Hawk pushed the doors wide.
It was worse than anything he could have anticipated.
The long space had been transformed into what could only be described as an enemy stronghold dedicated to frivolity. Along the far wall, a line of bodies clung to a makeshift barre. Not soldiers. Not even civilians of good sense. His household staff. The butler, sweating under his black coat, knees bent at an unnatural angle. The cook, cap askew, one meaty arm extended like she meant to fend off a cavalry charge. Two maids attempting some kind of lunge that looked liable to end in injury and litigation.
And at the piano, God help them all, sat Captain Graves—his most dependable officer—hunched over the keys as if manning an artillery piece, pounding out a tune with all the finesse of a bombardment.
They were holding positions, of a sort. Uncoordinated, inefficient, and entirely useless positions.
Hawk’s gaze traveled down the line, assessing stance and posture the way he might survey raw recruits. And then he reached the one giving the orders.
Celeste.
She stood at the center, that impish smile lighting up the whole room. She executed her movements with a precision of her own peculiar kind. Where Hawk’s drill commands were meant to strip men down to identical units, hers seemed designed to draw each person’s individuality. She moved among them without hurry, adjusting a maid’s shoulder, correcting the cook’s stance, encouraging the butler with a word that made him beam like a boy.
Color poured off her. Not just the red Hawk could see and starve after, but something less tangible and far more dangerous—the living colors of motion and warmth.
A maid asked her a question. Smiling, Celeste shed her shawl. Beneath it, she wore a tunic of sorts. The garment hugged her lithe curves, making his mouth water. With a hand poised on the back of a chair, she lifted one leg. Not a kick. Not a leap. Those Hawk knew and could understand—but not this unfolding, which had no use other than to appease the eyes. The line of her body stretched longer and longer, her foot rising to the side until she seemed to open herself to the world.
Her skirt slid against her thigh, baring a glimpse of pale skin that stole the air from his chest. Celeste’s every muscle was taut and elegant, and she held the position as if balance was her slave.
Desire hit him like a volley at close range, roaring through his blood. The reaction was undisciplined and unacceptable. A commander could not afford to be distracted by beauty, by softness, by a woman who moved as if the world existed solely to watch her.
Hawk cleared his throat. She turned, caught his gaze, and the surrounding din faded. For a moment, it was only the two of them—her cheeks flushed from exertion, her eyes bright, her bare arms still raised as though she might reach for him.
“You’re home,” she said, breathless.
The cook’s arm dropped first, followed by the butler’s wobbling knee. Graves stopped mid-chord, the sound dying like a gun misfired. Her ballet brigade froze, and then the line collapsed and retreated until only Celeste faced him.
He narrowed his eyes. “Am I?”
***
“Ballet, Graves?” Hawk asked.
Hawk stood before the desk, boots planted square, arms folded behind his back in parade-ground precision.
Across from him, Captain Graves waited at attention, his lengthy frame ramrod straight, heels locked together, hands clasped neatly at the base of his spine. The lines on his face—fifty years of wind, sun, and powder smoke—looked deeper in the muted light filtering through the mullioned windows.
“Explain why I returned to find my household in disorder, and my men absent from their posts.”
“No excuse, sir. I take full responsibility.” Graves’s reply carried no inflection.
A slow nod. No leniency in it. “You were assigned to oversee this house as you would a regiment. Your duty was to enforce order, maintain discipline, and prevent precisely what I witnessed today.”
Hawk let the silence stretch. “I trust you understand the severity of this failure.”
Graves stared straight ahead. “The lady can be very persuasive, sir.”
Hawk’s jaw ticked. “Did she at least complete the agenda? The courses?”
Graves straightened, as if bracing for incoming fire. “Lady Cecilia does not waken at dawn. She believes it is harmful to her disposition.”
A muscle pulled tight between Hawk’s shoulders. “Did she learn her history?”
“The dates and names tired her poor brain.” Graves’s lips compressed. “But the teacher reports they had a marvelous discussion about Homer.”
Hawk shifted his weight, boots creaking on the polished floorboards. “Did Miss Archer teach her how to embroider?”
