Chapter 22
Her castle. Her legacy. Celeste’s throat tightened, and she buried her face in Othello’s coat. Hawk stood in the courtyard, speaking in that authoritative way that demanded attention. Perhaps if she looked at him long enough, his confidence would brush onto her.
The steward, a serious-looking man with silver at his temples, nodded along, his deference clear.
What was she doing here? What if they saw through her the moment she stepped inside?
They would believe her to be a fraud. A ballerina, a girl who had spent her life on stage, weaving illusions out of silk and footwork.
Celeste looked at the phaeton. If she pleaded a migraine, Hawk could take her back before she had to face these people.
Rue sniffed beside her. Celeste followed her gaze. Graves paced the moat’s edge like a man testing whether it could swallow a battalion.
“Don’t even think of pushing our poor captain into the water,” Celeste said, half in jest.
Rue barked a laugh and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “If I did, he’d probably thank me for the discipline.”
“Oh, Rue, you love him. Why don’t you just go to him? Take Othello and invite him for a walk in the gardens.”
“I’ve buried seven uniforms. My hands are tired of stitching shrouds.”
Celeste’s heart pinched, and she touched Rue’s arm. “But you adore him. What does it matter if you lose him later? You’re already losing him now.”
Rue’s smile wavered. “Sweet girl, what do you know about fear?”
Celeste shut her eyes. What did she know? Nothing, perhaps. She had lived with fear for so long, yet could not claim intimacy with it. If she were truly friends with her fears, would they be so cruel?
“I know fear isn’t only a feeling. It lives inside us. And if we’re not careful, it seizes the reins and makes our choices. Then we’re not living anymore—we’re only existing.”
Rue studied her for a long moment, then swiped at her tears. “A walk with the dog?”
Celeste smiled and nodded.
Rue scooped Othello from Celeste’s arms and tucked the poodle under her elbow like a musket. “I’ll be damned if I let anyone take my reins.”
With that, she marched toward Graves.
“Ambrose, step away from the water,” she called, batting her lashes so fiercely that Celeste wondered if her fear was escaping through her eyes.
The captain stiffened. “If you’re having a seizure—”
“I am flirting with you, you great ox.”
Rue shot Celeste a long-suffering sigh. “Do you see what I’m up against?”
Celeste mouthed, Be more romantic.
Rue nodded, inhaled grandly, and declaimed, “Come, Ambrose, let us bask in nature’s gentle bliss—for the mongrel needs to piss.”
Celeste’s mouth fell open.
Graves turned slowly, staring as if she’d just professed undying love for a Frenchman. “What was that?”
Rue lifted her chin. “Poetry.”
“Cease this nonsense at once, Sergeant!”
“Well, if you refuse to understand the language of love—” Rue caught him by the epaulet and hauled him off.
Graves flailed. “I’m being taken prisoner. Alert my superiors.”
“Oh no, Captain. I shall escort you to the fields, where the sun may bless your grim little soul with warmth—and all that nonsense.”
Celeste covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. With a sigh, she watched them stride into the fields, golden light spilling around them, and somehow knew they would be all right.
If Rue could woo Graves without killing him, Celeste was duty-bound to face her castle. Lifting her chin, she turned from the phaeton and crossed the courtyard to Hawk.
Her general offered her his arm. “Why has Graves deserted his post?”
“I believe he took a break from the ‘Doses of Man’ mission. It was surpassed by another more pressing issue—taking Othello for his constitutional.”
“Did it work?”
“Sometimes it takes a long time for him to settle into a tree, but Othello—”
“I mean the mission. You sat beside him. You spoke to him. How did you feel?”
Celeste hid her smile under her bonnet. “It was strange. My pulse raced, and at some point, I lost my breath.”
Hawk frowned, analyzing her closely. She rather liked being the center of his attention. Much better than when he ignored her.
“Noted. Was it because Graves was sitting too close? Is proximity an issue? Or the sound of his voice?”
Celeste sighed. “Was he speaking at all? I didn’t notice. I could not stop staring at your forearms when you drove the carriage.”
His expression became thunderous, but not before a telltale blush colored his face. “Celeste. This is not a joke.”
Celeste closed her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry—it’s just… I don’t fear Graves. He looks at me as if I’m a chore and that I might bite him. And he is so loyal to you. Even if I drive him mad… I don’t think he could ever harm me.”
Hawk caught her hand, and his gaze locked on hers. “No one will ever harm you again, Celeste.”
“Alexander, I want to thank you. For what you are doing. Papillon is still here,” she said, pressing her fist to her breast as if she could hold the wings in place. “I feel her fluttering inside me. But it’s no longer overpowering. I think... I promise to resist when she tries to take control.”
His hand came up, and he caressed her cheek with surprising tenderness. “My brave girl.”
Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she felt taller than one of his grenadiers. So this was pride. How strange. It warmed her chest, filling her so full it almost hurt. She decided to capture it, lock it away in her heart forever—to take out whenever the shadows tried to creep back in.
“Come. I will show you your inheritance.”
Celeste entered the castle at Hawk’s side. A line of servants bowed, and the steward stepped forward with his introduction. Fear whispered she was an impostor, that the portraits, furniture, and art must shudder at her claim.
But no one looked down on her. Instead, they beamed, even gasped. Whispers floated to her: “Her ladyship’s daughter. Our lady, returned at last.” Smiling, she loosened her death grip on Hawk’s arm.
He placed a hand on her back, guiding her deeper into the castle. They stopped in a long gallery of portraits. Hawk gestured to one.
“This was your mother, Lady Angélique Stratton, née Angélique Conté. She was the heir of France’s most prestigious family.”
“She is so beautiful. Did you meet her?”
“Yes. That was how I recognized you. You share the same colors.”
That lady was her mother? All her life, Celeste had cursed her red hair, how it betrayed her in every crowd. And yet here was the woman who had given her such looks.
“How was she?”
“She was her age’s most celebrated beauty. There was not a single peer who was not in love with her.”
“And she must have enjoyed the attention.” Celeste brushed her fingers along the gilded frame.
“Not all men are predators, Celeste.”
She leaned closer, needing his warmth. He did not pull away.
“You are even more beautiful than she was. And you deserve the same deference, the same devotion.”
Celeste drew a sharp breath and turned to the next painting. “This must be my father.”
Behind her, Hawk’s voice deepened. “Philip Stratton, Marquess of Faversham.”
“I never let myself think of them. Not past wondering why they left me in a boat with strangers. Why—”
“Know this, Celeste. Your father loved you more than anything. When your mother left for France, he was in India. He returned as soon as he could, but too late. News of her death broke him. Yet he kept searching for you, though the odds were dismal.”
Her eyes closed. The words burrowed deep, searing bone and heart. She had told herself she was a foundling without past, without claim, without future.
I never knew them. But they knew me. They loved me.
“On the day he died, he made me your guardian. In the worst battle I ever fought, he would not let me charge until I swore to find you.”
These were her parents. A mother whose beauty she mirrored. A father who had carried her name through fire and blood, who had loved her across the world.
She had a past. And if she had a past, then—God help her—she might dare a future. Her parents had loved her, provided for her. And they had given her something better than a castle.
Celeste rose on tiptoe and kissed Hawk’s lips. His skin carried the warmth of the Kentish summer.
Hawk gripped her shoulders, holding her back. His eyes were tormented. “I was your father’s best friend. He chose me to protect you. Can’t you understand how this is impossible?”
“Don’t you see?” Celeste whispered. “My father may have left me estates, but his greatest gift was you.”