Page 49 of The Duke's Dream
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William held the old railings and dragged his weight up Helene’s interminable stairs. His head had stopped bleeding, and only a dull ache on his flank remained. Helene led the way, her arm circling Miss Dubois’ shoulder. The silence suited him. If he had to speak, he would betray the anger in his voice. He was angry at her for putting herself at risk, angry at that soldier, angry at himself for allowing her to bring havoc into his life.
The shouting from the streets followed them up to her floor. Helene opened the door without a key. Why didn’t she have a lock? Did she sleep here every night, unprotected? Her rosemary scent lingered in the dark space. William narrowed his eyes, trying to take in her home.
This was where she went when she wasn’t haunting his thoughts. What would he find? A courtesan’s abode, filled with gifts from her patrons? The courtesans he had visited displayed such tokens like trophies, price statements—another tool for negotiation. Still, his hands clenched at the thought of Helene’s other admirers.
She raced to kindle an oil lamp. The meager light revealed simple furnishings—an iron railing bed, no doubt the composer of groans and squeaks, and a well-worn leather armchair by a small stove. Set against the forest green wall, the window was the apartment’s focal point. The glass would offer a panoramic view of bustling streets and distant rooftops. William touched the homespun cushions covering the window seat and leafed through the heavy tome sprawled nearby. Shakespeare’s complete plays. Why wasn’t he surprised? Comfortable slippers awaited their owner’s talented feet, adding a touch of homely disarray to the cozy nook.
William swept his eyes over the surfaces and couldn’t find a single bauble. Was it possible that when she was not haunting him, she didn’t go to a fairy limbo, as he had suspected, nor did she haunt other men’s beds? She came home to embroider curtains out of old costumes and read. This—this country cottage made her too real. Not a courtesan and not the sprite, but a girl who kept stunning him at every turn.
Helene rushed to straighten the books, avoiding direct eye contact with him.
Gunfire sounded outside, and Helene jumped. William crossed his arms over his chest. She could’ve died today. And he would’ve been powerless to avoid it.
“I think we all deserve a cup of tea,” Miss Dubois said, her tone brittle, and left, presumably to the kitchen.
Helene asked him to sit and moved about, collecting supplies.
The screams again. Insults and hollered profanities invaded Helene’s home. William’s head dropped back, and he pressed his temples. The prisoners were not his responsibility. The buggery act was from the sixteenth century—not of his making. Those men had pursued their passion and now would face the consequences. Why couldn’t he shake their horrified faces from his mind? He told himself it was because of Helene. The turmoil she brought into his life. Seeing her about to be hurt…
William caught the chain in his pocket and pressed the links, controlling his breathing. The worst of the event had been the regiment attacking the civilians. Yes. Something within his power to change. He saw in that soldier’s eyes, before the strike, the danger of allowing passions to run unfettered. Of the lack of control. Had he not learned to curb the same impulses in himself? Tomorrow, he would meet the committee. Cavendish had to reprimand the Horse Guards.
Carrying a basket of medical supplies, Helene knelt beside him. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes darted to meet his. William’s breath caught, his heart accelerating. Before him, in the shape of this girl, stood the wick of his inner fire. When would he put an end to this dangerous attraction?
Helene unfolded a linen cloth and dipped it into a basin. As she dabbed at the wound on his temple, the chill made his skin tingle, distracting the pain’s dull throb. William didn’t mind the discomfort, focusing on how her touch lingered longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the connection.
“I don’t think it will scar. Can I tend to the other, please?” Her voice was tremulous as she pointed to his waist.
“I didn’t know they taught nursing skills at ballet school.”
She placed her hand over his leg, her gaze pleading. “I saw when you hit the curb. Please. It’s the least I can do.”
William crossed his leg, dislodging her touch. “You’ve done enough.”
Her chin dropped to her chest. “I know.”
A shadow of pain passed over her lovely face, and her lips parted as if to say more, but then closed.
William rose. With brisk gestures, he unbuttoned his tailored coat and set it aside, then he loosened and removed the neckcloth. The waistcoat followed. He stood before her in his linen shirt. Few, if any, had ever seen him in this state of undress.
She sat on her haunches, her eyes traveling across the expanse of his torso.
His gaze flickered to the kitchen, but Miss Dubois seemed absorbed in her task, her back turned to them.
Panting, he unfastened the shirt from the waist, and rolled the fabric upward, exposing the purple bruise below his right ribs.
Helene sucked in a breath.
“It’s nothing.” His voice came out hoarse.
Why must she care now when he was trying so hard not to? So far, she had been the sprite, beguiling and bewitching him, then flying away, fighting him at every turn. How was he supposed to react to this new Helene? It stirred things inside him better left dormant.
Helene retrieved a tin and opened it to reveal a homemade salve. With the tip of her fingers, she scooped out a small amount.
“What is that?”
“My personal receipt for sore muscles. Camphor and rosemary oil with beeswax. Should help ease the pain. May I?”
