Page 61 of The Duke's Dream
They stood like this, watching each other in the dark.
Then he tucked her hair behind her ear. “You want to go someplace with me?”
His gaze was open, boyish even.
“Where?” she asked breathlessly.
“To the moon.”
Helene smiled shyly. “Can we settle for my home?”
Helene drank in his hopeful expression, awed by the force of her wishes—she wanted him to make her feel desired in the real world as she felt beautiful on the stage. She craved the love of poets and muses, the love of Orpheus and Eurydice only grander and delicate and perfect. The moon? Yes, please.
Helene had trouble inserting her key in the lock. She had to be the most daring dancer since the Bacchantes in ancient Greece to have invited into her apartment the most handsome and influential man in Britain. Her heart beat frantically as she turned the knob.
The door opened with a creak, as if startled by her bravery.
Flickering candlelight danced over the windows and dark green walls, casting shadows across the room. Vases overflowing with lilies of the valley decorated every corner, their delicate bells lolling prettily. The intoxicating fragrance enveloped her in a white mist.
He did all this? Why would anyone do something so grand for her?
She gasped, dizzy as if she had done a diagonal of pirouettes. Covering her mouth, Helene moved further into the room, her steps hesitant, an intruder upon a fairy tale.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against the silky petals.
“They were my mother’s favorite.”
Although her memories of life in France became hazier every year, her mother’s garden was the one she kept closer to her heart.
The duke leaned over the door frame, his ankles crossed. She shouldn’t admire him so, but how could she not? A thrill raced through her to have him in her private space, a secret garden of lilies and intimacy.
“How did you know?” she whispered, her chest hollow with yearning.
“I learned to decipher your words. You are a complicated creature, Little One.”
“Complicated? Nowadays, I have only two desires.”
He pushed away from the wall, each of his steps punctuated by a thud of her heart.
When he halted before her, she had trouble breathing.
“Only two?” he asked.
“Yes… One is to dance for you,” she whispered.
Delicious heat radiated from him, and she leaned closer, drawn by an irresistible pull. If she were the moth and he the flame, shouldn’t she resist this thing between them? Yet, to be near her tantalizing Tyrant, she would gladly sacrifice her wings.
“And the other?”
Her gaze lingered on his mouth. “The other is to kiss you.”
Dance.Kiss.Dance.Kiss.William’s heart beat in time with the rhythm as he meshed his lips with Helene’s. He had tried to deny this attraction. After spending the past nights grappling with the loss of his Sylph, he’d had enough. He pulled away to unbutton her coat. The wool was no protection against London’s cold. Tomorrow, he would buy her furs.
The coarse cloth parted to reveal a tulle skirt and a white bodice—La Sylphide’s costume. His heart thundered. This was too real, too close to the dreams.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the Sylph dead. He had known that La Sylphide would die at the ballet’s end. Still, seeing her lifeless, killed by James’ lust... The silence of the auditorium, the light fading from her body. If William unleashed his passion, turning it from platonic to real, would Helene vanish, too?
“You didn’t change from the stage clothes.”
