Page 120 of The Duke's Dream
Lightheaded, Helene stepped inside. Her heart sped to the point of discomfort, and she gripped the chair for support. She should be angry with him, shouldn’t she? All those sleepless nights, she had rehearsed words to say to him, but now, they clogged her throat. She wanted him, by Apollo and all the muses, how she wanted him.
So much so that she stepped closer, her arms lifting towards him.
“You are back,” she breathed.
He touched the jewelry box atop the piano, and his face blanched of all expression. Helene followed his stare. The gifts. The cursed gifts. Why hadn’t she removed them? They were everywhere—the fur coat thrown over the chair, the jewels, the silver salver, the bonnet boxes, the bonbons.
A tempest brewed in his gaze.
“And you lost no time finding a replacement for me,” he said, his voice so cold it could freeze a pond.
His hatred had returned, colder and more dangerous than before. If she had ever doubted what he thought of her, now she knew—he saw her as nothing more than a whore.
***
William brushed past her and stormed out of the garret.
Helene stood frozen as the door slammed shut behind him, echoing in the silence he left behind. His scent still lingered like smoke after a fire.
How dare he barge into her life after abandoning her like some shameful secret. What if she had taken a lover? What claim did he think he still had? She attacked the steps, her legs protesting the jarring speed. Rage surged through her, hot and wild.
By the time she burst onto the street, chest heaving, his carriage was already barreling away—wheels screaming, hooves tearing into the cobblestones.
Lifting her hand high, she summoned a hackney. She spent the way to Mayfair inside her rage, reveling in it, patching up her wounds with it, constructing a shield around her battered heart. William had trampled over her, and she was ready to return the favor.
She alighted at Park Lane and went to the hidden apartment where he once invited her for a tryst. She pounded on the door, not caring if she scandalized the neighborhood.
Her palm throbbed by the time the door flew open.
Baines appeared, face flushed with annoyance. “The noise—”
Then he took in her tear-streaked face, her wild eyes, her trembling shoulders.
His tone shifted. “Miss Beaumont…”
Helene swiped at her cheeks, smearing away the tears. She didn’t want his pity. “I will speak with His Grace.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He’s not receiving callers at present.”
“He will receive me.”
Helene pushed past Baines, each breath tight and ragged as she crossed into the secret bedroom.
She stumbled over a rug, caught herself, and found the door to the inner house.
Her footsteps rang out in the cavernous silence of William’s grand foyer. Candle sconces cast a flickering glow on the somber portraits lining the walls—long-dead dukes, ancestral eyes glaring down in silent judgment.
Where was he? The sweeping staircases and towering ceilings loomed around her, a fortress he had erected to keep her at bay. She faltered, her chin dropping to her chest. What was she doing? He had left her. Why should she care if he thought she was a whore?
A little voice inside her urged her to let him find his peace and search for her own. Their dance had been beautiful, and if she left now, she could treasure the memories, like she had told him the first time they made love.
Piano notes fluttered from the house’s recesses like water dripping in a cave. The sound lured her, and she felt her legs following it of their own will.
Light flickered beneath a half-open door. She crept in.
William sat at the grand piano, his reflection wavering over its black gloss like smoke. Energy bled from him. It was in the rigid brace of his shoulders, in the way his fingers struck the keys—heavy, violent. Whatever he fought against tore at him.
He was a stone wall, impassive. But the music—oh, the music—spoke the words he wouldn’t say—sorrow, regret, confusion, hatred, perhaps love—the emotions so raw and painful they hurt in her own chest.
