Page 69 of The Duke's Dream
She shook her head. Dumbfounded.
He rose. "I will have to prove it to you, then."
"Where are you going this time?"
Ignoring her, he picked up the mirror she used for rehearsing and placed it before the bed.
Catching her hand, he tugged her until she stood before it. Her reflection stared back at her, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her bare skin.
She quickly averted her gaze. "You don't understand much about ballet dancers, do you?"
Her hands were clammy, and she swallowed. "If you did, you'd realize we don't like seeing our reflection outside the studio."
He came behind her, the black of his coat contrasting with her white skin. She felt his solidity, his breath warm on her neck.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because the mirror is our first teacher and our final judge. In short, he isn't forgiving."
"Tonight, the mirror won't give corrections," he said. "It will only show you what I see."
She hesitated, then glanced at the slim woman with legs much longer than her torso. Her expression felt foreign, as if she were looking at someone else. Mousy hair, mousy eyes—in movement, she could create beauty; in stillness, she was boring at best and plain at worst.
"I want you to dance with me, but I want you to look only at my hands."
"To what music?" she asked.
"Our music." His voice was a caress.
Sighing, she closed her eyes. The notes were already inside her, fresh as a summer stream in an ancient forest.
"I hear the C-sharp of a flute—teasing but gentle, sliding down in semitones before climbing up again. Then the woodwinds, brown and cedary, sultry… I love the strings, adding new colors, and the watery sound of a harp," Helene whispered. "And then you—the piano."
He held her waist. The contrast between his long fingers and her creamy skin left her breathless.
"Dance, Helene, dance for me."
She rose on the tip of her toes. Putting all her weight on one foot, she raised her other leg in high arabesque. She watched as her arm lifted, fingers extending delicately. He spun her on a slow promenade. As a compass needle followed the pull of the earth, they found themselves back in the mirror. Held by him, she was ethereal, the mirror framing a private world, a moment suspended in time.
Then he sent his right hand on a languid exploration, cruising from her hip to her thigh and knee. Helene watched her leg, how it seemed to go on forever, and how his gaze heated as he touched her.
She didn't recognize herself. Her eyes in the mirror were dreamy yet knowing, teasingly seductive, as if something was simmering inside her.
The lilting notes of a flute soared between them. They slipped into the imaginary music without leaving a ripple—seamlessly easing their bodies through the air, slowly as if sliding over honey.
Suddenly, he lifted her. His shoulders were solid beneath her palms, and he carried her not as if she were a plain ballerina but the Silent Sovereign's queen.
When he lowered her, she curled her leg around his torso.
All the time, she watched his eyes watch her. He seemed intoxicated by her.
Helene lifted her leg in passé and then extended it into a développé à la seconde. He held her calf, supporting her. In this position, she was wide open. A heartbeat passed, two, ten. Their gazes met in the mirror—eyes that saw each other, that liked what they saw.
Then he lowered his touch. His hand made a delicious path from her knee to her thigh and lower. When he arrived at her core, she was perspiring, her drumming heart adding percussion to their music.
His hand covered her sex completely, his tanned skin contrasting with her fair complexion. He kept his palm pressed against her mound, holding it there, letting her feel his heat.
Their reflection wasn't perfect like ballet. But it had a different kind of beauty—raw, pulsing with an energy that made every hair on her body stand on end.
