Chapter 35
Celeste stood at the top of the staircase, surveying the Midsummer Dream she had conjured from stubborn will and silk ribbons.
She kept her breathing shallow, afraid a deeper breath might shatter the illusion.
Strings swelled softly, and the guests—oh, the guests.
Military uniforms polished to a hero’s gleam.
Ladies in gowns that bloomed in soft pastel colors.
She had charmed the decorators into working miracles, cajoled the regimental cooks into concocting sugared violets and rose-flavored creams... She had even rewritten the music program, demanding just one waltz at the climax of the evening.
A waltz meant for Titania and Oberon.
Everything had been arranged for a midsummer night’s dream where duty and desire might finally meet. Now all that remained was her general.
Her gaze swept the room—left, right, past the musicians.
Where was he? Her fingers fluttered, then clutched the folds of her skirts like lifelines.
The sand in an hourglass seemed to run out.
Tonight, he crossed into her dream, or he never would.
Even then, a part of her whispered it was futile, that the gulf between them was too vast to bridge.
The despair nearly broke her—until she saw him.
Alexander de Warenne, Earl of Hawkhurst.
Warmth rushed to her chest, and her lips curved. If any man could breach such a distance, it was he.
The General of His Majesty’s Cavalry.
The king she had chosen.
Her Oberon.
He stood in his uniform, his silver hair catching the flicker of candlelight like a halo of ice. His posture was its own coat of arms. He was not here to be charmed.
But oh, how she wanted to charm him.
His hands were clasped behind his back, legs parted just slightly, as if he were standing atop a parade field instead of polished parquet.
He wore no mask, no costume…What had she expected?
That he would have remembered she had called him Oberon and donned the fairy king’s crown?
No matter. It would be enough if he claimed her for the last waltz.
He watched her. Like she was fragile. Or dangerous.
Or both. Her heartbeat stuttered. Oh, how a woman in love became an interpreter of a man’s looks…
Was he proud of her? Was he angry she had turned his regimental ball into a fairy tale extravaganza?
Could he be jealous of her? Of the attention she might receive tonight, or that her arms were bare and her decolletage was lower than she usually wore?
Or worse—nothing at all.
He showed no sign of crossing the ballroom toward her. Her knees weakened beneath the skirts, but she steadied herself with a single breath. Strength, Celeste. The dream had only just begun.
She forced a smile and descended the stairs. Her gown, layers of gossamer silver and midnight blue, shimmered like moonlight rippling over dark water.
At the landing, Nicki waited.
She took his arm, her fingers curling lightly around his sleeve. “Look who is smiling,” she said. “I take it you prefer balls to picnics?”
Nicki’s grin widened. “It is gratitude. For supplanting Graves in the preparations. I feared I would have to pass another night that lasted 78 hours.”
“Poor Graves. He must be terribly mad at me.”
“Anyway… You’re undoing morale, you know,” he said. “Half the 13th will be useless tomorrow.”
As he guided her through the crowd, heads turned. Fans fluttered. A hush of admiration trailed in her wake.
Nicki stopped before a group of young officers—most her age, some barely older.
They all bowed.
“Lady Cecilia, it’s an honor,” one said, while another murmured, “A vision, I daresay.”
A gentleman bolder than the rest took her hand and kissed it.
She felt… nothing.
No tremble. No dread. No shadow of Papillon’s flutters.
Nicki’s arm stiffened slightly beneath hers. She glanced at him, and something passed between them—unspoken.
A minuet began with the familiar hush of strings.
“Lady Cecilia?” asked one of the officers, bowing. “Might I have the honor?”
Before she could reply, Nicki shook his head. “I’m sorry. She promised this dance to me.”
Celeste stepped forward, one gloved hand in Nicki’s, her skirts whispering around her ankles as they took their places among the other dancers.
He bowed low. She dipped into a perfect curtsy.
They met in the center, hands brushing.
“You’ve come a long way from the girl who tried to escape a picnic by eating à la battle,” Nicki murmured, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
She laughed. “It would’ve been grand if only you had given it a chance.”
They turned, stepped, and then turned again.
“You’ve enchanted them all, you know,” he said, pointing to the officers. “I expect I’ll be dueling half of them by morning. Or handing out brandy and sympathy.”
Celeste’s heart ached. All but one… “That’s the fairy’s flower work.”
She brushed a finger over the wreath of violets woven through her hair. “In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the juice of a flower makes people fall in love. Drop it on their eyelids, and the next thing they see becomes the object of their desire.”
