Page 38 of The Duke's Dream
He could recite Caesar'sCommentariiin Latin, and Homer in the original Greek. He spoke every relevant tongue from Vienna to St. Petersburg, could outline a campaign strategy in his sleep, and understood the secret machinery behind Parliament and diplomacy.
And yet he didn't know how to take his eyes off a French ballerina who barely reached his shoulder.
The orchestra drifted through the open doors, distant now, like a world they no longer belonged to.
“Tomorrow, Langley will choose the main part of La Sylphide. I need to go,” she said, leaning into his touch.
“You cannot go.” William cradled her cheeks. “Not before teaching me how to stop looking at you.”
The garden, the ballroom, the feathery leaves faded, leaving only moonlight and the pounding of his heart.
“Teach me, Helene,” he breathed.
The sprite would’ve vanished by now. But Helene gazed at his lips, her eyes dark wells of beauty and mystery.
William laced his arms behind her spine and brought her closer.
The diffuse light bathed her skin with a silvery glow, making her ethereal. Tenderly, breathlessly, he cupped her chin, his eyes locking with hers.
He leaned in slowly, half wondering if dreams tasted sweet, half afraid she would fade under the pressure of his lips. They did, and she didn’t. William kissed the corner of her lips and knew that clouds tasted of champagne and a hint of rose water. He was kissing her—his sprite. Entwining his hands behind her neck, William brushed his lips against hers, softly at first, savoring the texture of her skin, then desperately, longing to imprint it on his own.
Her lips parted, and William slid his tongue into her mouth. Desire poured through him, heady and hot. He tilted her head and kissed her fully—lips, tongue, breath. Nibbling. Licking.
He was kissing his dream… and for the first time, he was awake.
Her breath hitched, and she pulled back, fingers curling into his coat as if she needed an anchor.
“Do you know why the English call this a French kiss? No? I have a theory. You’re far too dignified to even think of sticking your tongue in someone’s mouth if the French hadn’t invented it first." She delivered the words in short bursts as if to keep her mouth occupied with anything other than his tongue.
He laughed softly, brushing his lips against the tip of her nose. “Kiss me back, Helene.”
She did, her tongue shy at first, and then bold. He luxuriated in the softness of her lips. When he felt her resistance melting, her body pliant in his, his hands traveled the breathless path to her lower back, caressing the buttons of her dress, a reenactment of their nightly dance. She poised her little hands over his shoulders, tentative, as if unsure what to do with her limbs. Then she held his face. A hint of desperation infused her touch, as if she, too, was afraid he might vanish. She traced his jawline with her thumb, a timid caress that had his blood boiling.
Why had he fooled himself into believing all he had wanted was to catch his sprite? Now that he had her in his arms, he had to lock her inside of himself, he had to own her.
She pulled away, her breathing shallow. “I won’t fall in love with you.”
“I don’t require your love, Little One.”
“What do you want?”
He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You. In my bed.”
Their courtship had lasted long enough. He had nearly throttled Rodrick tonight—proof that his restraint was fraying. Once the contract was signed, she would have a place in his life, on his payroll, and this obsession would resolve itself.
“I’m not for sale.” Her voice trembled. “I hope this night has satisfied your… curiosity. And that you’ll finally give up.”
She might deny their desire, but his lips still carried the taste of hers.
William leaned against the trellis post, crossing his arms to stop himself from reaching for her again. “You seem to know so much about Englishmen. But you forgot our most important trait.”
She touched her trembling lips, as if afraid they were different. “A fondness for tea and entitlement?”
He allowed a slow smile. “We never give up.”
Her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Sweet dreams,monsieur le Duc,” she whispered, brushing past him.
William watched her go, the scent of her still clinging to the air. Sweet dreams?
