Page 68 of The Duke's Dream
William rinsed the cloth in the basin. Savoring the chaste intimacy, he cleaned her, each stroke revealing more of the woman beneath the fairy dust. The scent of her soap and the sound of water splashing soothed him, and he enjoyed the sight of her skin, unadorned by the crushed pearls.
She was so small, so delicate. And so alone in a ruthless city.
"I will take care of you. I won't allow you to ever—"
"I chose to give my virginity to you. I don't hold you responsible." She turned away from him. "You can leave."
She would not forgive him. He refused to accept this. "Helene—"
She gestured to herself with a small, bitter smile.
“I bet the Silent Sovereign has women lining up for him—women with color in their eyes and hair, with more flesh in their bones.”
William froze. He worried she had been terrified of his passion—of how he had taken her with no regard for her innocence. And she thought he didn't want her? When he burned for her?
He dragged a hand through his hair, stunned.
“What?”
“It was fun,” she said, her voice brittle. “Our dance. You’re a wonderful partner—for a Tyrant.”
Then she looked past him, toward the door.
“But I don’t hear our music anymore.”
Heleneshuthereyes,willing herself not to see the runway duke. Let him think her undesirable. She didn't mind his opinions. Not in the least. In fact, she preferred it this way. Then he could leave her alone, and she could stop obsessing over him. So what if she had given him her virginity? It was hers to give. She needed no man's promises—least of all a duke's, made out of obligation.
The air shifted by her side, and she heard something. It resembled the groaning of a ship, its creaking timbers bending with the swell. Then the sound changed—a cascade of chuckles turning into guffaws.
Helene shot up in bed.
The tyrant laughed, his head tilted back, his shoulders shaking.
"You horrid man! I don't know about the English women you convene with, but we French girls want to feel pretty in our lover's eyes."
His mirth was contagious, and before it could catch on her, Helene turned from him, clamping her jaw. How could he laugh after everything that had happened? Did he not understand how much it had hurt? After the joy they had shared, seeing him open the door and leave felt like performing a jump on stage, only for her partner to let her crash.
The mattress dipped, protesting his weight as he sat on the edge of her bed. He reached out to touch her arm, his fingers brushing her skin.
"Little One."
She opened one eye. Reluctantly.
His smile faded. "You have enough beauty to rival Titania. Like the Midsummer Night queen, you could make the moon blush and flowers bloom with your presence."
Did he mean it? Something in his eyes left her breathless, giddy, and totally uncomfortable.
She sighed. Dramatically. "Words, words, words."
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.
"Aren't you the skeptical Shakespeare?"
Helene caught a whiff of his scent and gazed at his lips. Intensely. A mistake—he had tempting lips. Her heart raced, and warmth spread through her chest. It was not attraction or his mellow voice, she told herself. How could she stay mad with a man who knew so many of the bard's quotes?
He traced her lips with his thumb. Helene's mouth parted, and he swept his tongue inside. Vividly aware of her nakedness, she absorbed the heat of his body against hers, the gentle pressure of his hands, the taste of his kiss. She leaned into his touch, wanting more of his weight.
"You still don't believe me?"
