Page 112 of The Duke's Dream
His mother curled in a rocking chair, a blanket covering her diminutive frame. The sight of her frailty stole his breath. When had she deteriorated like this?
She dozed, eyes moving behind papery skin. Bending, William kissed her cheek. Guilt surged in bitter waves, threatening to choke him. He was too late.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and her gaze looked weary, as if expecting more pain.
A tired smile lifted the corner of her lips, and she sighed. “William, my boy William. You came.”
Her eyes were no longer changeable but opaque.
“I should have come sooner. I apologize.”
William knelt by her side, his heart heavy. “How are you feeling?” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her.
He searched her wrists for signs of bloodletting and breathed easily when he found none.
“I love it when the sun is shining. I fancy I can see Dieppe. The balls, the vineyards, so lovely. How sad that I won't set foot in France again.”
William caught her hand, not liking the fatalist tone. Once he spoke with the doctor, he would find a way to improve her health—the latest treatments, anything.
“Napoleon might falter yet, Mother, and before you know it, you will visit Bordeaux. I will take you there myself.” The vow tasted empty on his chafed lips.
She became silent, her gaze drifting out to the sea, the light in her eyes dimming as if her thoughts had carried her far away.
William shot to his feet. “Why are you outside? You will worsen your cold. Come, I will take you to the parlor.”
She waved her hand, her movements slow and weak. “For the little time I still have, I would rather see the sun than be smothered inside. I have pneumonia.”
Pneumonia? The disease turned lethal in a matter of days. Dread spiked through him as he grabbed his mother’s hand, the fragility of her bones apparent beneath his fingers. “I summoned your physicians. There must be something I can do.”
“William, William, always trying to bear the world’s weight. Must be tiring.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a finality in it that sent a chill down his spine. “There is no time to fix things, at least not for me… I’ve heard of your affair.”
“How did you—”
Of course. Thornley must have alerted her. The old fox had no right to interfere. William turned away from the prejudice he would find in his mother’s eyes.
“Would you tell me about her?” Her voice sounded inviting, like it did when she tapped the piano bench, wishing him to join her songs, or when she galloped over the cliffs, daring him to race her.
William dropped into a wicker chair, his shoulders tense. “Her name is Helene de Beaumont. She is a ballerina at the Covent Garden Theater.”
“A ballerina? Beneath the notice of the grand Duke of Albermale, yet she’s captured your attention. I like her already.”
“Before I met her, I’ve—” He exhaled forcibly, the words locked in his throat. “I was having these disturbing dreams. She was the embodiment of them.”
Why was he giving vent to his privacy? A youth daring his mother to reprimand him? A tired confession from a man who didn’t want to carry on hiding his love? His only certainty was that the secret he had carried all his adult life wanted out.
“I had to have her. If only to exorcise the passion father taught me to bank.”
“Your father… always trying to prune wildflowers into hedges. I’m glad he hasn’t fully succeeded.”
When no reprimand tainted her voice, William looked at her, surprised. Her expression was open, a wistful smile on her lips. Exhaling, William ran his hand through his hair. The exhaustion of the hours on the road, the night without sleep, of leaving Helene, they all left his shoulders. He didn’t know how much he craved his mother’s acceptance until now, on this sunlit veranda with the ocean as a witness.
William closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the dainty chair. “But then, I knew her, not the Sylph, the woman… She is vivacious, noble, kind, stubborn, brilliant.”
As he spoke, the image of Helene danced into his mind, teasing him with her laughter, enveloping him with her warmth. God, how he wanted her.
His mother’s lips twitched, a faint attempt at a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. “I can see her giving you a lot of trouble.”
“She does,” William chuckled.
