Page 47 of The Duke's Dream
Someone should forbid a male from using his tone, both authoritative and husky. It scrambled a ballerina's thoughts. His cuffs were rubies today, and the superbly cut wool greatcoat made him exquisitely well-dressed and gorgeously warm.
Helene forced a pleasant smile. “Your Grace, what a coincidence. Have you met my friend, Miss Celeste Dubois?”
The duke released Helene’s arm and bowed, suddenly all warmth and charm. “I’m pleased to meet one of Miss Beaumont’s friends. Do you have the same sharp wit as hers?”
Helene rolled her eyes at how fast he turned from tyrant to courteous beau. A thousand thoughts flared, most of them unsuitable for polite society.
Celeste peeked at him shyly. “I guess it is better to be a witty fool than a foolish wit.”
The duke lifted a brow, looking at Helene. “Foolery, madam, does walk about like the sun—it shines everywhere. We are all fools in someone’s eyes, are we not?” The quote fromTwelfth Nightslipped from his imperious lips like warm honey.
Helene restrained the urge to make faces at him. She, who had been independent and serious, taking care of herself and her friends since they arrived in London, wanted to reach out and muss up his hair, undo his neckcloth, and throw an eel inside his breeches just to see him squirm. Curse his hide for turning her into a petulant girl.
“Indeed, the line between the wise and the foolish is oft blurred by circumstance and pride.” Celeste beamed. “Enchantée.”
Helene watched the exchange, regretting her choice of a second. But how could she have known the tyrant would charm Celeste? Helene should have brought Louise.
“Two bundles a penny, primroses! Sweet violets, penny a bunch!” A flower girl screamed, piercing Helene’s eardrums.
“Are you used to this place, Miss Dubois?” the duke asked, smiling, his voice dripping molasses.
Celeste laughed. “What, here? We never have the time—”
Helene pinched Celeste’s arm.
“We are habitués, aren’t we, dear? This is our natural habitat, our watering hole, luv. If you can’t stand the gin in our breaths, then you came to the wrong place,” Helene declaimed in her best Toby Belch voice and cringed at her attempt to imitate cockney assent.
The duke leaned close to her ear. “I never scented spirits in you, Little One. I will taste you again. To be sure.”
Her breath caught. His tone was velvet-wrapped sin, and it did impossible things to her knees. Whatever challenge she put before him, he cleared it—a muscular, gorgeous, overly arrogant thoroughbred—and somehow used it to his own advantage.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
The crowd thickened, and they had to shift to the side. A group of street urchins sped past them, brandishing turnips and tomatoes.
The duke tensed, his voice losing the playful edge. “We will leave now. Something isn’t right.”
“You can certainly leave if this is too much for you. Celeste and I are perfectly used to some shouting.”
Celeste huddled closer to the duke, her face blanching.
A flushed runner passed them, baton at the ready.
The duke called to him. “What is happening?”
“It’s the cart transporting mollies to the pillory.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder until a pressing throng surged around them.
The prisoner’s wagon rattled into view.
Celeste held Helene's hand. “This is very midsummer madness. And in the middle of winter, no less.”
The duke became stiff by Helene’s side, his arm pulling her closer to him. Throat dry and rasping, Helene stared at the gruesome image. Two prisoners shook atop the cart—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, his threadbare clothes hinting at a once-respectable attire now reduced to tatters. Beside him, a younger one stood defiantly.
As the crowd’s jeers became a frenzied roar, a wave of bodies surged forward, pressing against the cart with reckless force.
Her gaze turned to the duke, and she grabbed his coat’s sleeve. “Are these the laws keeping society’s fabric intact? Why treat a man this way because he pursues his passion?”
