Page 51 of The Duke's Dream
We don’t deserve them.
The sight of her, so frail and translucent, pained him. But it wasn’t like the dull throb in his side or the sting in his forehead. Sentient, alive, this pain sluiced through his veins, yearning to touch, to hold, to claim. The pain had a voice, a will of its own—it craved her.
He lifted the cover in silent invitation. The world outside faded to a murmur, every sound swallowed by the beating of his heart. Holding his breath, William waited for her.
She hesitated for a second, their knees touching. Part of him feared she would never arrive. When she climbed atop his lap, William exhaled all the air in his lungs, and the tension of the day, of a life, left him, like sand slipping through a broken hourglass. Until now, he had no conscience of how much he needed this—Helene coming to him of her own free will.
He quickly covered them with the blanket. Her limbs were icy cold. He rubbed her shoulders and rubbed her back, rubbed wherever he could reach.
“I’m sorry you were hurt. It was my fault.”
William kissed the top of her head. “I should have acted—”
She placed a cold finger over his lips. “No, I shouldn’t have asked it of you. I was shocked, and it was not your fault.”
He needed no absolution, but how good it felt. “Go to sleep now, Little One.”
She leaned into him, her body relaxing as a deep sigh escaped her chest. Their necks became intimate when she brushed her nose through his hair. Byron, Dante, and Wordsworth combined would fail to describe the bliss of her weight atop him. A profound sense of contentment spread over him as he circled his arms around her. Inside the blanket, they generated their own warmth—a tropical island within the chilled garret, the chilled London.
He rather liked it. Too much.
Her fingertips drew a circle over his chest once, twice, and then she slept.
He inhaled her musky scent, brushed his chin against her hair, and closed his eyes. He was spending the night in a garret without a lock, and a sprite had lodged herself in his heart. Yet, he felt richer than he had ever dreamed possible.
***
When dawn invaded the room, William woke up. His feet were icy and dormant, but his chest was on fire. He had never been more rested. No dreams.
In the milky light, the bundle atop him ceased to be a creature of warmth and undefined shapes to be a woman with detailed nuances. Long legs intertwined his, shapely arms brushing against his, a weight he could grow accustomed to, a face that could charm poets and stoics alike.
Helene nuzzled his chest, her mouth parted in a moan. William brushed the hair from her forehead. What was she dreaming of? He would give his entire estate to possess her power—become Morpheus and step into her dream realm. If he could invade her dreams, he would tease her relentlessly. He would pursue her in her secret meadow, using his magic to strip away her clothes. With a day-old beard, he would rub his chin beneath her breasts, along the underside of her thighs, discovering all the places she was ticklish until his sweet torture left her breathless with laughter. He would roll with her in turbulent lakes and make love to her atop clouds. He would lay claim to every inch of her glen until the very earth was spent.
All the blood in his veins migrated to his erection. Helene purred and shifted, now straddling his lap. The camisole rode high on her hips. Her hands delved inside his coat, and she brushed her cheek against his chest.
Placing his hands over her thighs, he skimmed his palms upwards, an achingly slow exploration that only halted when he arrived at the curve of her buttocks. She shuddered under his touch, and he caressed the dividing line, marking his territory, and he vowed to know each relief of her body like he knew the rolling hills behind his childhood home.
Her muscles were taut, even at rest, and she pressed closer, her heat brushing against his cock. William inhaled sharply. If he but freed his erection, he could be inside her at last. He would remove the coarse flannel and feel her fair skin against him, caress her spine, and know her intimately. He would grind and thrust and kiss her until she moaned in pleasure.
Her eyes moved rapidly underneath the lids. Restless, she whimpered. Was she having a nightmare?
She buried her face in his neck. “Non, Maman, Non,”
William froze, cursing under his breath. She was amid childish dreams, and he had been about to ravish her.
A snore reminded him of Miss Dubois, sound asleep in the bed. A groan escaped his chest. When had he become a villain? Disgusted with himself, he rose, lifting Helene in his arms, and placed her atop the mattress.
He tucked the blanket around her, securing it snugly. Sunlight filtered through the milky glass, softening her skin in a gentle glow. A strand of hair brushed her cheek, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with her breaths. For a moment, he simply watched her, seeing beyond the poised dancer and spirited debater. In the dawn's light, she seemed celestial—more angel than sprite.
There were faint shadows under the fan of her lashes—signs of the hidden burdens she carried.
Why won’t you let me take care of you?
She grabbed his hand with surprising strength, her slanted eyes piercing his. “Do you have to leave?”
“Hush, Little One. It’s morning already. I will send my valet to fix your lock. He is trustworthy.”
She yawned. “Must I remind you I don’t receive gifts?”
