Chapter 25
Celeste sighed as Prue fussed with yet another curl. “If you take any longer with my hair, I will have a midnight banquet instead of an afternoon picnic.”
Prue twirled a strand around her finger. “Oh, Lady Cecilia, a full night of writhing in the grass, fingers sinking into the soft earth, the Earl forcing you to—”
“Prue!” Rue snapped.
Prue blinked innocently. “—consume an indecent amount of ripe, dripping fruit?”
Celeste covered her flaming cheeks.
Rue rubbed her temples. “I swear, Prue, if you don’t stop, I will conscript you into the army.”
“Oh no, not the army! Forced to train daily with vigorous young soldiers, their bodies glistening, their muscles tensing under strict command—”
Rue hurled a stocking at her, and Celeste had to duck fast to avoid the projectile.
“Ladies, please behave.” Celeste batted Prue’s hands away from her coiffure.
“Did you have any opportunity to use the knowledge you collected in that fabled library sortie?” Rue asked.
Prue colored bright red. Celeste’s gaze went to the stash of novels hidden underneath her traveling chest.
She had not mustered the courage to look at The Merchant of Venus—with its athletic and puzzling illustrations. It was too far removed from the love she had always imagined.
And perhaps she wouldn’t have to. Celeste smiled a secret smile.
After the romantic outing to the castle yesterday and today’s demand that she be ready for a picnic, she had reasons to believe Hawk was finally thawing.
Maybe she would find the love she always dreamed of with him, the giddy, breathless thrill of a heart racing toward its fate, the brilliance of the fireworks she once could only look at from afar.
“Not yet…” She smiled, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Did Captain Graves say anything about the plans for today?”
Rue’s porcelain cheeks flushed crimson. “No. He fled rather abruptly yesterday.”
Celeste blinked. “What exactly did you do?”
Rue lifted her chin, entirely unapologetic. “Why, I followed the battle plan, of course. I asked him to leave the regiment.”
Celeste’s mouth fell open. “And?”
“He resisted, so I kissed him.”
Celeste stared.
“Rather violently, I’m afraid. He panicked. Spooked two horses, startled the groom, and vanished faster than Wellington’s infantry at Salamanca.”
From the corner, Prue coughed. “A kiss that sends men fleeing for their lives.”
Rue looked at her own hands. “Ambrose won’t speak to me now. I’ve compromised military decorum.”
Celeste pressed a hand to her forehead. “Did Captain Graves understand your intentions are honorable?”
Rue sniffed. “If a man can’t recognize a marriage proposal when it’s shouted straight into his mouth, he deserves to end his days polishing boots.”
Oh, dear. Clearly, Shakespeare had underestimated the dangers of taking love into one’s own hands. “We’ll sort it all out. I promise. Now I have to meet the general downstairs. Wish me luck.”
***
The grand stairs felt a mile long as she descended to the foyer. When her eyes landed on Hawk, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over her, she nearly lost her footing.
Her stomach fluttered madly, like a flock of startled birds beneath her ribs.
Afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, catching in the silver threads of his hair, illuminating his proud stance. Her general ought to be forbidden from wearing dark blue. It made him look impossibly regal—almost unbearably kissable.
She floated down to him with breath held tight. But as she reached the foyer, his expression was grim.
“Well, then, my lord, if you can’t muster excitement for biscuits and jam, I guarantee I have enough for both of us. Enthusiasm, not biscuits. I hate those—”
“Lady Cecilia.” His jaw tightened, eyes guarded. “Nicki will be your escort.”
Celeste blinked, her gaze shifting from the general to the side, where his son leaned against the wall.
Nicki? Her stomach plunged, an awful, sickening sensation like missing the final stair and stepping into empty air.
“Oh,” she whispered faintly, hating the fragility in her voice.
A hot blush scorched her cheeks, shame spreading outward from her chest. She had misunderstood. Hawk had never planned to spend time with her.
Foolish, foolish girl.
“Of course you won’t,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “Everybody knows generals hate jam…”
“It is time you entered the society of people your age,” he said, in that voice that invited no discussions.
Nicki raised his arm, and the footman opened the door. The light nearly blinded her. She stared at the well-shaped arm presented to her. Her hand stayed firmly in place.
“Lady Cecilia?”
The voice was Nicki’s.
Then Hawk’s shadow engulfed her. He caught her hand. She lifted her eyes to him. She was certain a boulder weighed less than her chin.
Some of the grimness left him as he held her gaze and placed her palm over his son’s arm.
