Page 54 of The Duke's Dream
Helene bent to pick it up.
“Ignore this rubbish, Miss Beaumont. These are just some verses I scrawl now and then. Please don’t bother your pretty head over them. Nobody else does.”
“I love poetry. May I?”
He bowed. “Of course.”
Helene read the lines and lowered the paper.
“Terrible, ain’t it?”
“Can I give you my honest opinion?”
“If you may, miss.”
“I love the sentiment. I love you didn’t contain the passion. Still, you are trying to sound like someone you are not. Why don’t you throw away the fancy words? Write in your own voice. Your passion will resonate with others who have had your experiences.”
Baines accepted the paper and gazed at her. “Passion, you say?”
Helene smiled. “Is there any other way to live?”
His demeanor shifted. There was an uncomfortable solemnity now. “You know what, Miss Beaumont? You are just what His Grace needs.”
Helene blushed and covered her discomfort with a startled laugh. “You should leave all this passion for poetry.”
Helene watched Baines pack away his tools, his earlier words echoing in her mind.
He gave her the key to her new lock and, after a last glance at her, stepped out of her garret.
She was about to close the door when he pivoted back.
“I was almost forgetting. His Grace asked if he might go to the theater this afternoon. To watch your rehearsal.”
Helene paused, twisting the key in her hands. The duke was a high-handed aristocrat, a tyrant. Why would he ask her? That was an act of respect, not dominance.
“Are you sure this is what he said? Your employer owns the theater. He doesn’t need my blessing.”
“He was quite insistent.”
Helene stepped back. “You don’t mean that. Certainly you don’t.”
"I may be getting old, Miss Beaumont,” Baines said, “but I can still tell a beautiful woman from a plain one. And I can still remember a message.” He met her eyes. “His Grace asks your permission to attend your rehearsal—and he kindly expects your answer.”
Helene’sfingersquiveredasshe adjusted her slippers. Despite the chill on the stage, a bead of sweat trickled down her spine. While she stood in the glare of the lamps, the duke lounged in the dimly lit auditorium. A shaft of light illuminated his crossed legs and leather Hessians. He watched her, his face inscrutable. How could he be so passionless when she was about to pour her soul for him? Verón perched close to him, his head bent as if telling him a secret.
Helene assumed her position at the center stage, trying to visualize the music of The Sylph's Variation in the Forest. The tempo was tricky, oscillating between languid adagios and demanding allegros.
She nodded at Philip. Eyes bloodshot and complexion pale, the overworked pianist’s fingers trembled over the keys.
After forcing a smile at Langley, she began her variation. But something was off. The music mocked her, its notes slipping away, refusing to let her in. Why was the pianist struggling? His touch heavy where it should have been light, rushing through passages that required lingering.
“No, no, no!” Langley shouted.
Helene stopped mid-arabesque and wiped her sweaty brow with her wrist. Shame colored her cheeks, and against her will, her gaze drifted to the theater’s audience. Her muscles were rigid, a cramping mass of tension. What if Verón regretted his decision to promote her?
“Helene, you are not yourself today. Again.”
Exchanging a look with the pianist, she repositioned herself in the center. But the connection to the music remained elusive, and she struggled through the scene, each step feeling heavier than the last.
