Page 56 of The Duke's Dream
They said every dancer had their perfect musician. For her, it was him. The realization should have shaken her. Instead, it settled into place like a truth long known. Had Apollo denied Terpsichore? Had Homer shunned Calliope? When graced by a muse, an artist simply bowed and obeyed.
The final note fell, lingering in the air like a held breath. Silence clung to the theater.
She didn’t care for the nodding heads or the quiet awe of those around her. They were just bystanders to what had passed between them.
Her reverence belonged to him. And when her gaze met his—steady, searing—she knew.
She would never unsee him again.
***
William finished playing, holding the ivory keys as the last notes resounded on the stage. Helene gazed at him, her chest fluttering like a bird’s, her eyes shining. Her reverence was for him alone. A tide of longing for that winged being surged within his chest.
While he played and Helene danced, his awareness of her was more visceral than his connection to his fingertips while they stroked the keys. When he pulled in a breath of air, it was she who exhaled. When he struck the high notes, her pirouettes robbed his balance, and when she went on pointe, he had soared.
A throat was cleared. The cocoon of intimacy burst and their surroundings sprang into life.
He became acutely aware of others staring at him. Faces around him were frozen in various shades of shock, eyes wide, mouths slightly agape.
His fingers still trembled from the raw power he'd expressed. Why had he exposed himself like that?
This obsession had gone too far. Suddenly, he understood her power over him—the power to destroy him. William stood, the stool scraping on the stage floor.
He needed to distance himself from the theater, from her. This was not his world, and by crossing this barrier, he was upsetting society’s balance.
He turned his back on the company and strode toward the stage’s wings. He didn’t look at her, not even a glance, though the beast inside his chest clawed violently, raking at his lungs, each breath a struggle against the tightness threatening to crush him from the inside.
He had reached the corridor when a hand on his shoulder made him stop.
William closed his eyes, his breath shuddering out of him. He knew who it was—her touch alone could burn through the fabric of his coat.
The air moved as she flitted around him. Sweat glistened on Helene’s skin like diamonds—or the first dew of summer. A lock of hair teased her brow, her cheek. William wanted full, intimate ownership of that single strand.
She was his dream. And she was not.
The sprite and Helene blended into one—a dream walking in daylight, a fantasy spun into truth.
His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out any attempt at reason. He had to leave—now.
Eyes shimmering, she placed his hand over her breast. Her pulse leaped beneath the damp fabric of her tunic. Was it the rigors of the dance—or him?
“Your music touched me today. Merci.”
A flutter of wings, heart-stopping, and then she rose onto the tips of her toes and kissed his lips.
Consuming and consumed, he lost himself in her lips. Desire roared inside him, threatening to burn every ounce of his will.
With brutal effort, he tore himself from her bliss, his chest heaving with the exertion.
Their breaths mingled in the charged silence of the corridor. She tilted her head, unable to hide the flicker of hurt in her eyes.
The beast inside him cried out, desperate to take her in his arms and soothe her pain. But he had to fight the urge. To yield would be to lose himself, to be ruined by this madness.
With a wrenching finality, William walked away. Though every fiber of his being screamed to return, by God, he walked away.
Threeweekslater…
When Helene fell skillfully to the floor—a dead Sylph—the applause from the company resounded inside her chest. The long days of rehearsals reached an end. La Sylphide was in her bloodstream, in her bones. Helene arose with her and worked with her and dreamed about her. She was ready for her debut.
