Page 129 of The Duke's Dream
Helene’s love for him burst from the vault of her chest and filled all the little corners of her being.
Maggy would be all right.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Helene couldn’t contain the sigh that slipped from her lips. She closed her eyes, and at once, the music fell away. In its place came rain—the soft, persistent tapping against the glass panes of memory.
She was back in his arms, curled in the heat of that rainy afternoon, her cheek resting on his chest. Promise me you’ll stand for Maggy’s first dance, she had asked. He had frowned. I don’t dance at court.
But you must, she’d said, brushing a kiss to his cheek.
The girl’s terrified of me, he’d replied.
You terrify everyone, she’d teased, laughing. But you’ll say something kind, and she’ll feel safe. And it will all begin perfectly.
He had sighed, then—deep and warm—and let himself sink into the mattress. I might be persuaded, he’d murmured, not in his ducal voice, but in the low timbre she loved best. She had trailed kisses down to his navel and done exactly that…
The music returned in fragments. The sounds muffled. The glass before her turned stingy, hoarding the warmth and laughter on the other side. The dancers blurred into color and motion, distant and unreal. Whenever William held her, she had been the princess of her own story. Playing her part. Bathed in light. Now, she watched from the wings. How did the fairy godmother feel after she helped Cinderella? Was she lonely and a little envious of her charge’s brilliant success? Her fingers traced the glass over William as if she could draw herself into the scene. Did the fairy godmother wish it was her dancing with the prince? Even knowing that as a magical being, she belonged to a different realm? Was that why she told Cinderella she had to leave at midnight? Was the curtail of her fun a display of her envy?
A chill crept through the gallery. Helene shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was time to go.
But as she turned, her gaze caught on something new. Across the ballroom, one figure stood out in stark relief—an Austrian officer, the pristine white of his coat glowing against a sea of crimson. His posture was upright. Commanding. His chin lifted with quiet arrogance.
Recognition struck her like lightning.
Gaetan.
***
Helene tiptoed into the ballroom. She kept her face down, but her heightened senses placed William closer to the ballroom’s exit. A quick glance revealed she was right. Lord Thornley spoke with him, his words punctuated by quick stabs of his hands. Her heart accelerated, and Helene meandered away from their group, scanning the guests. Where was that Austrian officer?
A flash of white caught her eye near the refreshments. Helene wove through the sea of hostile hoops and ceremonial swords, stopping behind him. He stood with his back to her, golden hair gleaming under the lights, broad shoulders straight. Her stomach fluttered. The last time she had seen her brother, he had been a boy.
A tightness gripped her chest, making it hard to breathe. How foolish to be this affected—as if this stranger were the promise of solid ground for a castaway.
Partners lined up for the next waltz, their laughter and chatter blending with the strains of the orchestra. If the officer found his partner, she would lose her chance. Her hand trembled as she poised it over the officer’s arm.
He turned to her. A sharp-cut jaw, sun-kissed skin, the impossibly handsome face framed by waves of golden hair that cascaded over his shoulders. The uniform adorned him, medals catching the light, but it was his face—so achingly, impossibly like the one she had lost—that unraveled her composure.
“Dance with me?” she whispered.
The debutantes gasped, no doubt shocked at her boldness.
Whispers of La Sylphide rose among the guests, the murmurs spreading like fire in a hayfield.
When he swept her into the first counts of the waltz, her heart sped. Though he had been laughing and entertaining the small group, he was silent, his shoulder stiff underneath her hand.
Helene’s throat was so dry she could not speak.
He lowered his gaze to her, and she knew. His eyes were the same—the color of St. Cloud’s honey. Warmth invaded her chest, and it was all she could do not to embrace him.
Gaetan smiled, his eyes turning misty. “Puce Mignonne?”
Helene laughed through tears. “No one calls me like that here.”
She searched his face, wanting to see him all at once. Lightness buoyed her, and if he were not holding her, she would have flown away.
Gaetan grinned. “That’s a pity. You are even smaller than I remembered you.”
Helene had to crane her neck to look at him. “And you became a giant.” She lowered her voice. “Why are you here? Isn’t it dangerous?”
