Page 4 of The Duke's Dream
He didn’t miss the sleep—only the peace. How was he to outmaneuver Napoleon by day if he spent his nights chasing a sprite through restless dreams? If he were to push the military budget through Parliament this season, he needed the full power of his mental faculties.
"Certainly. When did the dreams begin, Your Grace?"
Fourteen years and fifty nights ago, on his twentieth birthday… The day he buried his father and donned the ducal signet. The day the Admiralty released him from duty with a congratulatory nod and a score of empty medals. Just weeks before, he had stood on the blood-slick deck of the Vigilant at Cape St. Vincent, the Spanish flagship ablaze in the distance, smoke clinging to his skin. He had commanded men, survived cannon fire, earned Nelson’s regard. And yet, once ashore, the dreams came. Not of war. Not of Spain. But of her.
That first night, he had fallen asleep in full uniform, too weary to undress, and the sprite had raided his rest for the first time. Laughing, she had taken him flying, sweeping over the mountain's summit and skimming the treetops, their feet brushing against the leaves. Limbs entangled, they had boiled the lake. Rose-colored lips had brushed his, and then… Nothing.
He had awoken in anguish—she wasn't real, and he would never meet her. That night he had sat for dinner at the family table, alienated, unable to bear the contrast between the mischievous sprite and the stolid silverware.
Exhaling, William crossed his arms. "Long enough."
"Might I ask why you sought my help now?"
William spun the globe, setting continents adrift. "The dreams have become more vivid of late."
Where did she go when she wasn't haunting him? Did she vanish or visit other men? Unbidden, the thought forced all the air out of his lungs. A creature from his imagination had no life beyond his mind. The sprite was clouding his thoughts again, and the questions weren't helping.
Rain tapped against the window, joining the grandfather clock in an uninspired symphony. William stared beyond the glass panes of his study at Grosvenor Square—gray cement, gray leafless tree trunks, gray denizens.
"Have you tried some calming habits? Music helps. Perhaps playing the piano…"
William gave a sardonic smile. Every time he awoke from the dream, his hands ached for the keys, as if to lure the sprite back with a song. It required an iron effort to refrain. "I don't play."
"That's a pity. You possessed the talent of a virtuoso. Your mother—"
William gritted his teeth. "I fail to understand how music will help me sleep."
"The mind works in ways science is still far from understanding, but one thing is clear—emotions have the power to affect our health."
Science and emotion? A ridiculous notion. William glanced at the clock. The committee would convene in forty minutes, and he was still as far from a solution as Pitt the Younger was from the Commons when his party deserted him over the Regency Crisis.
"The East India Company has recently supplied London's chemists with raw materials," William said, lifting his brows. "As a board member, I approved the shipment myself. So I must assume your reluctance isn't due to a shortage of medicines."
"Not at all… Can you bear with this old doctor? Has there been any event within your estate or political affairs coinciding with the worsening condition?"
"I don't see a correlation."
England waged war, as it had for most of his adulthood. Still, William couldn't fathom a connection between Napoleon and the mysterious visitor who plagued his nights.
His gaze drifted to the mahogany desk, piled high with correspondence. Amidst the Whigs, radicals, and Bonapartists, the committee stood as the last bulwark between society and chaos.
The fireplace crackled, its glow flickering across the bookshelves, mocking his meticulously ordered life. Outside, the wind pressed against the panes—soft, relentless—like the sprite's laughter. Soon, night would seep through every crevice of the house, blurring the lines between discipline and desire.
His pulse quickened without cause. He reached into his vest pocket and closed his fingers around the broken chain. The cool metal bit into his skin, anchoring him. He had long accepted a truth most denied—that within every man lived a beast, slavering beneath the surface, aching to surrender to rage, to lust, to chaos.
Civilization—true civilization—depended on keeping that beast chained.
In the private realm, it meant self-mastery: a man who did not rule his urges was no better than an animal. In public life, it meant honoring tradition, preserving legacy, and resisting change for its own sake. France had shown them what happened when control was lost—blood, chaos, war.
His role as the Duke of Albemarle was not to please the crowd—but to protect the structure. Let romantics chase novelty and feeling. His duty was to endure.
Still, every time the sprite came near, his control frayed.
Dr. Flemming cleared his throat. "Any, er… unfulfilled yearnings?"
In his position, nothing was beyond his reach. Except for the sprite. He flexed his hands, grasping thin air. In the dreams, when he stretched his arms to capture her, she disappeared.
"Are we done here? I have another appointment."
