Page 58 of The Duke's Dream
Helene regretted her careless words and took a step closer to him.
“But I don’t believe you came to discuss architecture." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "May I be of assistance?”
“I wanted to update you on your theater investment, of course.”
“I didn’t realize Verón had appointed an intermediate.”
Helene lifted a shoulder. “Oh, it was all so sudden, but you know how these capitalist things go. I would have been spared this trouble if you had gone to the rehearsals…”
He exhaled, and the barest flint of emotion crossed his eyes. “Helene, I’ve been busy—”
“If you cared enough to check, you would see that I rose to the part. And I’m certain I would make even the most anti-reformist landowners of aristocrats proud.” Her chin trembled, and the last word came out strained. “Aren’t you surprised?”
“Not at all. I trusted you from the beginning.” His voice softened, and he caught her hand in his. “Your career is so promising. Nothing should interfere.”
Helene sucked in a breath, pulling away from him. “Not even you? Is that what you are trying to tell me? That you are so noble you invaded my life, and now you are leaving it to protect me?” She hated how her voice sounded—bitter, grating, needy.
“Helene—” He exhaled, lifting his hand as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall. “Some paths, however tempting, lead us astray.”
His jaw tightened, and his gaze shuttered, as if he were donning a mask.
It felt like a door had been shut in her face. A hollow ache settled in her chest, as if something precious had been lost. What treasures lay on the other side? She would never know, would she?
Her chin trembled. She should leave. He would keep his distance. Isn’t that what she had wanted? Tomorrow, she would become La Sylphide. Tomorrow, she might become a star. Then why did it sound so discordant?
“Didn’t it mean anything to you? When you played for me?” Her voice quivered.
He grabbed her arm and, with a swift pull, yanked her closer. The sudden force sent a shiver through her, her breath catching in her throat. Their gazes locked, the air between them thick with strained notes. His eyes shifted, the icy indifference melting into liquid turmoil. In the stormy depths, she saw it again—the blue flame of resentment flickering beneath the surface, threatening to consume her if she got too close.
She shouldn’t have come.
He was right. Some melodies, however beautiful, should be left unfinished.
A sharp knock shattered the moment.
He turned, voice rasping. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”
But the instant his back turned, she fled.
“Idon’tcareiftheduke comes or not. Please, Celeste, you will break your neck if you crane it just so,” Helene said, passing rosin over her slippers.
“If your duke doesn’t come, you’ll cry.” Celeste pushed away from the little hole from where they watched the audience. “I don’t want you to be like Ophelia when Hamlet lost interest in her—”
“I won’t turn into a sad Ophelia. Once the music plays, I’ll dance for myself, not for unfaithful eyes.” Helene declared in the best Shakespearean style, affecting playfulness when her stomach was tightened in knots. Curse that wicked duke for having such an effect on her. This was her opening night. She should be rejoicing. Instead, she was a trembling mass of aching muscles and strained nerves.
“Merde, darling,” Celeste said, kissing her cheek and sauntered away to join the other soloists.
Helene avoided Sophie’s gaze and crossed between cardboard trees. The orchestra warmed up, not ten feet from her, their power reverberating in her slippers. Alone, she tried the tripple pirouette but fell after one and a half. What was wrong with her?
“You still keep your neck tense, chérie,” Katherina touched her shoulder.
She was carrying something pale and delicate—a captured moonbeam.
Katherina extended the bundle. “Your wings.”
Helene gasped. It was almost as fine as tulle illusion. The silver thread gave it a radiant glow, so exquisite in craftsmanship it could have belonged to a dragonfly.
“A fairy couldn’t dream up a better one.”
