Usually, Celeste made it her private mission to bridge the chasm of silence between Rue and Graves, coaxing them into conversation with laughter or a carefully aimed remark. But tonight, she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. She felt hollow, her limbs heavy, her chest aching.
Why, in heaven’s name, had her heart not chosen a less confounding man?
Leighton was golden, a storybook prince, his gaze open and unguarded.
While this British Colossus before her was a storm contained in flesh and steel, a figure cut from the same stone as the fortresses he commanded. He offered no poetry, no dazzlingpromises.
And yet, it was his silence that made her ache.
His unspoken words that burned deeper than any sonnet.
His touch that never came, but haunted her all the same.
She should have wanted the prince. Instead, her reckless heart had chosen the general.
Hawk cleared his throat. “Are you feeling well, Lady Cecilia?”
Celeste lifted her chin. The care in his voice stabbed the raw wound he’d left earlier. She swallowed, forcing back the sharp retort that had risen to her lips. Another facet of this new sentiment he had introduced to her—bitterness.
Her smile, when she was able to muster one, came brittle as glass. “Perfectly, my lord. Why, your prescribed treatment is working wonders. You were ever so kind to recommend it.”
Hawk didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of his jaw revealed if her barb had pierced his stoic skin.
“I’m glad.”
Glad. The word echoed cruelly. She felt small, discarded, as easily replaced as a rag. Did he truly feel nothing? Was his heart all stone?
Her fingers twisted in her lap. “In fact, the treatment was so agreeable that soon I won’t need the doctor. Won’t that please you?”
Hawk met her gaze evenly. “Then I will have fulfilled my duty to your father.”
The words hollowed her. She had believed herself more—something precious, perhaps even loved. Instead, she was an obligation.
Shakespeare’s heroines mocked her in silence. Where was the grand confession, the moment of surrender? Had she misread every play, every promise of love’s reward?
Her mind groped for a line, a verse, anything to make sense of this—but for once, she found none.
Rue set down her wineglass with enough force to slosh crimson droplets onto the tablecloth. Her sharp eyes glared across the table. “I knew a woman. Her husband was at Badajoz, one of the first over the walls. A brave man, they said. Led his men through the breach, straight into the French guns.”
Captain Graves clucked his tongue. “Really, Mrs. Archer, I don’t think this is a subject for—”
“His wife received a letter from his commanding officer, full of fine words. ‘Your husband died a soldier’s death, bravely, in the service of his country.’ She read it once, then she put it away and said, ‘I’d rather he’d been called a coward and lived to see his sons grow up.’”
The room stilled.
“Hard thing to hear,” Graves mumbled awkwardly, “but a soldier does serve.”
Always service. Always sacrifice. When, if ever, would love come first?
Celeste’s gaze remained fixed on Hawk, her pulse throbbing painfully in her temples. “And if he has no choice, how can it be bravery?”
Hawk’s expression never wavered. “Duty is not a matter of choice.”
Tears stung hot behind her eyes, the table blurring.
“No, I suppose it never is.”
She rose slowly. Her knees felt weak, her body heavy.
