Her legs could not stay still. She ought to make a list. Costumes and props… She was terrible with banter and only witty when alone, and she could not abide monologues—those were frightfully dull after Act II. Also, it was impossible to carry a proper romantic arc without at least one duel of words. And what of the supporting characters? She needed a confidante and perhaps a nurse, no, not a nurse. And she didn’t want a villain—
Warm hands gripped her shoulders, making her halt.
“Lady Cecilia,” the general said. “What is the matter? You’re shaking.”
She stilled. Her breath hitched. “To get it all,” she whispered, “this life… the chance to belong somewhere, to be someone who isn’t just waiting in the wings—it’s too important.” To her utter horror, her eyes were moist. “I cannot let it slip, I cannot—”
“You are under my protection now,” he said. “And I do not begin campaigns I do not intend to win.”
Celeste looked up. And for a beat, the world hushed. A thrill curled along her spine, steady and startling. Not the Papillon’s panic—but something deeper. A flutter, yes, but not of fear. It pulsed in her center, like a whispered promise.
She inhaled slowly, and the trembling receded. Every heroine, after all, needed a guide. A figure of strength who stood beside her at the crossing of acts, ready to offer aid—or at the very least, a sharp nudge in the right direction.
Yes, that was it.
The general would be her fairy godfather.
Of course, he was rather tall and imposing… Like Oberon, the king of the fairies, he carried an air of command, his presence impossible to ignore. Wasn’t it best if her protector was a warrior? A man forged in battle, strong and mighty, a figure of unwavering power? Threatening to all but not her?
Yes, Lady Cecilia Stratton would have a general for her fairy godfather. And he would see her through the curtain rise of this new life—even if he scowled at every flourish along the way.
Now then. All that remained was to cast the prince.
Her lips curved faintly, astonished at herself. A quarter hour ago, she’d been Papillon—fluttering, frightened, ready to vanish stage left. And now? Now she stood in the spotlight, spine straight, heart steady. Lady Cecilia Stratton, heroine of her own play.
Not even Shakespeare could have plotted such a turn—flight to triumph, in a single scene.
“Then, Lady Cecilia,” the general said, his voice low and unreadable, “are we in agreement? Will you leave the theater and move to Kent to begin your new life?”
Her fairy godfather’s eyes lingered long enough to set her spine tingling. She ducked her head and blamed the heat.
“Yes, my lord,” Celeste said softly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I will surrender my slippers.”
Hawk dismissed the regiment for the day and turned toward the house. He had no time to speak with officers or inspect the barracks. Lady Cecilia was due to arrive—and he had yet to prepare his household for something far worse than war: a French heiress wrapped in a cloud of tulle.
Nicki stepped up beside him. The summer light caught his son’s proud profile. “May I have a word, sir?”
Hawk didn’t need a lunette to know what he wanted. A promotion. Hawk had carried the same hungry look throughout much of his youth. The kind of soldier who charged into fire chasing glory because he hadn’t learned how long it took to bury a man.
“Prove yourself on the ground. I might reconsider.”
Nicki’s jaw tensed. “But I—”
Hawk cut him off. “We are late. Lady Cecilia Stratton arrives within the hour. I’ve yet to brief Major Graves.”
“So, you’ve got time to deal with a ballerina, but not your own son?”
Hawk stopped walking.
Nicki nearly collided with him.
“Lady Cecilia Stratton comes to us from the Convento das Flores, a sacred institution in Portugal where she was raised after the Revolution. That is what we will tell society. I will tolerate nothing less than the utmost respect toward her. From everyone.”
Nicki flinched. “Sir, you must know I will protect her with my life.”
“I know you will.” Hawk held Nicki’s gaze for a beat longer, then resumed walking.
“But Graves? You’re assigning Lady Cecilia to Graves? He’s never set foot in Covent Garden. Never even laid a hand on a woman, I’d wager.”
