Page 55 of The Duke's Dream
“Enough.”
The duke’s bass rang through the cavernous space like a cannon blast.
The piano jolted, notes colliding into silence.
Helene pressed a hand to her chest. This time, his high-handedness had crossed a line. What right had he to interrupt? They were making art—not politics.
Her gaze darted from his towering figure to Verón. The theater director ran a finger under his collar in a not-so-subtle threat, and her throat burned as if she had swallowed sawdust.
Boots struck the stage steps—measured, unhurried, ominous.
The dancers scattered. The stagehands vanished. The room reshaped itself around the Silent Sovereign, air tightening with expectation.
But Helene stood her ground.
He crossed the stage like a stormfront—silent but electric. She waited, breath tight, expecting him to turn, or at least be pulled closer by some invisible current.
But he didn’t. He passed her—close enough to graze her—but didn’t speak. Didn’t even look.
He only stopped at the piano, looming behind poor Philip, who tugged his cravat, forehead slick with sweat.
“Your tempo is wrong,” the duke said, voice low but slicing.
Philip bobbed his head in apology, eyes wide.
Helene frowned. Did he even understand the score?
“You’re playing the notes,” the duke said, gaze locking with hers, “but not the music. You must see her—feel her. A ballerina doesn’t want accompaniment. She wants a partner.”
A long pause. “Allow me.”
Philip tripped over his own feet trying to rise, bowing twice before fleeing.
The duke seated himself at the piano.
The room held its breath.
He removed his kid gloves, finger by finger, with the deliberate care of a man shedding armor.
Until now, his skin had been a mystery—aside from the clean line of his jaw and the bruises below his ribs. But here were his hands—long, dexterous, startlingly elegant. She drank in every inch of those fingers, wondering how something so refined could wield such control.
And then he touched the keys.
Clearly, he and the piano were old companions who had quarreled, reconciled, perhaps even shared nights of wild, wordless confession.
His eyes flicked to hers. His brows lifted, just slightly, as if he’d caught her watching too closely.
“From the beginning, Miss Beaumont?”
Helene assumed her position, part resentful of his intrusion, part curious of his prowess at the piano, part tingling as if she had rolled naked in the snow.
As the first notes unfurled, all parts of her hushed. Eyes closed, she listened. His music opened a door—and she stepped through without hesitation. The melody was intimate, a secret garden woven just for her. Each chord, a vine she climbed. Each arpeggio, a flower blooming beneath her touch.
The lower chords became earth beneath her feet, grounding her as she spun. The high notes sparkled like dew-laced leaves, and she tiptoed across them, airy as a sylph.
She sought his gaze—and found it ablaze. His hair tousled, his eyes lit from within. The music had set his fire free, and she felt it inside her now, stoking her own. He sped the notes, and she flew. He twirled them, and she pirouetted. He lifted them, and she rose in arabesque. He pulsed, and she trembled. When she drifted, he drew her back. When she faltered, he gave her wings.
The duke played—God, how he played—his fingers racing, plunging, deliberate and divine. A virtuoso. How had she not seen it before?
