Page 17 of The Duke's Dream
Why did he have to be so tall? His shadow engulfed her. Helene chided herself—this was not the time for stage fright.
She tugged her hair to the side. “The closures are hidden beneath the tulle.”
His fingers teased her nape as he worked on the first button. She took a deep breath, and his scent, clean linen and woodsy, invaded her senses. She stopped breathing, startled, as if she was taking it from him without his consent.
"You said you knew why I came." His voice, a smoky bass, wrapped around her like ivy on stone—low, persistent, and entirely at home.
She stole a gaze at him from above her shoulder, and her heart stuttered when their eyes met. His voice was controlled, but his eyes… His eyes were a storm.
Heat spread through her, moistening her palms. “You came to discuss politics, of course.”
“What do you know of politics, Miss Beaumont?”
“Enough to know you are anti-Catholic, anti-reform, and anti-French. Am I correct?”
He chuckled, and his breath bathed the naked skin of her back. “You are quite direct, mademoiselle. Does your understanding of politics go beyond labels?”
A shiver ran down her spine. “You tell me. As a French myself, I cannot understand why anyone would despise me.”
He brought his mouth close to her ear. “So far, your logic is flawless.”
Helene fought the urge to brush her tingling skin. “Indeed? Since the sentiment is not personal… Does it mean a resistance to liberty and equality?”
She felt him stiffen.
“Liberty and equality are dangerous. Noble in theory but disastrous in practice," he said in flawless rhetoric. "They undermine the fabric of our society.”
The reactionary words curdled in her stomach. “A society that stifles its members is worth protecting? That cripples their passions—”
As if guiding her into a pas de deux, his arm slipped around her waist, fingers settling over her hipbones. They were strong, capable—partner’s hands. The kind that could lift a ballerina into the air or hurl her into a turn so fast the world blurred.
But there was no music. No dance.
He drew her in, her back to his chest—a warning. The Silent Sovereign didn’t need words. His grip told her exactly where not to tread.
Helene stopped breathing.
“Passion? Society exists to protect us from such dangerous fires. Without it, we are no different from animals.”
The air cracked with wild energy.
“Animals are not so despicable. I’m fond of winged creatures.”
He chuckled, and just like that, the tension faded. “You are indulging in too much Rousseau, mademoiselle. Should I send you better reading material?”
His amusement must be made of spirits, or sugar, or something equally addictive, because angry, he was dangerous, amiable, he was devastating.
“The buttons, please.” She could not hide the quivering of her voice.
When he finished the row, her bodice gaped open. He traced a finger down her nape to the base of her spine, and the hairs on her arms lifted. Warmth flooded her chest and pooled in her limbs. Perhaps the dry ice fog from the stage had seeped into her mind, making her thoughts hazy.
“My carriage will wait for you at the theater’s back entrance,” he whispered, and caressed her neck, just above her pulse.
Helene craved the sensation of his lips there, where his fingers teased her skin.
Holding her bodice close to her chest, Helene danced away. Cool air surrounded her in a rush, replacing his warmth.
“I’m sorry to tell you we cannot extend our acquaintance.” She delivered the words in bursts, her gaze flitting from his heated gaze to his lips. “I’m afraid our political views are incompatible.”