“You can trust Nicki with your life.”
Could she? Celeste swallowed against a dry throat. That was reassuring—though she could only hope Nicki would handle her heart with more care than his father.
***
“I’m sorry the general put you into this. I’m certain escorting me must feel like the most horrid of chores,” Celeste said, trying to match Nicki’s longer strides.
Her escort walked silently beside her. He had his father’s height and bearing, but he lacked Hawk’s warmth—or perhaps just his patience.
She twisted the ribbon of her bonnet. “I promise to eat quickly.” Her voice brightened with forced cheerfulness. “And I can race to the hill if you wish. In fact, do you think we can walk around the house once and return?”
His mouth tightened slightly, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “I don’t think a short stroll qualifies as a picnic, Lady Cecilia.”
At least he spoke. That was progress. Her breath eased, just a fraction.
Hawk’s plan—to cure her fear of men in gentle doses—could still work.
Even if this particular dose was sullen and begrudgingly administered.
She glanced at Nicki’s profile. “Well, I've never been to a picnic before. What if we take a sweetbread and eat on the go?”
His lips twitched, a small crack in the cold facade.
Encouraged, she whispered conspiratorially, “We can dine à la battle. Like soldiers on the march. I’m sure it will be all the rage… once we invent it.”
A chuckle escaped him, and her heart lifted like a kite briefly catching the wind. But then his expression hardened again. He turned slightly toward her, his eyes shaded with something that looked almost like pity.
“Your suitor won’t enjoy the idea, Lady Cecilia.”
Her step faltered, an icy sensation piercing straight through her chest.
“My suitor?” Her voice sounded strangely distant, as if spoken by someone else entirely.
“The Duke of Leighton is not known for hurrying his meals,” Nicki said matter-of-factly, eyes fixed ahead.
Celeste’s stomach churned sickly. Hawk had found her a suitor. He was sending her away, entrusting her to a stranger.
Nicki glanced sideways, caught something in her expression, and slowed his steps, concern tightening his brow.
Celeste quickly lowered her lashes, hiding the moisture welling in her eyes.
She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms through the delicate fabric of her gloves. Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Nicki’s hand covered hers, a quiet warmth enveloping her trembling fingers. “It will be alright,” he said softly.
Heat flooded her cheeks, humiliation blending with gratitude.
Her breath shuddered quietly in her chest. He’d noticed her fear.
She’d failed again, and worse—someone else had witnessed it.
She was transparent, fragile as glass. Was this what Hawk thought of her, too?
A brittle girl needing constant protection, incapable of standing on her own?
She forced herself to steady her voice. “How is he, the Duke of Leighton?”
“It seems you are about to find out.” He lifted his chin toward the opposite side of the lawn.
Her gaze followed. A tall, confident figure neared, his flaxen hair glinting in the afternoon. He smiled politely, but his very confidence sent a cold rush down her spine, tightening her breath.
Her fingers gripped the folds of her skirt until the fabric wrinkled, tension radiating through her muscles. Don’t run, she whispered inwardly. Don’t you dare run now.
***
“Lady Cecilia, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Leighton?”
The duke bowed, his blue eyes sweeping over her. “Enchanted.”
Heart stuttering, she stepped closer to Nicki, who pressed her hand. They believed her an heiress. A polished lady, refined and untouchable. They did not see the girl who had once cowered in shadows, who had flinched at a hand too near.
She could not be the Papillon. She would play a part—Portia, the heroine from The Merchant of Venice. Also a heiress. Cool and composed, she dealt with the opposite sex with detachment and grace. Portia would not falter beneath a gentleman’s gaze.
Celeste drew a slow breath and dipped into a perfect curtsy.
“And this is his sister, Lady Evelyn.”
Lady Evelyn beamed, all curls and wide-eyed excitement. “Oh, but you are so much lovelier than I imagined!”
The Kentish countryside unfurled around them as they strolled to the picnic. Celeste sat with grace, resting her gloved hands lightly in her lap, in what she hoped was the picture of a composed, elegant lady.
Lady Evelyn bit into a cake. “Where have you been hiding all this time?”
Panic bubbled in her throat. She caught Nicki’s gaze, unable to speak.
Nicki brushed a speck from his epaulet. “Lady Cecilia was raised in a convent in Portugal.”
Celeste reached for a glass of lemonade, taking a slow sip as if savoring the memory.
“A convent! How positively enchanting! Was it filled with mystery? Did you spend your days waiting for a dashing gentleman to rescue you?” Lady Evelyn whispered in awe.