Chapter
The sheets were a riot around them, a battlefield of linen and lace. Celeste lay sprawled across Hawk’s chest, tracing lazy circles over the faint scars on his shoulder. His breath rumbled against her cheek, and his hand curved around her hip as she caressed his calves with her cold feet.
The play of their love had been thrilling—the general who never surrendered, undone by a girl who danced her way into his fortress heart. A bard would have made a fine romantic comedy of it, complete with moonlight, mistaken identities, and a kiss to bring down the house.
But it was after the curtain fell that their true story began.
Life unfolded quietly, scene by scene, in London drawing rooms and candlelit suppers, in laughter that belonged only to them.
Hawk adapted, with gruff resignation, to his new post as War Minister, while Celeste charmed the ton so thoroughly that no one ever guessed her true beginnings.
Together they built a life not of battles and ballets, but of mornings and miracles—proof that love’s greatest act was not conquest, but peace. .
Hawk caressed her cheek, his thumb tracing the faintest circle. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“I think she’s doing grand jetés in my belly. Look.” Celeste caught his hand and pressed it just below her ribs. Her belly was so large it hardly seemed possible that the child hadn’t yet taken her bow. Let the hour come, Celeste prayed silently. Let the curtain rise and show me my little miracle.
He stilled. Celeste felt his breath catch against her temple, the wonder of it making her tremble. His thumb brushed her skin in slow, reverent passes, as if he feared to startle the small dancer within.
“A ballerina step?” he murmured, voice rough with awe. “Why can’t he be marching about in there like a proper soldier?”
“She doesn’t like to march,” Celeste said, her smile deepening. “It would be too tame for her.”
He laughed and, wonders of wonders, his laughters were sounding more like joy and less like thunder on the horizon.
“God help us both,” he pressed a kiss to her hair. “The world is not ready for another you.”
Celeste leaned into his touch. “Then it’s lucky she’ll have you to steady her when she leaps.”
He caressed her tummy, and then his vision clouded. “You will have to rest more. No riding, no long walks, and absolutely no pirouettes,” Hawk said, in the same tone he used to command battalions.
Celeste nodded solemnly. Turning or leaping was out of the question, given her size, but she could try a smooth waltz—her baby loved when she rocked and hummed. Perhaps it would convince this little being how wonderful the world was and that she could leave the wings at last.
“You will follow the schedule—eat on time, nap at midday, and avoid excitement of any kind,” Hawk said.
Or she could eat the macaroons the cook had just made for her and stroll barefoot through the garden, whispering secrets to the little dancer who refused to keep still.
Hawk frowned. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Celeste smiled sweetly. “Oh, entirely, husband.”
“Lady Cecilia!” Rue’s voice rang through the door. “It’s near eleven. If the general finds out you are still abed! Up with you before I breach this door and drag you out myself!”
Celeste rolled her eyes. Hawk made a low sound deep in his throat—something between a sigh and a growl.
Another, higher-pitched voice chimed in immediately after. “Do not tarry, my lady!” Prue said, breathless and trembling with moral panic. “Every moment you linger abed tempts the flesh further into sin!”
Celeste clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter.
She could picture them perfectly: Rue with her hands on her hips, Prue fanning herself with a prayer book, both of them utterly convinced that morning idleness would lead to humanity’s downfall, and wondering if they could catch a glimpse of Hawk’s thighs.
Beside her, Hawk muttered something dark about transferring them both to the frontier.
Another knock. Softer this time. “Celeste? Are you awake?”
Her breath caught. “Louise!”
Hawk’s arm came around her waist, and he helped her stand. “Before you open the door, at least allow me to find a pair of trousers.”
He paused, head tilting toward the door. “Did you say Louise?”
“Yes,” Celeste replied, already reaching for her robe. “She’s early. I wasn’t expecting her until luncheon.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I’ll get my sword instead.”
Celeste turned, laughter bursting out of her. He was already halfway to his wardrobe, hair disheveled, a sheet knotted low around his hips like some absurdly noble Greek statue.
“My poor general. She is perfectly civil, you know.” Celeste stared at her reflection, passing a comb through her hair. “But then again, perhaps you should take a dagger. Just to be safe.”
Behind her, she heard a faint rustle, followed by an ominous growl.
