Page 36 of The Duke's Dream
Rodrick’s hand pressed too firmly on Helene’s back, and when he led her into the turns, his whispers were too close.
The mix of perfumes and sweat became stifling.
“What is he doing with her?” William gripped the balustrade with enough force to break the carved wood.
Cavendish frowned. “Rodrick? I dare say he is waltzing with her, old boy. Is that Miss Beaumont? She is a marvelous dancer. Mind if I take a turn, too?”
“He is a dangerous blackguard, and you know it.” William pushed away from the gallery, calculating the path to reach her.
“Where are you going?”
“I will claim my dance.”
***
William descended the crowded stairs, weaving between patrons in all stages of drunkenness. The infernal mask pressed against his eyes, restraining his vision. He ripped it off. People around him leaned forward, whispering his title. He ignored them. If Rodrick touched her—if he but harmed one inch of her skin.
When he arrived at the dance floor, the orchestra was pulsing the waltz’s last notes. William scanned the dancers, the couples parting. Where the hell was she?
White flashed to his left.
Rodrick had his hand on the small of Helene’s back, his black glove wrapping around her white dress, a serpent tightening its grip on a lily.
A storm surged in his chest, filling the cavity like the tide. William clenched his fists, fighting to rein it in.
He was civilized, damn it. He could not allow an outburst to expose him. A calm intervention would suffice. Delivered with his usual diplomacy. He had to maintain decorum. A public scene would harm them both.
Rodrick seized her arm and pulled her toward the open French doors. Her skirts rustled like startled wings. Just before the night swallowed her, Helene glanced up at the gallery—eyes searching, almost pleading. For him.
The tide roared inside him. To hell with decorum. Before he could control himself, he was out of the ballroom, out in the open, and upon Rodrick.
Heart hammering, William seized Rodrick’s shoulder and shoved him back. “Take your hands off her.”
Rodrick stumbled, eyes flaring in shock.
Her willowy frame shuddered. She held herself up as if by the power of tension alone, arms gripping her midsection, her gaze fixed on William’s face.
William used the blackguard’s confusion to pull Helene behind him. She came willingly, her shallow breaths teasing the back of his neck. It was the only thing in the night that felt real, under his control. Not his thoughts, not his actions, not the riot of emotions, but those puffs of chilled air.
“If it isn’t the Duke of Albemarle, protector of the innocent," Rodrick said. "Will you ever understand that the innocent might not need your protection?”
William stepped in, his voice lethal. “You let Gaunt drown. Touch her again, and I’ll return the favor.”
Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of his harsh breaths.
But then Rodrick brushed the creases from his sleeve, smirking. “When I said I wished to see the Duke of Albemarle burn, I didn’t think the flames would lick this high so soon.”
William froze. The words struck like a blade beneath the ribs. He had warned himself what happened when passion reigned. When restraint broke. When men let go.
And yet here he stood, breath ragged, hands clenched, barely leashed.
Rodrick’s gaze moved from him to Helene calculatingly.
The blackguard grinned, exposing his feral white teeth. “That smitten, Will?” He bowed dramatically. “Then you better keep her out of trouble,” he said enigmatically and vanished into the night.
William watched him go, knowing he had handed his enemy powerful ammunition.
A soft gasp broke the fog.
