Page 2 of The Duke's Dream
“Tomorrow, Langley will attend our rehearsal. Our aloof choreographer will choose the principal parts of his new ballet. Do you want to stay a soloist forever?” Helene asked.
Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…
Celeste touched Helene’s shoulder. “We’ve only been soloists for a year. Why the rush?”
Helene sighed, avoiding her friend’s hopeful eyes. The third secret of a ballerina? Ballet was everything—and never enough. It made them beautiful, yet relentlessly inadequate. Not enough artistry, not enough musicality, not enough perfection. But once she became a principal? Then, maybe, she would be enough.
Celeste sighed. “Perhaps you will find romance tonight…”
The hope lacing Celeste’s voice made Helene’s chest ache. The fourth secret of ballerinas? Romance existed only in apas de deux. What could be more romantic than soaring in her partner’s arms, promenaded like a goddess? How could an onion-breathed patron, leering at her décolletage, possibly compare? To gentlemen, the theater was just another hunting ground, and each season, more girls fell to their guiles than foxes to their hounds.
“Perhaps if males were interested in more than how low we bow and how high we lift our skirts,” Helene blurted.
Celeste's brightness dimmed, and she drifted to the window. The firelight flickered, casting shadows over her flawless figure.
Helene cursed her carelessness. Because of her bitter words, Celeste was no doubt recalling that odious Prussian diplomat—the blackguard who turned the most romantic of girls into one who feared men. At thirteen, Celeste had been his target. When Langley refused to sell her, the diplomat had tried to take her by force. Louise had burst into the changing room just in time to stop him. But it had been too late to shield Celeste from the scar he left on her heart.
Helene lowered her leg. Sighing, she leaned her chin over her friend's shoulder.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Helene said. “I’m sure a flock of Prince Charmings is prancing about Vauxhall right now, their silver spurs jingling along the pathways.”
Celeste traced a flower in the frosted window. “I’m not so sure… The fireworks will startle his white horse.”
“His steed doesn’t scare so easily. Fireworks won’t frighten him, nor storms, nor shadows,” Helene said. “He can fight dragons—even the ones we keep locked in our own hearts.”
Celeste turned from the window, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Do you believe such a gentleman exists?”
For Celeste’s sake, Helene hoped he did.
“He must be out there. Didn’t the Bard say—Jack shall have Jill, and naught shall go ill? You are the loveliest princess I know, and if Shakespeare had been right, then you deserve the most dashing of princes,” Helene said, squeezing Celeste’s hand. “Now let me rehearse. Unless you want me to fall flat on my face in front of the entire company tomorrow. Then what sort of principal would I become? Perhaps of a farce namedThe Comedy of Terrors.”
After months of training, she danced on her toes as naturally as on the balls of her feet. She was so close. No night fireworks, no waltzes, no romances would distract her.
Helene held the barre again and stretched her leg.
One, two, three…
“Well, if you do fall, Langley might notice you at last,” Celeste said. “Perhaps he will make you the star of… of…The Taming of the Shoe.”
Helene’s lips twitched, and the mirror rebuked her instantly—the reflection catching the slight drop of her leg. Well, letittry holding a high arabesque while tucking her stomach against a fit of giggles.
Celeste laughed too, her gloom thankfully forgotten.
They were enjoying themselves—at least as much as a woman balancing with her leg high behind her could while sharing in another’s laughter—when the front door slammed against the wall.
For a Swan of Paris, Louise sometimes had the grace of a cannon.
“You have to fix your lock, Helene,” Louise said as she closed the lockless door.
Helene rolled her eyes. “I plan to. At least to keep you from interrupting me.”
Pushing her black hair from her forehead, Louise halted before Helene, arms akimbo. Her newà la Titushaircut—freshly imported from France—suited her, the short curls accentuating the sharp angles of her delicate face. Her silver eyes, ever-intense, flicked over Helene’s practice tunic as if it were a battle standard flying enemy colors.
“Why are you not ready?” Louise asked.
Helene pursed her lips. “Et tu, Brutus?”
Romantic Celeste adored the pleasure gardens, but Louise would sooner skewer an Englishman with her rapier than waltz him under the stars. While Helene and Celeste had grown fond of London, Louise’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed across the English Channel—orLa Manche, as she called it. According to Louise, why did the strip of water have to belong to the British and not the French?
