Page 52 of The Duke's Dream
“This is not a gift. It’s my condition for you to keep residing here. Do you relish trying my patience?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her perfect ear and gazed at him from under her lashes. “Do you relish being a tyrant?”
He frowned at her, baffled. A tyrant? He had sworn above the Magna Carta. Sometimes, he simply could not understand her. “Do you relish being obtuse?”
“I relish my freedom. At the theater, my body is not my own. Outside the stage, I don’t like to be ordered, cornered, or pressured.” She exhaled. “Would you mind asking what I want for a change?”
“If I ask, will you give me whatIwant?”
Sighing, she stretched her arms above her head. “No, but there is a tiny chance that I might consider it.”
She was thawing already. William grinned, and bending down, kissed her mouth. A chaste peck, and then he straightened. His dealings were straightforward—he ordered and people obeyed—but… “I’ll see what I can do.”
Startled, she touched her lips. Then her gaze flicked to his temple, and her shoulders deflated. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”
Quick to temper and quick to repent. Her list of positive traits felt endless. Other men might feel daunted. Not him. He would make her every nuance his object of study.
“Just be safe.” Midway to the door, he turned.
She was following him with her gaze.
“Helene.”
“Hmm?”
“What do you dream of?”
“My past in France. Flashes of it, pieces of it. Running feet on the grass. Arms enveloping in warmth, lilies, so many lilies. My mother loved them. Those are the dreams. The nightmares…”
William frowned. “The nightmares?”
She grimaced and glanced away. “What do you dream of, monsieur le Duc?”
You. I dream of you, Little One.
“Tyrants don’t dream.”
***
Unable to stand still, Helene cleaned and polished the floor to an inch of its life. The mere thought of the night spent in William’s lap induced a frenzy of heat in her rebellious body. Why couldn’t she control it anymore? She needed to vow to stop thinking about him—and truly mean it this time. No more keeping thoughts of him like a forbidden treat tucked away, ready to savor whenever she pleased.
Why had she lured him into Covent Garden? She couldn’t have anticipated the horrid scene, now, could she? Still, spending time with him had been a mistake. Who would’ve thought that he could be charming, caring, protective? And an infinite source of heat.
She shouldn’t have demanded he be less autocratic… If he obliged her—if he stopped doing the one thing that ignited her temper—how would she protect herself from him? Two weeks until opening night. She was so close to fulfilling her dream. A prima ballerina could not afford thelivingthe duke offered.
Helene attacked the rug with her broom. “Tyrant.”
Like King Leontes fromThe Winter’s Tale, he would soon infuriate her with his despotism. Why, he might sweep her away to a secluded tower and decree she performed an entire ballet for his private amusement. Heat spread through her chest as she imagined his stormy eyes watching her every move, commanding her, and desire pooled in the part of her he had so viciously awakened.
Lost in the ridiculous fantasy, she didn’t hear the knock at first. But the sharp sound made her jump. The streets were quiet… If the Duke of Albemarle stood on the other side of that door…
She would club him over the head.
With grace, of course.
She peered at her reflection in the mirror. After cleaning a smudge from her cheek and smoothing her hair, she opened the door. A man in his fifties, dressed in the formal clothes of a servant, waited outside. In one hand, he held a basket filled with croissants, in the other, a toolbox.
“Girl, is this Miss Beaumont’s residence?”
