Chapter 34
The ballroom was a battlefield. And Celeste was its weary general. Drapes billowed, flowers drooped, chairs creaked across the parquet. Footmen stood in clumps, blinking like dazed infantry as Rue charged past them, her arms laden with another roll of bunting.
“Hydrangeas on the left! No, my left, Simmons, not yours. Did they not teach directions in the British Army?” Rue snapped, wielding a trailing vine like a whip.
Thomas was lifting furniture as if posing for a Greek statue competition, entirely ignoring the buckets of flowers wilting beside him. Prue, meanwhile, hovered behind him with the air of a girl moments from composing an ode to his biceps.
Captain Graves surveyed the chaos with the long-suffering expression of a man who would choose cannon fire over another argument about table settings.
“All this effort, Lady Cecilia,” he muttered as Celeste darted past, a silver ribbon clenched between her teeth. “Last year, we had biscuits. And punch. And no one died.”
“That,” Celeste declared, “is precisely the tragedy I mean to correct.”
She stopped in the center of the room, hands on hips. Her cheeks were flushed, curls tumbling from their pins, a smudge of lavender on her wrist where she’d tested the flower dye herself.
She would do this. She had to. Hawk may not have asked her to organize the 13th yearly summer ball—but she would give him one worthy of his Regiment.
“The maestro hasn’t arrived!” cried the first violinist, wringing his bow.
Celeste stilled. “What?”
“He was to come from Canterbury,” the man babbled. “We sent the postilion hours ago. Perhaps his coach lost a wheel.”
Celeste slumped into a chair, the vision blurring. No orchestra. No music. No dance. It was impossible. Everything would unravel, the illusion collapsing before it could even begin.
“Are you the one in charge of this splendid chaos?”
A voice tinged with amusement came from the door.
She glanced up. A man she did not recognize, tall, fair, and impeccably dressed, strutted closer.
Celeste sprang to her feet. “Thank heavens! You must be the maestro!”
He blinked once, then smiled. “I must be, mustn’t I?”
She studied him from his lush white hair to his old-fashioned breeches. “What sort of maestro travels without his baton?”
He opened his mouth, but she waved him off.
“Never mind.” She snatched a hydrangea in one hand and a silver soup ladle in the other. “Pick your weapon. The musicians won’t care so long as you wave it with feeling.”
He blinked at the options. “Do I get a third choice?”
“Not tonight. You’re already late for rehearsal. Come, I’ve selected a gavotte to open the evening. Something bright. Festive. The soldiers will be grim as thunderclouds if I don’t give them music worth twirling to.”
He allowed himself to be led toward the music alcove. “And if I don’t know your tune?”
“I’ll hum it,” Celeste said simply. She tapped the tempo against her palm. “It goes like this—da-da-da-da da-da-daaa—”
It was light, airy, full of promise, sunshine, and everything the army ball had never been. Just as she was entering the chorus, Hawk appeared in her line of vision. He stood in the far corner, his uniform dark against the pale paneling, his expression unreadable.
Her tune slowed. How proud he was, how utterly handsome. And her body, traitorous thing it was, remembered him. His weight atop her. His mouth on hers.
A sigh slipped from her lips as her arms curled around herself, her shoulders swaying gently. A soft, slow waltz now. The kind played at the end of a fairytale. The melancholy dance of a woman who dreamed of being held by the one man who never would.
A young bride, the morning after her wedding night, should blush and glow and move with the quiet certainty that her husband was hers.
That she belonged to someone who would stay beside her until her hair silvered and her laughter grew lines.
But Celeste felt neither quiet nor certain.
Her heart ached every time he neared, so aware of the distance between them, as if they stood on opposite shores of a war-torn land.
And her senses? They were traitorous. Hawk barely had to shift his stance, and her blood betrayed her.
Oh, Hawk. I should have trusted you from the start. How much ache might we have spared each other?
A low whistle cut through her reverie. The maestro had added a trill to the tune she hadn’t realized she was still humming.
“That…” he said with a wink, “is a dance I’d very much like to learn.”
Celeste startled. Her cheeks flamed, and she quickly turned her head, dabbing at the single tear that had made it past her lashes. Look at her—since she’d left the theater, she’d become a veritable fountain of tears. A weepy heroine straight from an overwrought melodrama. Utterly ridiculous.
She pasted on a smile.
“Well, gentlemen,” she announced, lifting her voice to carry over the bustle and nerves.
“I’m told the 13th Regiment’s annual ball is the most dreadful affair in England.
That ladies would rather suffer enemas than attend, and the officers would rather face a cannonade than an evening of polite dancing. ”
Several of the musicians chuckled. A footman snorted from behind the curtain.
Celeste squared her shoulders, hands clasped before her like a general before the troops. “This is about to change. We host the 13th Regiment Midsummer Night’s Ball tonight, and I don’t intend for a single guest to leave with their feet or hearts untouched.”
She pointed dramatically toward the violins. “Music is the soul of the gathering. The heartbeat of joy. I expect to kill them with dancing!”
“Kill them all?” the maestro asked, eyes gleaming. “You’ll leave none of the soldiers for Hawk?”
Celeste brightened. “You know the general?”
“You could say we are old friends,” he said, lips quirking.
“Well, then,” she said, smiling. “If you are friends with him, you must know General Hawk wouldn’t even miss the soldiers. He could fight the French single-handedly, I’m told.”
“Oh yes,” said the maestro with mock solemnity. “I’ve marched under his banner. His scowls alone have routed battalions.”
She grinned. “He does brood magnificently, doesn’t he?”
“Like only a Caesar crossing the Rubicon.”
Celeste sighed. “And when he does that thing with his voice?”
The maestro blinked. “What thing?”
Celeste leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Oh, you must know! When he lowers it, like thunder on the horizon, and says,” She dropped her voice into a gravelly imitation, brows knit with dramatic flair. “That was an order. And I gave no room for interpretation.”
The maestro laughed. “You’ve got the tone right, I must say. The fearsome Hawk has met his match.” He tilted his head, studying her with mock suspicion. “You wouldn’t happen to be French, would you?”
“She is not,” came a voice behind her, much more gravelly than hers could ever be.
Celeste froze.
She turned slowly to find Hawk, arms crossed, one dark brow raised in that look. She hadn’t heard him come near. How long had he been standing there?
“This master of interpretation is my ward. Lady Cecilia Stratton. And I would rather have my soldiers fit for combat.”
He had heard everything. Oh, Lord. Her skin flamed from collarbone to hairline.
“I—pardon me—I didn’t realize! I thought you knew this gentleman, our maestro.”
“Your maestro is His Royal Highness, the Duke of York.”
The maestro chuckled, seemingly unaffected by one of Hawk’s brutal scolds.
He stepped forward elegantly and lifted her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.
“Enchanté, chérie. It was the greatest honor to be mistaken for your musician. And I would love to conduct your orchestra, but I’m afraid I’m tone deaf. ”
He returned the makeshift baton to her. Celeste gripped the flower with enough force to break the stem.
She had harangued the Duke of York? His Majesty’s brother? Hawk’s superior?
“Oh, splendid, I’ve just conducted His Royal Highness…” She dipped into a shallow curtsey, then straightened with a bright, brittle smile. “Excuse me while I locate a violin case large enough to crawl into and die with grace.”
His Highness chuckled. “No need to, my lady. You’ve just played the most charming overture I’ve heard in years.”