Page 39 of The Duke's Dream
No.
Tonight, he would be wide awake.
Helenesteppedoffthestage, breath catching in her throat as she slipped between dancers shedding costumes. She wiped the sweat from her brow, but it did little to clear the heat rising beneath her skin. Why hadn’t she lifted her leg higher? What had she done with that second turn? La Sylphide deserved more vigorous jumps.
She paced, restraining the urge to peek as another soloist tried for La Sylphide. Nail-biting would accomplish nothing now. As Julius Caesar would say—Alea jacta est. The dice were cast.
Helene stretched her aching toes, the tightness of her pointe work still thrumming in her bones. She fanned herself with trembling fingers, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. Stoic like Caesar? Hardly. She was closer to a Macbeth in tulle, nervous, anxious, and prone to overthinking.
She turned toward the dressing room, hoping to escape before her emotions escaped her—only to freeze at the unmistakable voice. Imperious. Clipped. His.
The duke?
Heart lurching, she ducked behind a heavy brocade curtain, the fabric brushing against her bare arms. She couldn’t face him—not as dancing Macbeth, with flushed cheeks, sweat-mussed hair, and tattered tulle.
Peeking through the folds, she spotted him speaking with Verón, his posture deceptively casual, his presence anything but. Draped in black and command, the Duke of Albemarle loomed over the director like a Roman emperor surveying a conquered province.
She had pressed her cheek to the superfine of his coat last night. His scent, his warmth... They were all so real, so solid. Her hand came up to brush her lips as his words replayed in her mind.
I want you in my bed.
Hard, arrogant words. Just like him. But his lips? Tender, soft...
Soft?
The only thing soft here was her mind. She should remember his high-handedness, his audacity to treat her like a commodity—not his ruinous kisses.
Dust motes danced in the slanting light, tickling her nose and threatening to betray her presence with a sneeze.
She peeked out, trying to discern their talk, but the music swelled, drowning the sounds.
What could he want with Verón? Was he complaining about her refusal? What if he was questioning Verón about her past, like Viscount Montfort?
Not five minutes had passed when the Duke dismissed Verón with a nod and turned toward the theater’s exit. Helene held her breath, watching the long, commanding strides that carried him away. And just like that—he was leaving. He had come all the way to Covent Garden, and he would leave without even seeking her?
An unwilling sigh escaped her lips.
Verón lingered a beat longer, then gave his jacket a tug and strode in the opposite direction, his polished shoes clicking with unusual purpose. A deep frown etched his glossy brow.
Helene slipped from behind the curtain and followed at a distance. The director stopped outside Langley’s office, knocked once, and entered without waiting.
Helene’s pulse spiked.
She veered toward the broom closet tucked beside the office and eased the door open. Familiar scents—old polish, sawdust, the faintest trace of paint—welcomed her like old friends. When she was younger, she used to slip in here to listen through the vent, imagining Langley sketching roles just for her, the scratch of his pen composing her future.
She tiptoed across the cramped space and pressed her ear to the vent near the top of the shared wall.
Two times an eavesdropper in one afternoon.
She stood still, barely daring to breathe.
A chair scraped against the wood.
Langley cleared his throat. Helene sensed his anxiety and imagined him wringing his hands. “If this is about the Rosières, I assure you the corps was not attempting to overthrow the monarchy and storm the tower. I spoke with the girls, and they are contrite. They didn’t expect the repercussion—”
“I’m not worried about that.” Helene could almost see Verón’s dismissive gesture, his impatience tangible even through the closed door. “It was marvelous for the business. Tickets have sold out. Have you chosen La Sylphide?”
The moment stretched, a breath held too long.
