Page 121 of The Duke's Dream
A sheen of tears blurred her sight, and the aching notes drowned her anger, leaving her bare and in the dark.
He needed to know the truth, if only to keep him from hurting. A wave of longing washed over her, so strong it almost crumbled her legs. Would he hold her? At least one more time? Like a pair of moths’s wings, her legs fluttered her to her source of light—the piano, him. Like those short-lived beings, she didn’t resist the attraction. How could she, when for her, William’s music was irresistible?
He halted. “I don’t perform for audiences.”
“I won’t blame you. Audiences can be fickle. One moment, they love you." She couldn’t remove the bitterness from her voice. "The other, they abandon you.”
“Faithfulness and loyalty are the rarest of commodities. I just learned that myself.” His eyes bore into the keys. “Leave.”
Helene braced herself and lifted her chin. “Not before you speak with me.”
“Suit yourself.” He stretched his fingers and positioned his hands atop the piano. “When you tire of this little game of yours, you can find your way out.”
His hands fell on the keys like hammers. The music rose, a fortress of sound. She could almost see the portcullis drop, the moat fill, the drawbridge vanish, locking her out.
Helene stared at his perfect back, his perfect hair, his perfect cruelty. He meant to wear her out. Another woman might scream, throw a vase, collapse in tears. Helene stepped out of her shoes, and when her stockinged feet brushed against the Persian rug, she peeled off her cloak.
Helene placed herself under the chandelier’s diffuse light. If she couldn’t touch him with her art, she couldn’t touch him at all.
His breath caught, and he missed the beat, a tiny slip in his flawless performance. She affected him still. But in love or hatred?
She raised her chin. Counted the tempo.
One, two, three. A breath. A heartbeat. A lick of her lips. Then—movement.
A quicksauté, a cleanrelevé, a sharpsoutenu. She let his music guide her, and with each step, she answered what his words withheld. Herentrechatswere her denials, herfouettéshis accusations thrown back at him.
She danced his rage. His longing. His jealousy.
He repeated the musical phrase—an invitation, or a challenge—and she answered with a storm of movement, her body answering his call with abandon.
Then, the music softened.
She lifted her leg in arabesque—a breath of surrender. Did he remember it? When he held her before the mirror and taught her how beautiful she was? Her balance wavered. Still, she held it. A silent plea for him to come, to hold her waist,and accept her as she was again.
He lashed the notes like the strike of a whip, and she stumbled.
The melody spiraled out of control. Heart speeding, she found the inner beat of his madness and responded to it with a madness of her own. She went on the tip of her toes and lifted her arms in fifth position, and as she opened them slowly, she pleaded with him to see her longing, to see her at last. Their gazes clashed. Something flared in his eyes, and he changed the tempo.
Helene lost the music.
Tiredness crept over her limbs, making them weigh like clubs. She was exhausted, broken, and weary of being in the wrong. Swaying, she blocked the discordant notes, listening only to her heart. She let go of her technique and bowed to the music, not caring if it wasn’t symmetrical, harmonic, or beautiful. She danced as if her parents had died in a bloody revolution, danced as if she had been the most celebrated ballerina in London, and then not, danced as if she had fallen in love with a man who wanted her out of his life. She danced as if she had legs to last a lifetime.
Cradling her truths near her chest, she prepared for her last try. She spun in a pirouette. Once, twice, she found her spot in his eyes and turned. Thrice…
He looked away. In the same breath, he deprived her of his gaze and her balance. She fell, like so many before her, with a scream in her throat and a broken heart.
Only the ground received her, her heaving breaths upsetting the carpet’s fibers.
Silence came abruptly, the music and movement ceasing, leaving nothing but her thudding pulse. She heard a soft curse and the vibrations of steps.
Hands warmed her shoulders, and he pulled her up.
She lifted her trembling chin into the unattainable heights of his gaze. “There was ever only you, and if you don’t believe me, never speak to me again.”
His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that stole her air.
“You haunt me, Helene.” His voice was tense... smoky. “You haunt me, damn you.”
