Page 37 of The Duke's Dream
Helene.
What would she think of him now?
William exhaled, and the air condensed in front of his face. “I’m sorry for—”
Crying out, Helene flung herself into his neck. Her mask bit into his chest as she clung to him. “Thank you, oh, thank you so much.”
It took William ten seconds to recover and wrap his arms around her. Relief came gradually, like the receding waters after a squall. He brought her closer, hugging her fiercely, and his chin found a resting place atop her head.
“Enough of this cat-and-mouse game."
Sighing, William savored the smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin, letting it wash away his anger.
"Let me take care of you.”
She pushed him away and whirled, hurrying back toward the ballroom.
He grabbed her wrist. Even through the fabric of her gloves, he could feel the coldness of her skin. She was terrified.
“What did Rodrick tell you?”
She set her jaw, gazing into the night. “I don’t owe you satisfactions over my—”
“Damn it, Helene, you are shaking.” He brought her closer, his heart failing to understand that she was under his protection now, that the threat was gone.
One moment, she was earthy and bold, the next, she was transparent in her vulnerability. Who was this ethereal sprite who haunted him?
“Am I? Is this not how you, English, want us to feel? Trembling as we wait for your advances?”
Despite her bravado, she was stiff, her rigid arms ending in two fists by her sides. Her distress was unbearable, and the mask’s serene expression made it worse. Seeing her face was as necessary to him as breathing, self-preservation, or defending his honor.
He tugged her under a gazebo. Whether it was trust or simply numbness, she followed—an uncharacteristic display of meekness from his stubborn sprite. The wisteria hung frozen and twisted above them, and a persistent moon cast feathery shadows over the gravel ground.
Panting, he reached behind her head to loosen the mask’s fastenings.
She caught his wrists. "What are you doing? Stop!"
"Hush, Little One, I must see you."
He removed the mask, revealing her lovely face—eyes wide, cheeks flushed. A tear that she had been unable to dry had left a moist ribbon on her skin.
With his thumb, William brushed it away. “Not all of us want our Rosières trembling and weeping. What did he do to you?”
Mumbling in French, she shook her head.
It must have been about the jest. Had Thornley not approached him with his irrational fears? Still, William hated that her irreverent play had led to this. “No matter, I won’t allow him near you again.”
He caressed the wet needles of her lashes, brushed the stubborn arch of her brows, the proud tilt of her nose. Too fleeting. His memory was not precise enough. Her every feature had to be recorded—etched into copper, painted in oils, carved into stone.
Anything to make her real. Anything to make her forever.
Helene took a shaky breath. "Can you please stop looking at me like this?"
This?
How could he, whenthiswas exactly how he felt—like a man staring at the dream he chased every night, craved every day, needed with every breath?
"I know not how, Helene," he whispered. "I don't know how to stop looking at you."
