Page 127 of The Duke's Dream
A dry sob escaped her throat, but she swallowed it. She smiled a sad little smile and dropped her weight onto the bed, feeling the mattress sink beneath her.
All was silent. Even her neighbor had given up Paganini.
Helene stared at the old valet, sighing. “Well? Will you say nothing?”
“As an old man who saw His Grace grow up, I might tell you some truths about that stubborn lad, but I won’t. I will let you discover it for yourself, and instead, I will tell you something about you. You are a brave young woman, Miss Beaumont. His Grace is lucky to have found you.”
Helene’s heart squeezed painfully, and tears prickled her eyes.
“Brave? Right now, there is a girl who needs me. She will face Queen Charlotte and a pack of hungry aristocrats alone because I have no courage to go to her. Do you think I’m brave still?”
“Why won’t you go, Helene?”
Helene stood up, her movements stiff. “Has William learned to ask impossible questions from you? I’m a fallen woman, that is why.”
“From where I can see it, you are standing on your two beautiful feet.”
Helene stared at the old servant, chin trembling. Her gaze dropped to her old shoes, and then back at Baines.
Indeed, she was.
Paganini’s Caprice No. 2invaded her home, the notes sparkling and glorious—her neighbor got the passage right at last. She rose onto her toes, pointing her feet for the first time in days.
Filling her lungs, Helene bit the corner of her lip. “William will be very mad.”
Baines smiled solemnly. “It will do His Grace good to wait for his desires.”
Helene raced to her armoire. So much to do, the dress, her hair—“I won't get to Saint James in time.”
Baines bowed. “My lady, the ducal carriage awaits.”
Agrenadierfootmanopenedthecarriage. The scents of Saint James’ courtyard tickled her nose—kerosene, heavy perfumes, and anticipation. Servants scurried, lanterns in hand, casting light across the faces of the gathering crowd.
Helene leaned forward, peering through the carriage window. Light spilled from grand archways. Coaches lined the street like a procession of dreams. Music floated through the air—refined, regal. It was breathtaking. And utterly alien.
Baines offered his hand to help her alight, his gaze steady. She stepped down, and watched the other women waddling toward the entrance, their bell-shaped dresses ballooning with silk and crinoline. In her narrow-cut gown, she felt like a shorn sheep among a flock still heavy with wool—her silhouette lean, stripped bare, while theirs billowed and swelled like sails catching the wind.
“Baines,” she whispered, “what can a sylph without wings do at a fairytale ball?”
He gently pressed a hand to her shoulder. “When I look at you, Miss Beaumont,” he said, “I see magic to last beyond midnight.”
If this truly were a fairytale, then Maggy deserved to be the princess.
“Good luck, Miss Beaumont,” he murmured.
She turned to him and, on impulse, kissed his cheek.
He blinked, visibly startled, a blush creeping into his weathered face.
“In ballet,” she said with a small smile, “we say break a leg.”
Keeping her fan close to her face, she entered the foyer. The clatter of the horse’s hooves gave way to a blend of music, laughter, and the rustle of silk. Chandeliers, ablaze with candles, cast a warm glow upon the assembly, reflecting off diamond tiaras and the gilded details of military uniforms.
Helene found the gallery where the debutantes awaited. Maggy was among the tittering ladies, her face pale and crestfallen. Thankfully, she was alone. Lady Thornley must already be waiting at the Presence Chamber. Dwarfed by the hoops of her skirts, Maggy clasped the train with her forearm, as if letting go would cause her entire ensemble to fall apart.
Helene maneuvered through the girls’ enormous dresses, afraid someone might recognize her. Still, the debutantes, caught up in themselves, paid her no heed. When she arrived at Maggy’s side, the girl’s eyes lit up, and she latched herself into Helene’s neck. Only Helene’s sense of balance prevented them from toppling onto the floor.
“I’m sweating so much I fear I will dissolve.” Maggy fanned herself in quick motions of her hand like a hummingbird’s wings, upsetting the obligatory feathers atop her head. “Do you think I will swoon? If I swoon, will I be excused from the presentation?”
