Page 29 of The Duke's Dream
He had seemed almost relaxed at Lady Thornley’s house—unguarded, even. Tonight, he was different. As if he’d fortified himself against an invisible threat—stone-faced, immovable, and determined to keep the world at bay.
Not that she had any wish to get closer.
"I'm afraid I don't take lost causes. You should seek Katherina, our ballet master. She performs miracles with inflexible students."
"I'm not used to bending." He fixed her with a gaze so heated, she feared she might ignite. "Others do it for me."
Helene swallowed. She needed to get away from him. Her hands trembled as she reached for the fastenings of her bodice. But the duke was already there. Positioning himself behind her. Too close.
His fingers brushed hers aside. "Perhaps I only came to help you undress. These tiny buttons are challenging. And inflexible dukes appreciate recalcitrant buttons."
He lingered, the heat of his palm ghosting over her skin, and then he leaned forward. His breath caressed her nape. Had he just... smelled her? If she shivered, it was only because Verón was cutting the heating expenses.
Her cheeks flushed, and she shut her eyes as he pushed her hair aside, baring the curve of her throat to the cool air. His knuckles skimmed the skin behind her ear, a fleeting graze that sent a shiver rolling down her arms.
Helene licked her chafed lip. "They do?"
"You see, they put a valiant resistance…" He circled the first button on her nape. "But they eventually yield."
The fastening gave way with a soft tug, and Helene swayed—not away from him, as she should, but into his rigid space.
He pressed closer to her back, his shadow bathing her tulle skirt. The heat of his presence made her pulse race. What was he doing with her? It felt like a prelude, and like all preludes, it built anticipation, leaving her breathless, perspiring, discontent.
The next button slipped free.
"Tell me something, Miss Beaumont—why do ballerinas have such an excessive fondness for white?"
"You won't like the answer."
"One more reason you should tell me—Isn’t that what liberals do? Seize any opportunity to scold the traditionalists?"
If he put it that way… How could she resist?
Helene exhaled. "There is a custom in French villages. Once a year, they choose the most virtuous girl to be crowned before the lord. They dress her all in white, weaving flowers into her hair. She is called la Rosière."
"How quaint."
"Indeed… until one year, a lord decided to steal her for himself."
His expression did not change, but the tension in his shoulders increased.
She gazed at him pointedly. "La Rosière became a symbol of French purity against the corruption of the aristocracy."
"Thank you for the history lesson, Miss Beaumont. It is very interesting… and dangerous." He caressed her bottom lip. "But what if it is the Rosière who tempts the lord beyond endurance?"
His hand stilled and hovered between them. His eyes became cold, glacial even. It was that fierce emotion—the same she had glimpsed on the stage when they first met. The Silent Sovereign was dangerous to her. No matter Verón's threats.
Her stomach fluttered, and she tensed to leave, but he clamped his hand around her forearm.
The warming room hushed as she stared at his long fingers, willing them to let go.
But then he closed his eyes. A heartbeat passed, two. A muscle ticked in his cheek, then smoothed.
When he opened his eyelids again, the turmoil had faded.
What did it cost him to keep his emotions in check? He reined himself in with a discipline she had never seen before. And she understood discipline. Every movement of her body, every breath, every pointed toe was an act of control, honed through years of pain and practice. And yet—if only she could be as proficient with her own feelings.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost amused. "Where do ballerinas go when they are not haunting unsuspecting dukes?"