Nicki gave her a suspicious side glance. “Are you saying you’ve drugged the regiment?”
“Only metaphorically,” she said with a smile. “I’ve been planning this night for weeks. The flowers, the music, the food… I wanted it to feel like anything could happen.”
He spun her once, palm steady at her back. “You’ve succeeded.”
As they returned to the center, Nicki glanced over her ensemble. “Who are you tonight, then? Hermia? Helena?”
Celeste tilted her head, her voice softening. “Titania, of course. Queen of the fairies.”
Nicki’s expression flickered, thoughtful. “And who is Oberon?”
Her eyes drifted toward the edge of the crowd. Where her reluctant king held his court.
Nicki followed her gaze. “You will need more than flowers to convince him.”
She didn’t answer. Tears pricked at her throat. She offered him a wistful smile and let the dance pull her into another turn.
***
The final notes of the minuet floated to a close, and Celeste dropped into a curtsy. Nicki bowed with courtly flair, then stepped aside to let another gentleman claim her hand. But Celeste shook her head gently and turned back toward the crowd.
She scanned the ballroom again, but before her gaze could settle on Hawk, Graves stepped into her path.
He was awkwardly formal in full dress uniform, looking every bit as if he’d been forced here at gunpoint.
“I’d be... obliged if you’d share this next dance.”
Celeste smiled. “It will be my pleasure, as long as you save my feet from your mighty boots.”
He stared at her, eyes wide.
“It was a joke, Captain Graves.”
The dance was a gavotte, and Graves danced better than she had imagined. At least her slippers were undamaged.
“You’ve done well tonight, Captain,” she said softly. “The regiment looks splendid.”
“That’s your doing.” He glanced around, clearly bewildered by the garlands, the violins, the laughter echoing beneath crystal chandeliers. “I wanted to speak with you about your—er—your chaperone.”
“Rue?”
He nodded rigidly. “Mrs. Archer. You must tell her to desist.”
“I know her attentions are sometimes painful, but she loves you dearly—”
“It is impossible. She told me she would never marry a soldier again. She suffered too much. She is the most remarkable of women, and I cherish her feelings.” He lowered his gaze, and his voice became throaty. “But I have a duty to the country.”
Celeste wanted to weep at the tenderness in his voice. He loved Rue as well. They deserved to be together. Had war not taken too much from both of them?
“She loves you,” Celeste said gently. “Fiercely. And not just because you are honorable. She loves your silences, your steadiness, your fire when it counts. Don’t you think it’s your duty to give that kind of love a home?”
Graves was quiet. Then, stiffly, he said, “That kind of duty is harder.”
Celeste’s heart softened. “But maybe it’s the kind that matters most.”
The music drew to a close, and Graves, wordless, bowed. His gaze flicked toward Rue, standing near the potted palms with her fan pressed to her lips.
He went to her.
Oh, sweet bard, if you are somewhere, watch over these star-crossed lovers. Please allow Rue to accept Graves’ courting and convince the stoic captain that his place was at her side—all that without her killing the poor man.
As Rue caught Graves’s proffered arm, a flicker of joy and hope sparkled in Celeste’s chest. Perhaps… perhaps her midsummer night’s dream would work after all. Even Prue was dancing with Thomas in a shadowy corner.
Celeste glimpsed Hawk across the ballroom, framed by the columned archway. Now it was her turn. The waltz would be next. How fast could she race to him without entangling her legs in her tulle skirts?
As she took the first step, a hush fell over the guests. The Duke of Leighton entered the ballroom.
He was walking towards her, his coat of midnight velvet dusted in silver embroidery, his golden curls crowned with a glinting laurel circlet—green leaves wrapped in gold, just like a Midsummer Night’s Lysander. The symbol was unmistakable.
He had dressed for her dream.
His boyishly proud gaze found her across the ballroom and never wavered.
Celeste’s throat tightened.
The violins began her waltz.
“Lady Cecilia,” Leighton said, bowing low. “Dance with me?”
Her eyes found Hawk. But he did not move.
Her heart ached. Still, she smiled at Leighton, every inch the shimmering Titania she had conjured from will and longing.
“Of course,” she said softly.
She gazed pleadingly at Hawk one last time. But Alexander de Warenne, Earl of Hawkhurst, did not breach the chasm between them after all… It seemed the lark had come early this evening. And there went her Midsummer Night’s dream.