Page 106 of The Duke's Dream
Helene inclined her head, her throat tightening. "Of course, my lord."
"Tell me, La Sylphide, do you really have wings?"
Helene forced a nervous smile. "I had to leave them at home... I'm afraid they are not housebroken."
Laughing, he offered his arm and escorted her to the dining room, sliding into the seat beside her with a grin. Helene's gaze darted to William at the head of the table, where he received Lady Elizabeth and Lady Thornley’s adoring attention.
On her left sprawled a gentleman with a ruddy nose and a shock of red hair—Lord Ashford, if she recalled correctly. After three courses and several glances down her décolletage, she realized that while Lord Cavendish was a handsome rake with a sharp wit, Lord Ashford was a witless drawl with an air of pretentiousness.
Lord Ashford sipped his wine, his eyes straying to her lips. "So, Miss Beaumont, is what they say about dancers true? That you must possess a certain... moral flexibility to succeed?"
Helene gasped, her eyes darting to the ladies nearby, hoping they hadn’t heard the insult. She scrambled for a witty retort, but her mind went blank.
"Miss Beaumont's success reflects not only her remarkable talent but also her commitment and integrity. It's a rare combination that deserves our respect," William said, his voice sharp enough to send a brigade searching for cover.
Their gazes met—a brief touch. Helene glanced down at her napkin, at her untouched food, anywhere but him. Of course, she was grateful for his intervention. Then why did shame creep into her cheeks? Was it because, if she were truly a lady worthy of him, no one would dare speak to her so brazenly?
"Of course! I wouldn't dare say otherwise." Lord Ashford drawled. "We should send our precious La Sylphide to the Peninsula. Her admirable valor would surely tilt the scales in Wellington’s favor. He will need it as he has half the numbers of the French in Badajoz."
A wave of murmurs rose, the ladies tittering behind their napkins. Lord Thornley's face turned so florid, Helene wondered how his white hair didn't turn pink. Lord Thornley frowned at her, his gaze moving from her to William. Did he suspect something? Whenever she came here to teach Lady Maggy, he had always been polite. Did he find fault with his wife for inviting her?
"I'm certain Wellington has taken the disadvantage in his calculations. The Iron Duke will prove victorious," William said.
The whispering quieted, and several gentlemen nodded in agreement. From beneath her eyelashes, Helene stole a glance at him. He would be the country’s prime minister one day—would he remember her then?
Lady Thornley frowned. "Lord Ashford, while your concerns are undoubtedly grave, must we tarnish this fine evening with talk of war?"
"How can we escape from it? It is in every newspaper, every corner." Lord Ashford grimaced. "One cannot travel from here to Brighton without stumbling upon a barrack, a parade, a cavalcade. Napoleon has turned the country into a garrison."
Lady Thornley clucked her tongue. "Such harshness shouldn't intrude in a ladies' world. I prefer to circle myself with beautiful things, like in the ballet."
Lady Thornley looked at Helene then, her smile gentle.
Lord Thornley leaned forward. "My dear, not all of us can ignore the war." He spoke to his wife, but his eyes found Helene's. "I, for one, will only be at ease when all the French are expelled back to their borders."
Helene stiffened, her smile faltering as his words crushed her. Why did Lord Thornley stare at her as though she were the villain? William caught her gaze, but she glanced away, staring at her lap.
What future could they ever have beyond a hidden affair? She would never belong to this society that saw her as an ethereal figure at best and a French enemy at worst. Foolish, foolish girl. How had she allowed herself to fall in love with him?
When the dessert arrived, her temples pounded and the muscles of her face ached.
Lady Thornley lifted her dainty glass. "To our beautiful La Sylphide. May she keep dazzling us with her dance and virtue for many seasons."
Amid polite applause and clinking crystal, Helene drank her wine, wondering if a dinner party was not a sublime form of English torture designed to crown a person a first-rate success while making her feel like an utter failure.
***
William drummed his fingers on the table. As the ladies departed the dining room, he tried to catch Helene's gaze, but she passed through him with her chin downcast. He had sat through every veiled insult, every calculated snub, forced to bear witness while they carved at her with politeness. And he had done nothing. He told himself his silence had been for the best. Intervening would expose Helene to ruin. Guilt twisted icy tendrils around his heart. Why was it that the Duke of Albermale could shield his country from chaos, but was unable to protect his own woman?
The sprite’s voice crept into his mind as clear as if he was dreaming.
You have no right to invade my glen.
If Helene had been the daughter of a nobleman, would he have pursued her so relentlessly? Because she had been a ballerina, he had allowed his desires to go rampant, believing she was his for the taking. No. He would have kept his distance. Observed the proper forms. Asked permission. Played the game. William swallowed his port, the burn too mild to match the bitterness rising in his chest. There was no point dwelling on the past. A past he would probably reenact if given the chance. Helene belonged with him, and he would not have it any other way.
When the last lady filed out, Ashford stood and stretched his back. “I’m going to piss. God, but I can’t wait to have that bird in my bed.”
Rage coiled tight as wire in his chest. William stood.
