Page 135 of The Duke's Dream
Helene's heart lurched. "But what about Viscount—"
"My friend may have bought us a few hours, but that won't hold them back for long. If they find us, you'll be seen as an accomplice. They'll throw you in the Tower, Helene, or worse. We can't stay here."
Helene turned to her brother, her eyes pleading. "Just a moment? Please?"
"Five minutes," Gaetan grunted, turning his back to give her privacy.
Letting out a painful breath, Helene caressed William's cheek. "Our music ended, love. It ended when you left, and the silence was filled with pain. We tried to find our rhythm again, but it only brought more hurt."
Her voice was a whisper, each word slicing through her like a knife.
He interlaced their fingers, his jaw set, his shoulders drawn so tight she could see the tension cords at his neck.
"I gave you the piano. Our music doesn't have to end."
His voice was rushed now—fraying. As if he could rebuild everything through sheer force of will.
"You agreed to this, Helene. You said yes." His eyes searched hers, wild with panic. "Do you want a bigger house? A palace? Tell me, and it is yours."
His grip tightened on her hand—too tight now, like he feared she might vanish if he let go. The duke's practiced composure cracked, and when he spoke again, it wasn't a command but a cry.
"Please."
The word broke apart in the space between them, torn from the most unguarded part of him.
Helene closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against the cold. Her body ached with the weight of his desperation—of her own longing.
"Even if I could live in a cage," she whispered, "I couldn't live in a world apart from you."
"Stay, damn you." His voice cracked like thunder. "I love you. Marry me."
Helene's chest shook with silent sobs. How could she make him understand?
"When we met, we were a dancer and a duke. Our pas de deux created Helene, the woman, and William, the man."
She touched the corner of his lip, then the arches of his brow, her fingers featherlight as if caressing a dream.
"While I embrace this new part of me, you hate the changes I brought into you. Even if society was willing to accept us, William might love me..."—her voice caught—"...but the Duke of Albemarle resents me."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he dropped her hand as if it had burned him.
The gesture was quick. Final.
Fog swirled around him, cloaking him like a cape he wasn't willing to cast off. A carriage rattled in the distance. Somewhere in the vast city, a child cried—a lonely sound that echoed inside her chest.
Helene covered her mouth, barely catching a sob.
Why wasn't he denying it? Why wasn't he fighting for her? Why wasn't he saying she was wrong—that he loved her, dancer or duchess, French or not, flawed and fully his?
Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, frantic and bruised.
She held his gaze, pleading in silence, hoping for any flicker of the man who had once whispered music into her skin. But his eyes had shuttered. The storm inside them had stilled—not calmed, but buried. Locked away behind the familiar, suffocating stillness of the Silent Sovereign.
How tragic that she had failed to free him.
He stepped back—not far, just enough to feel like a chasm. Enough to make her breath hitch.
