Page 24 of The Duke's Dream
Her cheeks reddened, and she stiffened in his arms. “Are you implying I’m short?”
William grinned. “Not at all. I think you are just the right size, Little One.”
The perfect size for him.
She muttered some insult in French that he pretended not to hear. And how could he? Her touch was warm, her hand firm yet delicate in his. The rosemary of her hair filled his senses. “You were beautiful. Dancing.”
She licked her lip. Then she peered at her feet and up at him from between sooty lashes. “And in person?”
Was she insecure? Didn’t she know she was fascinating? “In person…” He glanced past her shoulder, feigning seriousness. “I’ll reserve judgment for later.”
“That’s kinder than my opinion of you, your Grace.”
Chuckling, he brought her an inch closer. “How implacable you are, Little One.”
She mouthed the French insults again, but then the music swelled, and she transformed. Her lower back muscles gathered, her posture lifted, as if drawn upward by an invisible string.
He had waltzed with England’s finest beauties, women who followed steps out of memory or fear of faltering. But Helene didn’t follow—she glided, reading his intent before he gave it form, her grace so fluid it felt choreographed by fate.
Dancing with her was like cradling a bird mid-flight. He anchored her lightness, and she, with every step, lifted him higher. He wasn’t leading. He was soaring.
The ballroom dissolved—chandeliers melting into starlight, mirrors fading into mist. Her skirts whispered against his trousers, no longer coarse wool but white tulle, gossamer and floating, like the fabric from his dreams.
They were no longer in Mayfair. They were in the sprite's meadow.
Too soon, the final note fell. The mist melted. And he was back on the ballroom floor, but his chest still rose as if his feet had never touched the ground.
If not for the eyes watching, he’d have pulled her closer, held on until the heavens crumbled.
Lady Thornley clapped her hands. “Miss Beaumont is absolutely stunning. You will be the star of Covent Garden, my dear. And His Grace is so tall and gentlemanly.”
Smiling, he raised his eyebrows. He knew he danced flawlessly—any dance master would attest to that. Still, his heart raced, craving to hear it from her lips.
Helene lifted a perfect shoulder. “She is right. If ever oppressing the masses fails, you could always take up dancing.”
William laughed. The sound of his mirth rose over the ornate ceiling. He didn’t remember laughing so hard in all his adult life. His chest felt light, weightless, as if an enormous boulder had been removed from his shoulders.
She gazed at him quizzically, her pert nose lifted, and a little smile reached the corner of her eyes. He wanted to taste that enchanting little smile and savor the softness of a thousand whispered words.
“Are you quite done laughing? I thought you were going to swallow me whole.”
“I will, Little One,” he murmured. “But not yet.”
The prospect of courting this sprite turned into a lively ballerina seemed as vital as expelling Napoleon from Spain or keeping the Whigs away from power. Cavendish had been right, after all. Wooing Helene was the logical thing to do.
***
Lady Margaret’s morning room was adorned with maps and battle drawings. Helene stared at a faded sketch, hoping to find guidance in the pencil markings. Why had the duke intruded on her lesson? At the theater, she was prepared to fend off unwanted advances, but in respectable company? It left her vulnerable and at his mercy. And when they danced? A reactionary should be forbidden to dance like that. It made him seem almost… flexible.
And when he called her Little One?
It was strange and intimate, and worse, she could grow fond of it. The intimacy.
Through her training, she had learned to control every muscle, every expression, her breathing, even her heartbeat. She was the empress of her body, the only sphere of her life over which she had total command. Still, his presence tried to rob her of that. When he was near, parts of her rebelled—her pulse, her temperature, even her skin.
Lady Margaret gazed at her, blue eyes wide. “How did you do it, Helene?”
“Hmm?”
