Page 20 of The Duke's Dream
He took a step closer, pushing his face into hers. “I have no use for prude ballerinas. If the duke wants you to open your legs, you will grand battement, grand jeté, you will do whatever it takes to show him your pretty cunt in the best possible light.”
Helene slapped him. The sharp sound reverberated in the office, leaving a ringing in her ears and a stinging in her palm.
Horrified, she stared at the imprint of her fingers on his face. The room shrank, the walls closing in on her. What had she done? She hated violence. And worse, she had jeopardized her career. She had committed ballet suicide. If he dismissed her, how would she support herself?
The door swung open. Katherina glided inside, carrying a monumental bouquet.
Helene cradled her hand and turned from Verón, trying to control her breathing.
“This arrived for Miss Beaumont," Katherina chimed. "The duke’s liveried servant delivered it in his name.”
Helene’s breath caught. Flowers? From him? But why would he… after the way she had treated him?
Katherina’s continental elegance prevented her from widening her eyes at the tableau inside Verón’s office, but Helene didn’t doubt she understood what was happening.
She made a show of placing the burden atop Verón’s desk. “The duke must be besotted indeed to have been so thoughtful. Helene, the class will start soon. Pray don’t be late.” With that remark, she left.
Helene froze. Why wasn’t Verón screaming at her? The heady scent of flowers pierced the stale air of the office.
The director shook himself, his hand brushing absentmindedly across his reddened cheek, admiring the duke’s gift. Dozens of red roses crafted into a stunning bouquet—certainly the most expensive in the hothouse. Was she supposed to feel flattered by such an impersonal gift? They didn’t match the man with the stormy eyes. The duke, yes, but not the man.
She must be losing her mind. To feel disappointed by a present, when she despised its owner.
Verón broke a bud from the stem and placed it in his coat pocket.
“Who thought you had it in you, Miss Beaumont?" Laughing, he clapped his hands in a staccato rhythm. "Brava!”
Helene didn’t like it. Applause was sacred, not a weapon to mock others.
“You got yourself a besotted Englishman. A more befuddling race has yet to be born. But aren’t they the ones who like to hunt foxes? Such tiny beasts they can’t even eat?”
A fox—eagerly hunted, and readily discarded. Was her worth to be measured not by her art but by a male’s interest? A sudden chill invaded the office, and brushing her arms, Helene seized the moment to leave.
Verón caught her wrist. “Don’t forget our conversation today, petite fox. Your employment and those of your friends depend on it. You’d better give the duke a merry chase.”
Theclocktickedawaythe minutes as William's solicitor wrote, his brows scrunched in concentration. William crossed his leg above his knee and stared outside. A sliver of blue sky peeped from under heavy clouds, and children bustled about Grosvenor Square’s private garden, their laughter muffled by the window’s glass.
The rasping of the ink pen against the vellum made him drowsy, and his vision blurred. Images bombarded him—Helene’s naked back, the sprite dancing in the glen, Helene twirling on the point of her toes, floating, floating.
The sound of sand sifting over paper brought him out of the illusion.
“Your Grace, it is done.” The solicitor passed him the contract.
The paper’s weight felt right on William’s palms. “Excellent.”
Years of madness ended today. This was the rational course—rent a house on Curzon Street, first-rate servants, a coach and four, and place Helene de Beaumont in it.
He would have to hire a lady’s maid for her, certainly.
But he would retain undressing privileges. That was non-negotiable.
His heartbeat quickened, and the memory of her lily-white skin turned the frosty afternoon into the Sahara.
The Duke of Albemarle had negotiated an alliance with Metternich, drafted a treaty that reshaped kingdoms, and brokered a contract with Rothschild that secured England’s coffers for a generation.
And now, he was prepared to wrestle a lady’s maid for the right to unlatch a ballerina’s corset.
William reined in the impulse to race to Covent Garden. This wasn’t romance, but a way to exorcise his dreams. If he could have her in his life, he would silence this… this urge. It had to be done under strict terms. He would not allow an obsession to control him. He could end the arrangement the second it disturbed his political or social schedule.
