Page 35 of The Duke's Dream
Helene missed her step. Why did he know her name?
“I thought the point of wearing a mask was to keep one’s identity secret,” she whispered, glancing frantically at the door. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage now.”
“You can call me Montfort. Tell me about your costume.”
Viscount Montfort. Louise’s tales echoed in her mind. Spies and shadows followed Viscount Montfort like loyal hounds. Cold sweat formed in her spine, and her heart raced. What did he want with her? A mere dancer?
“Your costume, mademoiselle.”
“Are you familiar with The Rosières in France?”
“I’m familiar with many French traditions. Treachery among them.” This time, he could not disguise the slight contortion of his upper lip. “Who was the leader, Miss Beaumont? Who asked the corps de ballet to come dressed as Rosières?” His fingers pressed into her waist, none too gently.
Her heart pounded in her ribcage. “It was a joke. Do you understand jokes, Mr. Montfort? We are just French ballerinas. Beneath your attention.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You were—until your little ruse tonight forced me to notice."
Had she attracted unwanted attention to her group? What if this man discovered she was the sister of a French General? The enemy. Would he arrest her? Hand her over as an enemy spy?
Panic swept through her, its metallic tang flooding her mouth. Her heart was so loud that she feared it would outpace the orchestra.
“Do you know why I enjoy living here, Viscount Montfort? It’s because you English believe you are so superior that you leave us alone. Please don’t spoil my judgment.”
“Your besotted duke might applaud your wordplay, but I’m harder to please. When the music stops, you will walk away with me. I expect you to tell me who organized this display of French resistance.”
***
William leaned back against the gallery, drumming his fingers on the wall. The wait for Helene was tedious, as every wait was. People waited on him, not the other way around. And worse, his presence attracted attention, and before long, a throng of guests had lined up to greet him, from MPs to social climbers who wished for an introduction. At least among the demireps, he was free from the marriage-minded mothers, a staple of other balls. The ladies present, and he recognized a few of them, including Lady Johnson and Lady Trollope, were more interested in their own pleasure than making marriage connections.
William’s smile was automatic as he greeted an insistent group of MPs, their eager faces lit by the flickering candlelight.
“A splendid evening, indeed,” he murmured, his voice blending warmth and detachment.
William's hand twitched, fingers curling into a fist, then relaxing, as he scanned the room for signs of the white dress.
Thornley barreled his way into the group, his face reddening. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I think they call it the waltz. A most advanced dance, but quite harmless for politics,” William said.
“Not the infernal dance.” Thornley waved a dismissive hand towards the ballroom. “The girls in white. These—These rose Jezebels.”
William shrugged, assessing Thornley's reaction. “What of it?”
“They are rallying the Whigs against the war, that’s what. The purity of France, bah. I bet Farley will gush about this in his thorny editorials. They will undermine our position in parliament and—”
“If a group of girls can threaten our position, then it isn't strong in the first place.” William smiled condescendingly. “Rest easy. I have the party under control.”
Thornley’s lips pressed into a thin line and with one last scornful glance at the ballroom, he left.
The first notes of Chopin’sWaltz in D-flat Majorrose from the orchestra. Several Rosières were led onto the dance floor. The hairs on his neck lifted. William knew she was among them—a shift in the air, an electric impulse. And then he saw her. Center-left, close to the Grecian colonnades. The grace, the utter poise. Helene glided while the others stomped.
He leaned over the railing, gaze fixed, refusing to let her out of his sight. Light caught on the folds of her white dress, making it shimmer with each twirl. All superfluous noises quieted, and the waltz filled his being.
Because he was so attuned to her, he noticed the second her shoulders stiffened, and her steps faltered. William’s gaze went to her partner, and he cursed under his breath—Rodrick.
Why was he dancing with her? Could it be Thornley’s doing? Some misguided suspicion because of the Rosières’ game?
Rodrick’s well-known ruthlessness, his penchant for ensnaring French emigres in his web, settled like rocks in William’s chest. The thought of Helene in his grasp, sent a chill down William’s spine.
