Chapter 20
“Iam in love with him.”
The words tasted sweet and strange and new.
The morning was crisp, the orchard bathed in golden light, but Celeste barely noticed.
Her gaze was fixed on the paddock below, where Hawk rode past, guiding his stallion with effortless control.
Alexander. A man sculpted by war, all precision and restraint, every movement calculated, every muscle honed by discipline. It was maddening.
Surely, her confession would unleash some great catastrophe, some divine smiting from the heavens. She braced for gasps, for cries of outrage—perhaps even a lecture on the unthinkable impropriety of falling for one’s guardian.
Instead, there was silence.
She turned to her trusted confidantes.
Rue leaned against a tree, casually tossing an apple. Prue clutched her hands together, her expression hovering somewhere between devout prayer and deep personal distress.
Celeste frowned. “Did you hear what I just said? I’m in love with the general.”
Rue narrowed her eyes. “Does this mean we can stop picking apples?”
Celeste blinked. “Why, I thought we—”
“Or at least find another excuse to ogle the general’s thighs?” Rue added.
Celeste choked. “I—what—you knew?”
Rue arched an eyebrow. “Darling, the kitchen has enough apples to feed the entire Peninsula campaign. We know.”
Celeste whirled to Prue, hoping for some form of protest, some horrified insistence that this was madness and must be stopped immediately.
Prue pressed the apple to her chest as though she could absorb its virtues instead of consuming them. “Oh, Lady Cecilia, I beg your pardon! I shall flog myself tonight. I shall let the lash cut through my fervent flesh until this sin is released.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Celeste said, and hugged herself. “Shouldn’t you at least tell me this is improper? That I should not be mooning after my own guardian?”
Rue merely shrugged. “Oh, we should. But let’s be honest—you’re too far gone, and it’s far too entertaining.”
Prue rubbed the apple slowly against her cheek.
“Are you sure, my lady? That man’s shoulders are as broad as a cathedral door.
Have you imagined him in the marital chamber, moving against you as relentlessly as a battering ram at a fortress gate, until he squeezed every last drop of perspiration from your exhausted body, and then starting all over again until you can do nothing but gasp—”
Rue growled. “I swear, Prue, one of these days I will wash your mouth with the soap I used to clean blood from my late husband’s shako. Just bite into that apple and be done with it.”
Prue’s eyes crossed as she gazed at the fruit. “I cannot. It is too ripe. Too full of sin.”
Celeste's face flamed redder than the apple in question.
She should be afraid of the physical aspect of love…
Yet, after the kiss, a palette of new feelings had sprouted in her, from mad fluttering to waves of heat to an incontrollable tingling.
.. Tall and impressive as he was, Celeste knew in her heart he would never hurt her.
Rue rolled her eyes and strode to Celeste. “Are you sure about this?”
Celeste watched Hawk patting the horse’s neck and was jealous of the beast. How could she be sure when this was so new to her? But she could not stop thinking about him, and ever since she had stepped into his house, she had felt sublime. Not afraid, not delicate, not dependent.
“He sees me as a child who does not know what she wants. I must find a way to overcome his reluctance,” Celeste declared. “Surely one of you knows how to move a man’s heart?”
Rue folded her arms, nodding as if recalling a well-executed battle. “Men’s hearts are like cannons. If you want them to fire, you need powder, aim, and the guts to withstand the recoil. But I have to be honest. After the fourth husband, I just dragged them to the pastor. Worked every time.”
Celeste groaned. “That hardly seems romantic.”
“Romantic?” Rue barked a laugh. “Romance is a luxury for women who don’t mind becoming widows.”
Celeste turned to Prue. “And you? What would you advise?”
Prue lifted her apple reverently, turning it in her hands like a relic.
“You must resist. When your flesh burns for him, kneel upon rice until the craving passes. When you long for his body moving atop yours, plunge yourself headfirst into the nearest pond. And above all, do not bite into temptation.”
“Nobody moves.” Rue stiffened, her sharp gaze scanning the orchard. “I believe we have a spy among us.”
Rue’s arm snapped back, her fingers curling around an apple. With a whoosh, she hurled it with the precision of a battle-hardened soldier.
The fruit cut through the air and struck Captain Graves directly in the temple.
The poor man! He was probably just walking by, existing peacefully in his own regimented world!
He staggered, eyes widening, left hand flying to his head, while the other grasped wildly for balance, barely catching onto a low-hanging branch before he collapsed straight into the bushes.
