Page 28 of The Duke's Dream
"So. Farley, huh?" He crossed his arms, mouth twisting into a smirk. "Haven't seen Lord T. so florid since Napoleon wed that Austrian chit and, in the process, fucked our best ally."
William narrowed his eyes. "I don't have time for gossip."
"Then you will make the time to return what is mine."
The amusement drained from Rodrick's face. Barely leashed aggression settled in its place. He jabbed a finger toward William's vest. "The necklace."
William reached into his pocket, fingers curling around the chain. A memory flared.
Eton's lake. Two boys wrestling near the left bank. The glint of steel. A strangled gasp.
Gaunt's hands clawing at Rodrick's coat—grasping for air, for mercy, for anything.
Then, the stillness as the lake had swallowed him whole.
William could still feel the weight of water in his clothes as he pulled Gaunt's limp body ashore. Still saw the broken chain in that cold, lifeless hand.
Rodrick's father had erased the truth from public memory. But William refused to let it fade.
"The necklace isn't mine to give," William said, jaw tight.
He would keep it. A reminder of what Rodrick had done when fury blurred judgment, and passion eclipsed restraint.
Rodrick rolled his shoulders, deceptively casual. "You still think you were the hero that day?"
"I know who was the villain," William said.
Rodrick clicked his tongue. "Will, Will... Always so righteous. Old ghosts. Old morals. Old chains. When do you plan to cut them loose?"
Never.
William met his gaze. "Perhaps when you find your old sense of honor."
"Keep the necklace, then. For now." Rodrick's voice dropped. "But mark me, Albemarle. You will break. And I'll be front row when you do."
The door clicked shut behind him.
William stood still. Breath trapped in his chest.
Helene's smile flared in his mind. He had to end this madness before the beast inside him clawed its way free. If Helene signed the contract, he could tether himself again. He could breathe.
His fingers clenched the chain—cold metal biting into skin.
It had never felt heavier.
Helenedraggedherfeetfrom backstage into the greenroom. Her skin glowed with perspiration, the fabric of her costume damp.
Patrons flocked about, laughing and conversing with the dancers. Helene rushed to collect her things, keeping her gaze down to avoid unwanted attention.
The duke lounged in her usual spot at the barre.
The candlelight caught in the weave of his coat—black with embroidery so rich it gleamed silver. His longish brown hair curled just at his collar, the evening's shadows deepening the rough edge of his jaw.
But it was his eyes, stormy, changeable eyes, that made her stomach queasy. They tracked her movement, drawing her in as surely as if he had reached out and caught her by the wrist. Helene's breath hitched. He was beautiful in a way that should be against the law. No male should wield such power of distracting females from their hardwon dreams.
She slowed her steps, and schooled her features into a picture of nonchalance. "Are you waiting for a ballet lesson, Your Grace?"
"That depends... Will you be my teacher?" His words were measured, his shoulders rigid.
