he liked to see that Celeste had already made a conquest of the stern woman.
Celeste nodded, and Mrs. Archer gave him a salute and whirled on her heels.
They both watched as she left. Hawk almost called her back.
Right.
He looked into Celeste’s eyes, and his throat went dry. What the hell could he say to her? He turned words over in his mind like ill-fitting gears—nothing settled into place.
If she had been a recruit, he’d have barked something brisk. You held the line, didn't you? That's all that matters. I'm bloody proud of you.
But Celeste was no boy in uniform, and the memory of yesterday still burned raw.
I'm sorry didn’t cover it.
You were brave rang hollow—too thin for what she had endured.
He wanted her to know she was safe, and that she could trust him.
Clearing his throat, he caught Celeste’s dainty hand in his. “About yesterday—”
“Yesterday seems like the distant past, my lord,” she said, her chin wobbling. “Why would anyone wish to speak about it when we are about to ride over this gorgeous countryside?”
Hawk tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Sometimes the fastest horse can't outrun our problems.” He should know. His stables were full of champions, and still, trouble kept pace.
She bit her lip, gaze dropping to the tops of her boots.
“Then I shall ride sidesaddle, my lord. Problems can’t cling so tightly when one only offers them half a seat.”
Hawk exhaled and stepped back. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he would respect that. He was never much of a talker. And he already had a plan.
“Sidesaddles are impractical if not downright dangerous. When you ride with me, you will do it astride.” The moment the words left his mouth, he cursed the image they conveyed. Thankfully, Celeste didn’t have the power to read his thoughts. Only to scramble them.
“Astride? What a radical notion. Next, you’ll be encouraging me to take up fencing.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” If only to teach her to defend herself. Or spear him with a blade and end his misery.
Celeste let out a laugh, light and unexpected. “What a terrifying prospect. I should most likely skewer myself before I ever touch an opponent.”
Hawkhurst exhaled. “Right. We will focus on keeping you in the saddle first.”
She tilted her head, considering. “Will you be riding with me, my lord?”
“Of course.”
Her brows lifted in mock surprise. “And here I thought you would merely shout commands from a safe distance.”
“If I did that, you’d be in a ditch before the first turn.”
She hummed, thoughtful. “Then I shall take comfort in knowing you will be right there, should I need rescuing.”
He stilled, and his chest tightened. “Always.”
The stable doors swung open, and the groom led the horses into the courtyard. His white stallion was massive, all rippling muscle and gleaming power, his arched neck proud, his movements impossibly controlled. His mane, thick and wild, tossed like a banner.
“He looks as if he were sculpted from dawn itself,” she murmured, stepping closer. “May I—may I caress him?”
Hawk grunted, reaching for the reins. His chest expanded—a preening officer during his first parade. She was admiring the horse. Not him.
“This is a warhorse. Not a pet.”
Celeste arched a brow. “And does the warhorse, not a pet, have a name?”
“I call him Thirty-Eight.”
After his eleventh horse was shot beneath him in the retreat from Corunna, he stopped naming them.
“You cannot name a horse after a number. It is ghastly.” She gave the stallion a conspiratorial smile. “I shall call him Oberon.”
Hawk’s head snapped toward her. A Midsummer Night’s Dream again… He should be glad she still saw him as her fairy godfather. It was the role he had to assume to help her. So why did it feel like a damn insult every bloody time?
Oblivious of his reaction, she turned to the mount Hawk had chosen for her. The white Arabian mare, all elegant limbs and delicate features, tossed her head, her coat shimmering like a pearl in the sunlight.
“What will you name your mare? Hermia?” His voice was dry, controlled as he spoke about the play’s heroine.
Celeste tapped her chin, then looked at him from under her eyelashes. “No. I think I will call her Titania.”
His breath left him in a sharp exhale. His grip on the reins tightened, the leather creaking under his fingers. He wanted to laugh. Or curse. Or do something reckless, like carry her away and—did she know what she just said?
Titania.
Not Hermia, the innocent girl caught in a love triangle. Not Helena, the desperate one. Not even Puck, the mischievous trickster.
No. Titania.
The queen.
In the play, Titania was not a wayward, romantic girl searching for love. She was Oberon’s wife. His equal. His match.
Hawk’s pulse throbbed. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clamped down on the reckless thoughts crowding his mind. His body felt too hot under the weight of his coat.
Surely, she didn’t mean it. His gaze flicked to Celeste. She stroked the mare’s nose, utterly unbothered, as if she hadn’t just ripped the ground from beneath his feet.
He girded himself. He was not here to flirt and enter her Shakespeare games, no matter how they made his heart race. “We dallied enough. The bard won’t keep the sun in the sky for the lesson.”
He checked the cinch of her mare while she watched him from under her eyelashes.
Then, because he enjoyed pain, he turned to her.
Instead of leading the horse to the mounting block, he linked his fingers above the stirrup.
Celeste’s boot hovered for a breath before settling into his palms, as light as the rest of her.
He felt the press of her sole, and the quiet trust in the way she leaned into him.
Her hands landed on his shoulders. He told himself it was just for balance, but the warmth of her touch seeped through his uniform like an ember burying in snow.
She was close enough that he could see the afternoon light spark in her promise-colored eyes.
Her gaze flickered to his mouth. He did the same. Her breath fanned against his throat, warm and uneven. Too sweet.
Enough of this nonsense. Hawk lifted her, settling her astride the mare, then he reached for her boot and slipped it into the stirrup.
Why did he do that when she was perfectly capable of adjusting it herself?
Rip his arm off if he knew. She didn’t move from his touch, her gaze following his hands, as if he had the right to—Christ. He should let go.
Step back. Put the proper distance between them.
But his fingers lingered. A beat too long. The tulle of her skirts felt delicate and absurd against the leather of his gloves.
“You flinch at every man who so much as looks at you. But not at me.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
A flush rose from her neck to her cheeks, and she gripped the reins. “Why should I fear my fairy godfather?”
He released the tulle as if the mesh were made of hot coals and stepped back.
Why indeed? Because the fairy godfather wanted to devour her.