Page 31 of The Duke's Dream
Helene blinked at her, a thread of nostalgia pulling at her chest. The Swans of Paris had spent many nights in Katherina’s house, all four of them, sewing ballet slippers and gossiping. “I have a barre in my apartment, and you are always welcome. Are you free this afternoon?”
Sophie pouted. “What if we went to a coffee house instead?”
“Well, we could—“
Sophie clapped her hands. “Perfect! And you can invite the Duke of Albemarle.”
Helene startled. “I beg your pardon?”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed, the green of her irises showing a calculating glint. “Do you know he has an income of over a hundred thousand pounds per year? And he will be the youngest Prime Minister in Britain?”
Helene’s smile faded. What had she expected really? They were all so different—while Helene dreamed of ballet glory, Louise dreamed of France and Napoleon, Celeste dreamed of her perfect prince, Sophie scanned the theater’s boxes, dreaming of the aristocracy.
Exhaling, Helene pressed her temples. “Why would I invite him? I barely know him.”
Sophie’s expression hardened, her grin replaced by a thin, tight-lipped line. “You were lucky to catch his attention.”
Helene pulled away from Sophie’s touch. Was she lucky? Lucky that Verón expected her to entertain the duke and allow him to chase her? Or that she felt attracted to him, and this attraction endangered all she held dear?
Louise lifted her brows. “For once, we agree, Sophie. This duke’s attention is indeed fortuitous. It gives Helene a sweet opportunity to cut his throat and rid Napoleon of an Anglais bastard.”
Celeste placed a hand over her heart. “But he is so handsome.”
Under Louise’s pointed gaze, Celeste lowered her chin. “In a domineering way, of course.”
Their discussion was cut short when Verón halted before the storeroom and, with a sweeping gesture, unlocked the door.
Everyone hushed. Dancers were only allowed inside when seamstresses fitted them for new performances.
Grinning, the director opened his arms. “You are all invited to a masquerade hosted by the Horse Guards at Burlington House. And your Verón is so generous that he will allow you to choose any costume you wish.”
The company clapped and cheered.
Helene’s step faltered. A masquerade? Why now, and why this sudden largesse from Verón? The director’s grandiosity was only surpassed by his avariciousness.
Celeste hugged her. “The Annual Horse Guards ball! It’s impossible to get tickets. How romantic.”
Louise shook her head. “I don’t like the smell of this.”
Helene was still bewildered by the invitation when Verón took her arm and guided her to a corner.
“The Duke of Albemarle expects to know what costume you will wear.”
Helene frowned, her gaze drifting from Verón to the racks. “Why would he—”
Verón’s eyes glinted. “Have you forgotten the chase, Miss Beaumont? I told you, these Englishmen are awfully fond of their foxes.”
Helene swallowed the director’s glee.
The duke had delivered on his promise, then. A place to be anyone they wished to be... A masked ball. He was closing the distance between them. A shiver curled down her spine. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of her wanted him to.
What would she do? The theater was safe. Here, she was in control of the terrain and herself. But outside? How would she keep him at bay? All it took was his voice and his scent to make her legs weak, her heart beating faster than after a series of allegro jumps. It didn’t help that his fingers felt raspy and wonderful against her skin.
As Verón swaggered away, laughing, Helene hugged herself.
“What is wrong?” Louise asked.
Helene shook her head. The words were locked in her throat.
