“It’s Major Graves, my lord!” she barked, too quickly, too loudly. “I’m keeping an eye on him so he does not get into scrapes.”
“Scrapes?” he repeated flatly.
She straightened her spine, her expression the very picture of duty. “The man is reckless. Disregards personal safety at every turn. Last week, he nearly sprained an ankle dismounting. Ifleft unattended, I fear he may attempt something even more perilous—such as tripping over a loose cobblestone.”
Hawk pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was under the impression your primary orders were to keep an eye on Lady Cecilia.”
“She is perfectly safe, my lord. Per your schedule, the lady is currently engaged in dance lessons.”
He gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. You may return to outpost duties then.”
She nodded gravely, pivoted with military precision, and marched straight to the window.
Hawk clasped his hands behind his back, surveying the grounds like a battlefield well in hand. Order restored. Troops accounted for. A successful maneuver. The sun was shining, the birds held their positions, the roses stood in disciplined formation, and Lady Cecilia was finally complying with the campaign strategy.
He knew it. He had shaped men out of a more unruly raw material. Excellent. The sooner she was ready, the sooner this absurd duty could be finished. Yes, she would be another’s problem. Her comedic chaos, her irreverent laughter, her warmth during the night, the way her breath scented sweet against his neck… all of it would belong to another.
And not a moment too soon. Hawk had almost yielded to sentiment—foolish, treacherous thing that it was. He swore under his breath and headed for the study. There were orders to dispatch, and Wellington’s letter to decode. Before the coming campaign, he needed to confirm reinforcements, settle the last of his estate accounts, and—if time permitted—ensure his will was in order.
Music drifted through the corridors, the sound so foreign to this house that it interrupted his mental list.
There hadn’t been a song here since he’d returned from Talavera. And why would there have been? His wife had been the only one who played, and after she died...
His duty was with the regiment. In the study. Still, he stopped. He didn’t want to, but his body betrayed him, his pulse kicking harder, his breath shifting, his thoughts scattering.
He clenched his jaw. He had preparations to make. And yet, despite the weight of impending war, his most immediate concern was neither rations nor rifles. It was the French ballerina under his roof. He told himself he’d better check on her. See that she was where she was supposed to be.
And so he ended up in front of the ballroom. He didn’t have to open the door. It was ajar. She was indeed there. And for a second, he hoped she wasn’t. The second passed too quickly, and then he was drinking in the sight like a parched fool in the desert. She danced, a blur of color and movement, weaving in and out of the squares of light streaming from the windows.
Hawk had seen beauty before. Hell, after the destruction of war, he craved it. The symmetry of an Austrian corps executing a perfect cavalry maneuver, the blinding grandeur of a Bavarian court theatre, the ethereal glow of Parisian ballerinas twirling under candlelit chandeliers—but nothing, nothing, had ever struck him quite like this.
She danced alone.
The ballroom was empty but for the sweep of her bare feet against the parquet. She didn’t notice him. He should have announced himself, should have turned away—but the moment she leaped, he forgot how to move.
At first, she was all light and mischief. Her body defied gravity, her jumps airy and effortless, her turns quick, teasing, like a fairy skimming the surface of a moonlit lake. She played with the space around her, filled it with laughter though she made no sound. A darting glance over her shoulder, a flick of her wrist,the arch of her foot—it was as if she were inviting someone to chase her.
And oh, how he wanted to chase her.
The thought was absurd, intrusive, but it rooted itself in his chest all the same. His world was discipline, tactics, and control, yet here she was—an uncatchable thing, slipping through his fingers before he had even reached for her.
Then, something changed.
The energy drained from her limbs, and her movements became slower. She drifted, no longer playing, but searching. The shift unsettled him. The way her arms curled around her torso, as if warding off some unseen force. The way her breath hitched with each step. The way her head turned, eyes flitting toward the shadows as if she sensed a presence—only to find herself alone.
She looked afraid, as if she were still in the grip of the nightmare. Hawk’s hands ached to hold her and dispel that darkness. He had spent his life protecting men from musket fire, from bayonets, from hunger and cold. But this—this was a different kind of protection. She wasn’t battling an enemy, wasn’t dodging cannon blasts. Whatever haunted her existed only in the space between one movement and the next.
A whisper of music lingered in the silence, and she surrendered to it.
Her hands skimmed down her body, tracing lines he could not see, her own touch awakening something within her. She swayed, her breath becoming part of the dance, her movements languid, curling, liquid.
Hawk swallowed hard.
It was no longer fear that moved her, but surrender, a fragile trust unfolding in the gentle curve of her back, in the way her neck arched, offering her throat to the sunlight. She was not teasing now, not lost. She was calling.
And he wanted to answer.
He had watched her dance and, without meaning to, he had followed her every emotion, had felt what she made him feel. When she had laughed, he had wanted to play. When she had been afraid, he had wanted to shield her. And now—now he wanted to make love to her.
