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.
***
