Page 66 of The Duke's Dream
She hadn’t vanished.
She had stayed.
***
“You’re crushing me, Your Grace.”
Her throaty laughter tickled his neck.
William shifted onto his forearms. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, smiling up at him. “I heard the first time can be painful, but I felt only a pinch. I suppose ballerinas are stronger than most.”
First time? His breath caught and he pulled back.
“What?” he rasped.
His gaze dropped. Pearl powder smeared across her thighs. And blood.
Not a sylph. Not a fantasy. But a virgin.
His heart slammed into his ribs, and a sickening cold spread through his limbs.
She had been untouched. And he—he’d taken her. Roughly. Blindly. Without knowing.
He stumbled back from the bed.
She reached for him. “William?”
He flinched.
“Where are you going?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her brows lifted, stunned. “Why, you horrid Tyrant, why? Because I hadn’t allowed a man to stick his penis inside me before.”
“And you thought to mention it now?” His voice snapped like a whip, louder than he meant. “After? What happened to your sharp tongue?”
She hugged herself, her lips quivering. “You don’t have to worry about it, Your Grace. I don’t plan on ever speaking to you again.”
Rage clawed at his insides, aimless. He had crossed a line he hadn’t seen. The Duke of Albemarle didn’t make mistakes.
“Helene—“
“Take your flowers and leave,” she whispered. “Our dance is over.”
***
Fastening his clothes, William stumbled from her apartment, down the stairs, and into the cold Soho night.
The gelid air buffeted his face, muffling the ghostly echo of his footsteps. Somewhere behind him, a door shut with finality. He kept walking—past shuttered shops and lamp-lit windows, past tavern laughter and the distant screech of carriage wheels. The city slumbered around him, indifferent.
She had been untouched. He had stolen her virginity. What kind of man ruined a girl without noticing she was pure? His attempt to control himself was laughable at best and downright cruel at worst. Even keeping himself in check, he had been oblivious. What more signs did he need to see that the beast clawing at his ribs, tearing him apart, was dangerous?
He should have known. She had been so tight, her responses so fresh, so innocent.
William brushed his thumb against his forefinger, staring at Helene's fairy dust. He had been so afraid the Sylph would vanish. He had worshiped the Sylph—and in doing so, he had missed the girl. Not a spirit, but Helene. The sprite from his dreams had never allowed him close enough to do any damage… While Helene bled. Helene wept.
