Chapter 36
"Which convent did you say Lady Cecilia was raised?" York asked, chalking his cue.
Hawk lined up his own shot but didn't take it.
His gaze was fixed beyond the baize, on the ballroom where Celeste danced with Leighton.
Each spin of her skirts felt like a lash against his skin.
The damned tulle caught the light, and all he could see was how it had clung to her the night before, damp with longing.
"Covent Garden," Hawk said, the words dry as flint. "She joined a group of noble-born girls escaping the Terror. They were taken in by the ballet's choreographer."
The flickering candlelight caught his friend’s shrewd eyes and aquiline nose. Hawk admired him as prince and soldier both, rare in one man. But tonight, the billiard table, and even York himself, blurred into the periphery.
The duke bent to the table, sighting along his cue, and gave a low whistle as he struck. The ball rolled neatly into a corner pocket. "Poor Philip. He searched so much for her, and she was right under his nose. Still, no one will doubt she was born and raised in gold. She is the picture of grace."
Grace, yes—but it was more than that. She had always been radiant, not from silks or chandeliers, but from within.
Every laugh, every spark of rebellion, every breath of her was color and fire.
All she had lacked was the courage to spread her wings.
And now, watching her glide through the dance, he knew with certainty—she was taking flight.
"You did a remarkable job," York said.
Hawk nodded once, jaw grinding.
If remarkable meant nearly losing all control. If remarkable meant craving her like a starving man. If remarkable meant needing her with a madness that had not abated since the moment he touched her. If it meant almost stealing her virtue and lusting after her every single minute of the day.
York bent low, loosed his shot, and a red ball dropped neatly into the pocket. "I dare say she will make a brilliant match. Leighton looks smitten."
Jealousy slammed through him. White-hot, merciless.
It struck low, curling his gut into knots.
Hawk ground his molars together until his ears rang.
That's what she wanted—young love. A dream of fantasy, of laughter, and endless summer.
And Leighton could give that to her. With that olive wreath around his golden head…
Leighton had already decided to move into Celeste's world and never leave.
"She deserves it," he managed to say.
His best living friend—after a decade of war, there were few left—stared at him across the green baize with the unflinching honesty that had allowed him to reform the British Army and keep Britain on equal terms with France.
"In all these years, I never took you for a martyr."
Hawk drank his port, then tapped the cue against the floor. "I don't know what you mean."
"She staged a midsummer night's ball, and you are the one playing the fool. You are head over heels for her, and she is likewise. Why not marry the chit and be done with it?"
"I'm old enough to be her father."
The duke scoffed. "No different from half the marriages in the ton."
"What happens if I die on the Peninsula?" His voice cracked. "How can I attach my best friend's daughter to such a fate?"
Damn it. Give her the same cold bed as his late wife? Expect her to bear his children while he was away? To tend his wounds? Or receive a letter that he had perished in a faraway land and that she was denied even the comfort of a tomb to mourn him?
York's hand slowed on the cue, his voice softening. "Stop playing God. Why don't you live and love for today and let fate worry about the future?"
The ballroom shimmered, but none of its beauty touched him. It all felt far away.
"You are sounding like her," Hawk muttered.
York straightened, resting the cue against his shoulder. "Then she is a wise girl. A fit wife for my best general."
His wife.
The word struck him. Celeste, smiling, breathless, clad in illusion tulle. Celeste, whispering—please. Just this once, let's pretend. My Wedding Night.
It hadn't been pretend. Not for him. Not when it had carved itself into his bones, seared itself into his soul.
"If you came here to play matchmaker," he said, voice low, "you will be disappointed."
York grew quiet. He set the cue down altogether and reached for his glass, drinking deeply. His mood shifted, the laughter draining from his eyes.
Hawk straightened. "What is it?"
A beat. Then it struck.
"The French moved," Hawk said flatly.
York nodded. "Let your boys celebrate this evening of magic. The 13th has to march tomorrow."
The music blurred. Hawk stared across the ballroom at her. Still spinning in Leighton's arms. Still smiling, though not at him.
Tomorrow, the dream would end, and the war would begin again. His time with her was up. Hawk would leave Celeste, and with her, the only part of himself that had seen color and light.
***
Hawk stood in his war room, sleeves rolled, collar loosened. He stared at the map, trying to foresee where Soult would place his troops and where to strike him. Anything to keep his mind from Celeste.
Since entering the army at fourteen, he had what his father called a compass always pointing true.
There had been the suicidal mission outside Seringapatam, holding the rearguard so the wounded could limp to safety.
The bitter retreat through Portugal, when his men had frostbite to the bone and he’d fed them before feeding himself.
He had done it all without blinking.
So why did this leaving feel like treason?
He stared at the map until the rivers blurred and looked like obstacles between him and her.
He was doing his duty—so why did it feel like tearing out his own ribs and laying them on the map?
Because this time, the compass didn’t point south. It pointed up the stairs. To her.
His heartbeat was a dull drum. Every time his thoughts flicked to her, his throat tightened until he could barely swallow.
He heard the door creak open behind him.
Graves entered, boots clicking once then falling silent.
Hawk exhaled and found his friend’s gaze. He needed Graves’ unflinching support more than ever.
“The military chest will arrive with Calthorpe,” Hawk said. “Ensure the officers are briefed by dawn. I want the men ready to march with the first light—no excuses, no delays.”
Graves stood tall in the candlelight, eyes shadowed. He unsheathed his saber. Then he held it out, hilt-first.
The candle guttered between them. Outside, the wind beat against the windows like distant drums.
Hawk stared at the blade, then at the man. His most stalwart officer.
“You’re resigning.”
Graves stood at attention, boots planted firm, his face the picture of stoicism save for the iron line of his jaw.
“I want to stay. Marry Mrs. Rue Archer, if she’ll have me.
The old girl says my scars give me character.
Poor woman’s eyesight must be going.” A dry huff, the closest he’d ever come to a joke.
“But she sees me. Not the soldier. Just… me.”
Hawk had always believed Graves would outlast him in uniform. But Graves wanted to be loved more than he wanted the war.
Hawk shut his eyes. “The French have overextended their supply lines between Burgos and Salamanca. If we strike hard enough, we can push them out of the Peninsula. Not just a victory. A turning point.”
“General… I’m fifty. Been under colors since I was fifteen. Never knew much beyond the lash, the drum, and the smell of black powder. No family but the regiment. No home but the field.” Graves paused, eyes fixed somewhere over Hawk’s shoulder. “I’ve served. I’ve done my duty.”
“I refuse to discharge you,” Hawk said, voice rough.
Graves blinked. “Sir?”
“You will stay in my service. Full pay. You will captain the reserves and the greens I’m leaving behind. And you will guard Lady Cecilia. With your life.”
Tears shimmered in the older man’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
When Graves left the room, Hawk stood alone in the flickering candlelight, his hands limp at his sides.
Don’t thank me, he thought. Thank that girl dressed in tulle with promise-colored eyes.
For the first time in his life, Hawk wished he could find the same way out.