Page 41 of The Duke's Dream
“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s too beautiful.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away, pressing her face into her palms.
“These aren’t happy tears, are they?” Celeste’s voice softened as she brushed a stray curl from Helene’s damp forehead.
Louise placed a steady hand on her back, fingers warm through the fabric of her dress.
“I didn’t earn this on my own. The duke… he insisted Langley cast me.”
The opera singer’s haunting aria echoed through her garret, her voice climbing to a fever pitch.
Helene couldn’t look at her friends. Celeste would try to romanticize the situation, but Louise would rightfully reproach her. Would they resent her now? Even worse, would they condemn her for asking favors? Helene had kissed the duke, hadn't she? Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps he would have left her alone if she hadn’t enjoyed it so much.
“I didn’t ask him to do it. You must believe me. Tomorrow, I’ll speak with Langley, with Verón. I won’t accept the role.”
“You’ve worked harder than anyone," Louise said. "You deserve this, duke or no duke.”
“But I vowed—we all did—that we would shun bribing gifts.”
Favors didn’t come without strings attached. What would the duke request? Her stomach tightened, and she pulled the cloak closer around her.
Louise grabbed her hand. “You didn’t ask for it. This wasn’t your fault.”
“Langley wanted Sara.” Helene’s voice faltered, guilt tightening her chest. “I robbed this of her, and—”
“You can either be Lady Macbeth and cast yourself in a tragedy, or…” Louise steepled her fingers. “Lady Rosalind inAs You Like It.”
Helene smiled through her tears. “Is this my cue to don male clothes and escape to the woods?”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone knows you cannot wear trousers.” Celeste kissed her cheek. “Louise is right. You’ll be the star of your own delightful comedy. As the curtain opens, the promotion you thought was a tribute to your talent was a gift from a well-meaning but misguided suitor. Like Shakespeare’s heroines, you’ll weave magic into the plot, turning it around with grace. Your performance will be a dream, showing off your true artistry. And, of course, you’ll be surrounded by sparkling friends who will fill your journey with laughter.”
Helene lifted her eyes, biting her lip. “Will you truly be there with me?”
“How could you doubt it?” Louise brushed Helene’s tears. "We are The Swans of Paris, are we not? And as birds of a feather… we ought to stick the English with our rapiers, not fly from them."
Celeste clapped her hands. “This will be perfect. You’re going to prove to everyone, especially to Langley, how ready you are. The duke might have opened the door, but you’ll be the one dancing through it! This is your moment, Helene. Dance it for yourself, not for anyone else.”
Helene exhaled all the air in her lungs and nodded. She’ll keep the duke at bay, her heart safe, and her career ascending. “I’ll be La Sylphide.”
***
The grandfather clock ticked, each stroke echoing the tension coiling in William’s chest. Shadows thickened in the study, creeping across the carpet inch by inch.
Helene flickered in his mind—dancing in his arms, light as air, otherworldly. A vision he couldn’t shake.
His gaze strayed to the door. It should have arrived by now. Had Verón outmaneuvered him? Nonsense. He would not dare contradict The Duke of Albemarle.
What would be Helene’s reaction? Part of him yearned to witness her joy firsthand. The other hoped she’d never suspect who had pulled the strings. Let her believe she had earned it. Proud as she was, she would probably refuse to be La Sylphide if she knew he had requested it. Asking for Verón's secrecy had been the right decision.
He tapped the desk with restless fingers, the sound uneven against the polished wood. The Times lay open before him, unread. Soon her name would be in its columns.
Why had he demanded the promotion?
His decisions concerning Helene had been impulsive at best and erratic at worst. If she rose to stardom, having her as a mistress would prove more chaotic than this impromptu courtship.
The door creaked open.
Baines stepped in. “It is done, Your Grace.”
