Page 139 of The Duke's Dream
Her commanding voice pierced his hangover.
William brushed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. Have you misplaced your pupil?”
She pulled Helene’s clothing from a drawer and stuffed them carelessly in a canvas bag.
“If you are talking about Mademoiselle Helene de Beaumont, I most certainly didn’t misplace her. She is exactly where she is supposed to be. By her brother’s side, stepping into her role in Parisian society. I dare say she will cause quite a stir, and will soon forget her time on this humid island.”
The thought of Helene with another made his insides twist, and he cursed the moment he had laid his eyes on her. William looked at his palms. How right it had felt to catch her waist, to support her that first day. A student in a ballet class—a harmless, smiling dancer. How wrong he had been. Women like Helene should come with warnings so males wouldn’t fall into the thrall of their siren song.
“I assume you are such a brilliant teacher." He massaged his temples, trying to get rid of the pain. "You were the one who taught her everything she knows.”
“Helene was a wonderful student.”
“I wonder what sort of teachings you conduct for your pupils. If it involves ruining a man’s life.”
“I hardly need to.” She didn’t pause her meddling in Helene’s belongings. “It seems most males can ruin themselves on their own. Really, Your Grace, self-pity does not become a duke. It is not dignified. It shows a terrible lack of English restraint.”
The sounds of the city awakening invaded the garret, an indifferent world moving on.
William traced the wings. “Helene wrecked me.”
The woman turned her stare at him, her posture stiff. She advanced to the bed and caught the wings from him. William had to fist his hands not to take them back.
“She wrecked you?” Her voice rose in pitch. “To you, she was an intrigue of the heart that you were glad to place in a house and amuse yourself with. Now that it is over, the affair will make you more alluring to your peers. If anyone did, as you put it, wrecked something, it was you. Helene was the promise of her age in ballet.”
Her words sliced his skin like the lash of a whip, and nausea rolled in his stomach. The teacher was wrong. William had tried to help Helene.
“I’ve made her the prima ballerina.”
“She would’ve gotten the part on her own, and her position would’ve been steadier, not dependable on your constancy. Because of your relentless pursuit, you made her lose her career and her reputation.”
William flinched. His head dipped forward, and he covered his face with his hands. Unbidden memories assaulted his mind. Helene pleading for him to stop looking at her, the pain on her face when he took her virginity, her despair after Lady Thornley’s dinner, and worst of all, her deadened eyes after she fell from her last pirouette.
She had looked to him for support—and he had let her fall.
Themorningwindbitthrough his shirt. William walked with no coat, no cravat, no destination.
People turned to stare. A few paused in concern. He saw their hesitation, their whispered questions. If they recognized his face, they didn't try to approach him. Unkempt, unmoored. A duke out of costume. Better for them.
His hands were cold. He tucked them under his arms and kept walking.
Was he the villain?
He had done what he thought was right. The war? He had supported it to protect the country. To preserve stability. But what had they preserved in Badajoz? Rape. Looting. Officers laughing while smoke swallowed Spanish rooftops. And his voice—his vote—had helped fund it.
Helene. He thought he was shielding her. Guiding her. Elevating her. But his love had clipped her wings, his protection turned to control, and when she needed him most, when she reached out—he hadn't caught her. She had fallen. And he had watched.
Why had he sacrificed his love for Helene? Was it for his legacy? The emptiness of such pursuits mocked him now. Was it for his sanity? He had never felt more unhinged. What was a legacy without love?
Helene was not only across the channel. She was in another world entirely—an enemy land—farther from his grasp than when she was a sprite haunting his dreams. The realization stabbed him. She was gone—and with her, the part of him that had once dared to dream beyond the confines of duty.
And now Farley. The country's liberal mind. A man who wrote what he believed, who loved as he pleased. And William had helped coerce him into silence.
Perhaps Rodrick had been right. The path to hell was paved with good intentions. If only he had worn the villain's mask instead of the Silent Sovereign's crown, people would have known to protect themselves from him.
A sharp, repetitive rustle caught his attention.
Echo's birdcage came into view. The bird threw himself against the bars. His wings struck the brass with a dull thud. Again. And again.