For a long, terrible moment, no one spoke.
Then, slowly he emerged.
A leaf was stuck on his forehead. His coat was askew. His usually impeccable composure was now… considerably less impeccable. His glare could have peeled paint from the manor walls.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple where the apple had struck. “Madam, was that an attempt on my life?”
Rue crossed her arms, not even a flicker of guilt in her eyes. “If it were, Captain, you’d be unconscious.”
Clutching his head, poor Captain Graves marched away from the orchard as if he preferred to face the devil than them.
Oh, just look at them. What a sorrowful lot of lonely women.
In love, but so far from a lover’s true bliss.
Rue, who would rather kill Graves than admit her feelings, and poor Prue, who was at risk of turning herself into a martyr sooner than accept Thomas.
And Celeste? Never had she felt so unmoored as when in the presence of that stern, gorgeous general.
She had thought she knew everything about love, but Shakespeare’s techniques were outmatched against real-world problems.
Celeste exhaled, staring at the man who had stolen her heart. Hawk had just vaulted off the horse. A wave of fierce longing hit her in the chest. It ached. Oh, Alexander… So strong, so resolute, so utterly unwilling to surrender.
“We need better instructions. A step-by-step manual on love.”
Prue perked up, eyes luminous with zeal. “Oh, if love is inevitable, there are ways, my lady. You could sew his name onto your chemise with red thread and wear it upon your heart. Or walk barefoot across nettles to prove your devotion. Or—”
“I give up.” Celeste pressed a hand to her forehead. “Where will I find modern textbooks on love in a general’s house?”
For a moment, there was silence. Then… Crunch. Prue sank her teeth into her apple with shocking enthusiasm, juice running down her chin. Her whole face brightened as if she’d just received a divine revelation.
“Books on love, Lady Cecilia? Why didn’t you say so?”
***
“How do you even know about these books?” Celeste asked, weaving between the library’s heavy armchairs.
Prue headed straight for a shadowy corner, one half-concealed by floor-to-ceiling shelves. “Thomas found them out while dusting. He wanted to show them to me.”
Celeste raised a brow. “And?”
Prue drew herself up. “I raced back to my room and chained myself to my bed, of course.”
A laugh bubbled in Celeste’s throat, but she pressed her lips together, determined not to give them away. If the general—or worse, Captain Graves—found them like this, God forbid what sort of punishment he would devise.
Prue handed Celeste a cloth-bound tome. Sighing, Celeste traced the gilded letters.
The Merchant of Venus. A lovely title. A play, of course, on The Merchant of Venice—Shakespeare’s tale of sacrifice, devotion, and love prevailing against all odds.
Venus, goddess of love, had to mean this was a romantic retelling!
She flipped the first page straight onto the most scandalous lithograph. Her eyes widened, and her soul attempted to flee her body.
“My goodness,” she whispered, pulse jumping. “What are they doing?”
Prue slapped a hand over her mouth. “I beg you, my lady. Don’t describe it. I’m sure it’s positively wicked.”
Celeste tried—in vain—not to stare at the illustration. Where was their clothing?
The man’s powerful arm angled—
The woman’s leg—
Heat coiled in her belly. She swallowed hard.
“I—I’m not certain,” she managed, her voice far too high, “but it seems they’re—well…” Celeste turned the book upside down. And that brought her face-to-face with the hero’s male endowments.
Her cheeks burned, and she shut the book with a soft thud. “I never knew a Shakespearean heroine could do that.”
No, truly. Where in the text had this been? Had Rosalind, beneath all that clever banter, been doing this? Had Beatrice, when she teased Benedick, secretly imagined this? Titania had certainly loved Oberon—but had she loved him… like this?
A fresh wave of heat flushed through her. “Er, Prue. Help me collect them. I will have to study them more closely.”
“All of them, Lady Cecilia?”
Celeste fanned herself. “Yes, dear. Every last one.”
Prue’s lanky arms strained to contain the pile of scandalous tomes. Celeste slid the illustrated book inside the Shakespeare folio she’d been reading, hoping the Bard’s formidable cover would hide such an indecent secret.
Just as they prepared to slip out, footsteps sounded outside.
Celeste’s head shot up, breath stalling.
If being seen were not tragedy enough, Prue’s slipper caught in the carpet, and she went sprawling.
Books spilled everywhere. One fell open, displaying not one, but two heroines locked in a tight embrace. Prue lifted desperate eyes to Celeste.
“Under the table, quickly.”