She turned just in time to see England’s war minister locked in mortal combat—not with the French, but with two determined puppies. Othello had claimed one leg of his breeches, Iago the other, each snarling as though defending a nation’s honor.
“Release,” Hawk commanded, his voice all parade-ground authority.
The puppies redoubled their efforts. He took a step forward, but they dug in harder, paws braced, tiny jaws working in chaotic unison.
Celeste clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, but it broke through anyway.
“Remind me again why we got another lapdog?” Hawk said through gritted teeth.
She bit her lip. “The more, the merrier?”
He shot her a dark look, tugging against Iago’s fierce hold. “The idea was for them to play among themselves and leave my belongings out of the campaign.”
“Perhaps they mistook you for the prize,” she said, laughter bubbling through her words.
The fabric stretched, strained, then gave a despairing rip straight down the middle.
Hawk froze, holding what remained of his dignity in two ragged halves. “I’ll have them court-martialed,” he muttered darkly.
Celeste leaned against the doorframe, laughter spilling free. “Oh, don’t bother, my love. They’ve already declared victory.”
With that, she left her dear husband to deal with his foes and tiptoed out the door.
***
Steam curled gently above the teacups, blurring the world into softness. The afternoon light poured through the tall windows, gilding the lace cloth and the porcelain set Hawk had brought from Lisbon—fragile things that somehow survived war and transport.
“Are you really happy then?” Louise said, watching her closely. “Because I can still wield a dagger better than any soldier, and if you need me—“
Celeste laughed and tapped her friend’s hand. “Put away your daggers, Desdemona. I’ve found my Oberon, and he makes this Titania deliriously happy. To make my happiness complete, I need this one to lift the curtains and decide to grace the stage at last,” she said, caressing her belly.
Celeste studied her friend’s face. Louise was still beautiful, elegant as ever, with her dark hair pinned in a perfect twist and her smile arranged like a stage prop. But there was something hollow behind it. A faint exhaustion, like a candle guttering in still air.
Celeste leaned forward, setting her cup aside. “Louise, what is it? You look less like yourself and more like a sad Ophelia… minus the lilies.”
She tried to smile, to coax one from her friend, but the attempt faltered against Louise’s distant expression. With a quiet scrape of chair legs, she rose. Her silk skirts whispered as she crossed to the window, the light gilding her profile in pale gold.
Louise gave a brittle laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How would you feel, Celeste, if the play of your life were being staged far away—and you were locked in this island, powerless to help?”
Celeste hoisted herself and wobbled after her. “We are no longer speaking metaphorically, are we? What is wrong? Please tell me. You’ve supported me all my life, Louise. Now it’s my turn to be here for you.”
Louise’s composure wavered. Her gaze drifted toward the window, to the soft gray light beyond, and her lips parted.
“I always thought that I would go back to France. That I would have a place there.” Her fingers traced the rain drops on the glass as though she could touch the country beyond it. “But now I fear I'm too late.”
Celeste’s chest tightened. Of all the Swans of Paris, Louise had been the only one who never truly made peace with England. Even surrounded by friends, her gaze always drifted east—past the Channel, toward the land that had expelled them.
Celeste stood, one hand bracing against a chair as a ripple of discomfort coursed through her belly. A pressure, sharp and low. She drew a slow breath and steadied herself. Not now, baby girl. Louise needs me.
She moved closer, resting a hand on her friend’s arm. “Did you speak to Katherina about your past?”
Celeste searched her face. The ballet mistress had vowed never to reveal the secrets of the Swans of Paris’ true heritage, but the past had a way of catching up.
Louise’s hand slipped from the window frame. Her voice trembled. “You see... he is about to be defeated.”
A chill prickled down Celeste’s spine. Was this related to Celeste’s political views? The meetings that had once puzzled her, the letters arriving with no return address, the sudden disappearances explained away with vague excuses.
“Who, Louise?”
The door swung open with a brisk scrape of hinges.
Hawk stood in the doorway, the afternoon light glancing off his uniform buttons. His expression was composed, but his eyes held an excited light.
He strode to her and cradled her face. “The war is over.”
Celeste gasped. England and France had been at war for all of her life. She had never considered that it would actually end one day. That peace was possible.
Hawk rested his chin on top of her head. “The allies have defeated Napoleon. The Emperor abdicated.”