Page 14 of The Duke's Dream
William leaned forward, supporting his elbows on the balustrade, straining to distinguish her from the rest.
And then he saw her.
How could he ever not see her? She flitted between the fake trees, weightless, prancing, whirling, and leaping, her legs slicing saucy arcs in the air. She was thin—sheer muscle, bones, and determination. But there was nothing thin about her presence. It filled the stage, soaking up all the light until she was lit from within.
As in the dreams, she stirred everything around her, commanding the very air, a goddess of the wind. Next to her, the others looked like amateurs.
William’s gaze lingered, ensnared.
The audience erupted into applause as she gracefully retreated backstage, but he remained still, his hands clenched on the armrests, his eyes burning from not blinking.
When the curtains fell on the first act, his mouth went dry, as if he had spent the day indulging in spirits. It felt like his dream, and yet it didn't. His dreams flowed like water, elusive, while the stage before him stood sharp and all too real. He should leave. His father used to say unbridled passion was a lake covered in thin ice—those who tread its surface risked drowning. Yet despite the warning ingrained in him, William remained rooted. He had seen her, hadn't he? He couldn't unsee her now.
William was counting the minutes until the second act when the footman opened his private box and admitted Cavendish.
His friend sauntered inside, bringing in a scent of tobacco and brandy. “I saw movement in your box and knew my luck had turned.”
William had stopped drinking after realizing it only intensified the dreams. Now, he couldn’t stand the smell of spirits on others.
The intermission bell sounded.
“Sit if you must, drink if you wish, be quiet if you care to stay,” William said, keeping his eyes on the stage.
Cavendish pulled the flaps of his coat and dropped into a chair. The curtains opened, revealing a new set—brimstone and darkened pits.
The music swelled, and William’s heart sped, sensing her return. He wasn’t mistaken. Clad in tattered white, her arms and calves bare, she danced around Orpheus, her movements dripping with sensuality.
William willed Orpheus to look at Eurydice and die, so the girl would stop dancing with him.
Cavendish sighed. “I love it when they twirl with those gauzy skirts. It almost makes me wish I was poor to sit in the pit and see if they wear garters.”
“Such commentary certainly belongs to the pits.” William restrained the urge to make Cavendish swallow the glass. "Why did you miss the committee again?"
Cavendish grinned. "You are in a terrible mood. Perhaps a joke is in order. Do you know the difference between the circus and ballerinas?"
William didn't move his gaze from the stage.
Cavendish cleared his throat. "The circus has cunning stunts... And the ballerinas have stunning cunts.”
“Bravo. Our late oratory master would applaud your rhetorical prowess.” William should earn a medal for tolerating Cavendish’s sense of humor.
Leaning back in the chair, Cavendish crossed his leg at the knee. “This new theater director knows how to pick his dancers. Their talents are a pleasure to behold. How long do you think it will take for them to be on Harry’s list?”
“They will stay on the stage, where they belong,” William said.
“As a theater investor, you should know it won’t be long until their path leads south. Certainly, you don’t mean to keep them all to yourself.” Cavendish winked. “I would be satisfied with one... or two.”
William’s jaw clenched. “These dancers are artists, not trophies to be claimed.”
“Verón will reserve entrance for his most favored patrons." Cavendish eyed William with raised eyebrows. "Since you invested in the theater, you could put in a good word for me.”
William’s gaze shot from Cavendish to the stage.
The girl’s movements became feverish and trance-like, the unrest of Hades’ lost souls. The music reverberated in his bones, and unease rippled in his stomach.
“I don’t follow your meaning.”
“Verón didn’t tell you? You must have scared him senseless, then. It’s a Parisian tradition. A delicious one, I might add…”
