Page 8 of The Duke's Dream
They called to her—stormy blue eyes, now caressing her face as if he had waited a lifetime to meet her again. Her heartbeat faltered. His gaze held her captive, not in the way a dance partner would, but as if seeing past her ballerina skin.
Something stirred in her chest—a melody—strings and the whisper of a flute. The seconds expanded, measured not by the clock, but by how much of the stranger's warmth she absorbed.
"I'm sorry," she smiled breathlessly. "You must believe me. I'm not in the habit of pirouetting into strangers."
He stiffened, as if her voice had snapped him out of a dream, and his fingers tightened at her waist. His eyes shifted from stormy blue to pale, piercing gray, like the sky before a lightning strike. Whatever emotion churned there, she couldn’t name it. But it made her light-headed—like leaning too far over the edge of a cliff, knowing you should step back… and wanting, foolishly, to fall.
"You should be more mindful of your surroundings."
He let go of her, their contact tearing like a violin string.
A sudden chill replaced the warmth of his hands, and she stumbled back a step.
How could she have mistaken him for a dancer? With his expensive clothing and the diamond studs closing his cuffs, he had to belong to the West End world—an aristocrat.
A door banged, and somewhere, a glass shattered.
The heat of his touch faded from her waist, but the chill of his gaze… that would stay longer. She suddenly understood what she had glimpsed in his eyes.
The stranger had stared at her as if he knew her intimately—as if they had been lifelong enemies.
***
William pushed her away. The beast within his chest snarled, clawing at his ribs, wanting out. His hands curled into fists at his sides—he had to hold them there. Had to stop himself from reaching for her. From dragging her back. His heart pounded. Impossible.
That impish nose and those pouting lips, always teetering between a cry and a kiss—he knew those lips. The thought struck him like the blast of a howitzer. He had to taste her, feel the texture of her skin, inhale her scent—anything to convince himself she was real.
A shudder coursed through him, his pulse drumming.
The theater director cleared his throat. William became aware of the strangers surrounding him, of the veiled whispers. What was he doing? The Duke of Albemarle didn't pick dancers on the stage.
The chain pulsed inside his pocket. The links. He couldn't break the links. Locking every muscle of a mutinous body, William forced himself to pay attention to Verón.
While he stared at the dandified French director, all his senses were attuned to her. She peered at him from the fringe of tittering limbs and tulle skirts, her pose alert.
Verón spoke. Muffled, the words came from underwater.
What did it say about him that he was so drawn to a figure from his dreams?
William gritted his teeth. "Proceed."
"You couldn't have chosen a better moment to invest in the theater, Your Grace," Verón said. "My plan includes several actions aimed at improving publicity. I will transform Covent Garden into the most fashionable venue in town."
"I expect the ledgers. Tomorrow." William spoke in bursts.
Focus. He had invested here for a reason, and it was not for profit. The committee had applauded his idea of extending their influence to the theater. Now, he doubted the rationality of coming here.
"What about the program for the season? The nation is at war. Covent Garden should reflect the gravity of the times. Patriotic plays will bolster the spirit, remind the people of what's at stake," William said.
Verón smiled nervously. "But such matters are not the theater's bread and butter, Your Grace. You will beggar your investment. Guests cross our arches and give us their shillings to transport them to a realm of dryads and fairies. To escape the humbug of their everyday lives."
Fairies? William stole a glance at the ballerina. Gaslight haloed her figure, lending her an ethereal quality as she danced alone, as if rehearsing something. William restrained the impulse to brush his eyes. Those arms lifted in an arc, those feet. That smile.
"Your Grace?" The director's voice could not pierce the fog clouding William's brain. "Don't you think evading reality for a few moments is necessary? That passion should have an outlet in the arts?"
His chest constricted. Why couldn't he breathe? With Titan's effort, he kept still when everything in him wanted to pursue her. It could not be her. The sprite was a dream. Not real. His mind played tricks on him. This girl was just a dancer.
William took a measured breath. "Inciting society's passions is dangerous. My financial support stands as long as the performances have no revolutionary themes. England is shaken enough by Napoleon and civil unrest to condone reformist-themed entertainment."
