It lasted only a heartbeat. But the impression stayed with him—the fleeting sense that this was not a woman who liked to be seen, only one who had learned how to survive it.
Then she reached for the nearest swath of fabric to cover herself. Tulle. Of course it was tulle.
Hawk stood there, a man outflanked, trapped in a parlor ambush of his own making.
An insolent bark shattered the room’s breathless silence. Othello had taken a stand among the pillows and was now showing his teeth, as if Hawk had trespassed in his seraglio.
Gasps fluttered from the ladies. One of the maids tripped over a petticoat. The other snapped upright, smoothing her skirts with a sheepish rustle. He inspected his surroundings and understood that he had invaded the fitting for her new wardrobe.
In the field, when a soldier stumbled into the wrong line of fire, there were only two choices: retreat under fire or hold the position and claim the ground. He could excuse himself now and leave the room of wide-eyed women.
Or—
He could advance. Deliver his orders. Do his duty as her guardian, even as the battlefield around him was cluttered not with corpses but with petticoats and pins.
Well, a general did not flinch at lace.
“Th-there you are, my lord,” the seamstress stammered. “Would you care to see my designs for Lady Cecilia’s new wardrobe?”
Hawk’s eyes cut to the sketches on the side table. “Indeed. The garments are to be conservative. Sensible fabrics, demure colors. No frills. No bows.” His gaze flicked to Celeste. “No tulle.”
God help him. He had barked orders across cannon smoke, commanded men through mud and musket fire—and now he stood in his own house forbidding lace and gauze.
The word tasted ridiculous, but the fabric itself was worse. Tulle had no function, save to shimmer and distract. If he meant to turn her from a sugared bonbon into a proper English lady, the tulle must go first. Strip her of that gauze and he could strip away the fantasy with it, and leave something that could stand a line.
Celeste gasped, clutching the fabric to her chest as though he’d threatened her firstborn child. “No tulle? You might as well ask me to renounce breath.”
She said it with such wide-eyed sincerity, he almost missed the smile tugging at her lips.
Then she stepped down from the table, bare feet sinking into the carpet. She had beautiful arches. Could a man be envious of a rug? It must be one of the prerogatives of a Fairy Godfather. Bloody hell, he was losing his mind.
“My Lord, if Juliet had worn gray bombazine, I doubt Romeo would have scaled the wall.”
She advanced. Not with the direct line of a soldier, but in small turns, a shift of weight here, a half-step there, never letting him fix her in place.
He knew she was unarmed. He also knew he was losing ground.
“This is not Verona,” Hawk said stiffly.
“Clearly.” She gave a dramatic glance toward the window. “If it were, there’d be balconies. And roses. And a great deal more forbidden kissing.”
Forbidden. Kissing. The words slipped his guard like saboteurs in the dark. His chest mutinied before he could post guards. Pictures assaulted him—arches heavy with roses, air thick with their perfume, the curve of her lips close to his own.
He opened his mouth to object, but she was already off again, circling him as if choreographing her own romantic farce. On campaign, everything had its name—the ground, the weather, the angle of a charge. But this—her laughter that darted ahead of sense, her glances that struck without warning—there was no field manual for it.
Her audience stirred—the maid covered her cheeks, the seamstress gave a helpless little chuckle, even the stern chaperone let out the ghost of a laugh. The room tilted toward her, caught in her orbit as if she were some bright lantern in a camp of weary soldiers. He’d spent decades learning how to hold men steady with clipped orders and iron routine, to rally spirits through sheer will and example. Yet here she was, luring his household into surrender with nothing but wit and Shakespearean heroines. And if he was not careful, he would soon fall in line behind her.
She held a perfectly acceptable wool gown with two fingers, like it might infect her. “If Cleopatra had dressed to please her advisers, she’d have died married to some Reginald in a cravat.”
Hawk crossed his arms across his chest. “Are you comparing yourself to Cleopatra?”
“Not yet,” she said, curtsying. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Indeed, she had just arrived, and already she had brought disruption, disorder, and a dangerous sort of allure with her. But he was no Antony. He would not let chaos seduce him into surrender.
“Are you convinced yet?” she asked sweetly. “I could always break out in song.”
Hawk crossed his arms. “Is there any situation you won’t turn into a comedy?”
