Page 16 of The Duke's Dream
Helene watched the exchange in confusion.
Louise grabbed Helene’s hand. “Verón invited patrons to invade our dressing room. We received a pink slip this afternoon. Our presence is mandatory. When they enter, we need to —”
The door opened at the farthest end of the room. Helene froze.
The reality of their situation clanged in her ears like the notes of an out-of-tune piano. How could Verón expose them like this?
Helene wrung her hands, eyeing Celeste. The poor dear was already hyperventilating, her eyes wide and feverish. Celeste could barely stand the presence of strange men. How would she deal with patrons who would not doubt expect favors from her?
A man crossed the threshold, another by his side. The light was dim, making it impossible to see their faces.
Helene turned to Louise. “Take Celeste home. I will tell Verón she was ill.”
“Are you sure?” Louise asked, her unflappable curls sticking out at odd angles.
How would Helene handle this? She was no Joan of Arc. She gazed at Celeste, and her friend's panic gave her strength. Shakespeare could’ve written a sonnet about it.
Helene tucked Celeste’s hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek. “A Shakespearean heroine would use her wits to persevere, would she not? I can do no less.”
Nodding, they grabbed their coats and hushed out through the back entrance.
The invaders neared.
Under the light of a single gas lamp, Helene prepared herself for the meeting, feet in the fifth position.
She saw a pair of boots first. Black leather, impeccably shined, stopping just shy of the hem of his great coat. Then the legs, as long as an aria’s final note. Her gaze climbed to the rest of him. The waistcoat, charcoal and faultlessly cut. The shoulders, broad and severe. Then to gloved hands which curled and uncurled with quiet control.
When he finally emerged from the shadows, she recognized him. The stranger she'd pirouetted into earlier.
Except he was no stranger. He was the Silent Sovereign.
He closed the final inches with the inevitability of a tide. Power clung to him—a man who didn’t need permission, because the world had always given him the right to enter, to command, to claim.
And now… he was looking at her.
He halted inside her pool of light, and Helene held her breath, refusing to take his scent into her lungs.
“Helene, this is His Grace, the Duke of Albemarle,” Verón said, a condescending sneer contorting his features. “Your Grace, Miss Helene de Beaumont.”
The duke stared at her, his expression cool and in control, a king expecting her deference. But his eyes… His eyes could not hide a subtle glint. As if he resented her. As if she had forced him to be here and not the other way around.
Helene swept one leg behind her, her arms unfolding with exaggerated grace. While her knee brushed the floor in a grand reverence, her mind spun—but unlike last time, she would not allow him to catch her.
What would she do? Posing meekly like a flower on market day wasn’t an option. She would not be plucked.
Verón eyed her shrewdly and departed, claiming some previous engagement. Still, the duke had to be vital to him because he halted near the exit, watching their interaction.
Other males had invaded the warming room, and pairs had formed. Peals of laughter burst from all around her. One couple left, arm in arm.
“I know why you came,” Helene said breathlessly.
He tilted his head to the side. “Is that so?”
“Of course. But first, can you help me with my costume?” Stomach quivering, she turned her back to him.
Helene, what in Apollo's name are you doing?
He hesitated.
