Chapter 31
Hawk hunched over the desk, sleeves rolled past his forearms. Letter after letter, he pressed his signet into molten wax. Beside him, the army chest stood open—its iron mouth gaping, velvet pouches of coin nestled between folded maps.
He was sealing the lid when Othello bounded inside the study as if he had Murat’s cavalry on his heels. The poodle hurled himself in frantic circles, trying to dislodge some sort of garment. The hem flopped over his paws, and bits of decorative braid bounced with every flailing leap.
Hawk bent down, reaching for the struggling beast. “Hold still, soldier.”
Othello rolled onto his back in surrender. If only its mistress were as easy to manage. With a sharp tug, Hawk peeled the garment off.
The dog licked his hand, tail waving.
“You only attack me when she is near, you devilish mongrel. I don’t blame you. I grow savage in her presence myself.”
Hawk straightened slowly, the absurd little coat dangling from his hands.
Ridiculous. A hussar uniform for a poodle.
Only Celeste would dream up a thing like this.
He traced the crooked seams, the uneven stitches, the thread already unraveling, and it was as though he touched her—her heart stitched into every foolish, loving line.
He felt the corners of his lips lift. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days... He felt other things as well. An ache in his chest so strong, he wondered how he could still stand upright.
How was a general to function, gnawed by this endless wanting? If only embarkation would come, he might finally know peace.
Peace in war.
A ludicrous notion if ever he had any.
He needed to get out.
Hawk left the house. His boots struck the gravel path with clipped rhythm, yet they didn’t silence the ghost of her giggle.
The Kentish summer carried her essence. Sunlight spilled in slanted golden shafts across the lawns.
Honeysuckle perfumed the air. Somewhere nearby, a lark sang.
He tried not to look at the orchard—she’d gone there often, ostensibly for apples.
He knew better. She had always been transparent in her scheming.
Hawk crossed the north gate into the regiment’s grounds. From there, he marched toward the surgeon’s tent, intent on reviewing the medical stores, the embarkation manifests, the casualty forecasts—anything to fortify his mind.
But the moment he stepped inside, the fortress crumbled.
Celeste sat at the surgeon’s station, hands busy folding cloth.
She wore a plain gown. No tulle, no sparkle, no ribbons or fluttering hems. Exactly what he had demanded.
Her hair was slicked away from her face and tied back demurely.
No trace of the ballerina who had pirouetted through his regiment, upending every carefully laid defense.
A quiet stillness wrapped around her—unnerving in its unfamiliarity. She didn’t notice him. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t sigh dramatically. Didn’t make mischief. She simply folded one bandage, then another. What was she doing here? She was never meant to cross the trenches with the rest of them.
The smell of antiseptic and ink curled in the air. Dust motes floated in the sunlight piercing through the canvas. He watched her, sure that if he waited long enough, she would break into a sonnet or stage an impromptu play.
If she did that, he would leave. But she didn’t, and he didn’t.
Where had her colors gone? He wanted them back. He needed her to be untouchable, impractical, impossible.
A flicker of movement broke his trance—Mrs. Archer brushed past him. This had to be the military woman’s fault. Celeste would never come here of her own free will.
He gripped her arm. “Why have you brought her here?”
The chaperone blinked up at him. “Lady Cecilia wanted to help.”
“She wants many things,” he said tightly. Too many. Things he could never give her. “It does not mean we can oblige them. You know she is as well suited to this place as a corporal leading a corps.”
The woman didn’t flinch. She was brave. He would grant her that. “Was it not what you had wanted, my lord? For Lady Cecilia to turn into a sensible English lady? It seems you have succeeded.”
His grip loosened.
He looked back at Celeste. The plain dress. The silence. The set of her shoulders as she folded another bandage. Yes. He had succeeded. And never had a victory tasted this bitter.
“Take her away from here,” he said, and his voice dropped. “And burn that dress.”