Hawk turned sharply.
“And utterly necessary,” she added, lifting her chin and trying to appear scholarly rather than insubordinate.
He nodded once and returned to pacing.
Celeste sat frozen for a beat, pencilless, then folded her hands tightly in her lap. Love, real love, did not obey rules. It arrived when mistaken identities collided in the moonlight. When banter led to breathlessness. When hearts leapt, not marched.
This unconquerable general might command armies. But he knew nothing of the heart. She would do well to write her own script. And perhaps he would learn something about laughter and softness. His posterior would thank her. The thought came unbidden, and heat climbed to her cheeks.
“Exactly. Exerting one’s mind and body is the key to achieving excellence.” He glanced up from his list. “How is your saddle, Lady Cecilia?”
She blinked. “I don’t have one.”
“I mean your riding experience.”
“I don’t have that either.”
“That’s unacceptable,” he said, voice hardening. “Why weren’t you taught how to ride?”
The words hit her like a slap. He sounded genuinely offended, as if her lack of equestrian skill were a personal failing. An oversight in her moral education.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, staring at her folded hands, “because a Covent Garden ballerina had no need of horses.”
She had never been ashamed of her past—but somehow, his disapproval made her feel like a chipped porcelain in a cabinet full of crystal.
“If you had found your ward in the circus… she would have learned to ride bareback while juggling fire,” she said and was surprised that her voice didn’t quiver.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The apology landed awkwardly between them, too sincere for her to ignore, too strange to accept outright.
She sat straighter, hands folded tightly. What had her father seen in him? What bound these two men together, such that her fate had been placed in this soldier’s care?
She almost asked. Almost. Whatever answer lay in his heart, it was not one she dared pry loose—not while he loomed in uniform and duty.
“This mistake will be rectified,” he said after a pause. “You will have riding lessons every afternoon.”
“Oh, dear,” she murmured.
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “Any concerns, Lady Cecilia?”
“None at all,” she said. “Only wondering if I’ll survive the season.”
“Not only will you survive,” he said, his voice firm, “but thrive. And if you follow the schedule, by the end of this season, you will be married.”
Celeste smiled sweetly.
“Your future husband will be dependable, and of good reputation.”
Or reckless, she thought, poetic, and mad with love.
Hawk’s tone remained crisp. “You will conduct yourself with grace and dignity.”
Or with wit and mischief, she mused, the sort that might undo even a general with a single laugh.
“The courtship will be simple and respectable.”
Or filled with longing and moonlit meetings. Perhaps a mistaken identity, a borrowed wig, a locked garden gate—plots wild enough to make even General Hawkhurst forget his endless timetables.
