Page 34 of The Duke's Dream
She glanced toward the gallery—and her breath caught.
The duke stood against the wall, straight-backed and still, his eyes tracking the dancers with quiet precision. Oh, to learn the substance of his thoughts. Was he angry? Did he miss her?
A strange thrill curled inside her. For once, she watched unnoticed. Not the performer but the audience.
A sharp poke in her shoulder broke the moment.
“Helene, really,” Louise muttered. “Must you always stare at the clouds?”
“I’m not—”
Louise raised a brow. “This is Mr. Elias Farley. Editor of The Clarion. He wants to interview you.”
Startled, Helene studied the man. So this was one of Louise’s radical acquaintances. They had often wondered where she disappeared to after rehearsals. As if they didn’t already have enough troubles without stepping into a political hornet’s nest.
The Roman toga marked him clearly—a republican, and therefore, dangerous.
He bowed low, candlelight catching in his flaxen curls. “Enchanted, Miss Beaumont.”
Helene’s lips tightened. “I’ll gladly speak about ballet—whenever you like.”
“I want to hear what inspired you to come as a Rosière. This is the silent protest England needs.” Farley’s eyes sparked with fervor.
“You mistake me, Mr. Farley. The Rosière was a jest. No manifesto tucked in the hem of my gown.” Helene’s tone stayed calm, but her gaze cut to Louise. “I want to move hearts through my art—nothing more. I believe in liberty, yes. In living fully. But I despise violence. I’ve lost too much to revolution already.”
“I love England,” Farley said, passion curling his words. “And my fight is not with blades. I write to incite change through knowledge. I shine a light on injustice—invite solutions, not chaos.”
A commotion stirred near the stage, a ripple of laughter and shifting masks.
“I hope you’ve brought a very large lantern,” Helene said, smiling politely. Then she slipped away, skirts whispering through the crowd.
She was admiring a fallen angel—black wings drooping, horns askew—when a gloved hand caught her arm.
“Dance with me, Rosière?”
She turned—and gasped.
The man before her was no angel. Tall and dark, he looked carved from something harder than flesh. His slicked-back hair sharpened the cruel angles of his face, and his eyes—black, unreadable—held a predator’s focus. He wore no mask, but his presence was disguise enough. A villain in plain sight.
“I’m not in the habit of dancing with strangers,” Helene said, frowning at his grip.
He didn’t let go. “But isn’t that the whole charm of a masquerade? To dance without names. Without rules.”
Her hands grew clammy as as he pulled her through the crowd, her eyes searching for a familiar face among the cherubs, queens, and satyrs. Where was Louise?
The first strains of the waltz saw her in the arms of the dark stranger, her back rigid, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
As they glided across the dance floor, Helene gazed at the gallery. Still, her duke was no longer there.
He guided her into the turn, and she saved her feet from his implacable boots by sheer instinct.
Helene grimaced. “I think our musicality is off.”
He chuckled. But instead of reassuring her, the sound made her more on edge. “I apologize. There are more pressing issues than dancing right now.”
Helene stiffened her elbows to keep him at arm’s length. “More important than ballet? You are not very flattering, are you?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Beaumont.”
