Page 84 of The Duke's Dream
“Seems this is our cue to leave.” Lady Thornley kissed her cheek. “I hope you won’t abandon Lady Margaret. She so counts on you for her presentation.” Her eyes clouded, and her lips curved downwards in motherly concern.
Helene smiled reassuringly. “Of course, I won’t. I love our afternoon lessons. Your daughter will do marvelously at St. James Palace.”
When they left, Helene gazed at her reflection, at her mousy hair and pale skin, unable to shake off the disbelief. Could she be the sensation Verón described? She touched her face, feeling the familiar contours, the same insecurities that plagued her daily.
The bell sounded again. Helene hurried out. The way from the dressing room to the stage passed in a blur.
Dancers grouped about the wings. The audience was so crowded that they had to arrange for extra seats. The energy in the air, the charged anticipation, pressed against her sides, making it hard to breathe. Fussing with the bodice of her costume, she walked to the rosin box. After digging her slippers deep into the coarse powder, she balanced on her toes and crossed herself.
The curtain opened.
The audience roared. Helene vanished like morning mist, and La Sylphide rose in her place—free to glide wherever she wanted.
The theater held its breath through her variations, and when she struck the final pose for each, the orchestra had to wait for the applauses. Helene danced with her feet, with her hands, with her soul. The audience was in thrall. She held them as La Sylphide and La Sylphide made them weep, made them laugh, made them fly.
Helene felt herself grow, expanding with each leap. Her arms and legs stretched out, so long she could touch every person in the theater. A surge of exhilaration coursed through her veins.
I am La Sylphide. I am unstoppable.
The orchestra swelled, building toward the first-act finale, and Helene’s heart soared with the music. Was William seeing this? Her success?
Her eyes flickered to the ducal box. The light glinted off something—a piece of jewelry, perhaps—and then she saw her. A woman, her blond hair gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. William leaned in close, his profile partly obscured. Helene saw the way her hand flitted over his arm, and then she smiled.
Helene’s pulse lurched, a cold spike piercing her chest, and her step faltered. Who was she? Why was she with him?
As the curtain fell, Helene stilled, her hand resting on the velvet, the fabric cool and smooth beneath her fingers.
The audience erupted in applause. “Brava! Brava! La Sylphide! Brava!”
The cheers grew muffled as she headed to the dressing room, the echoes fading with each step.
Helene looked at herself in the mirror, her chest rising and falling as she panted. She touched La Sylphide’s pale skin and pale lips, her fingers trembling. Covent Garden had been her home for twelve years, and from the very first season, she had dreamed of living on the stage and owning it. Never had she coveted another place.
And yet… how was it up there in William’s box? Was that woman sipping wine and flirting with him? Laughing and touching his arm? Would they go to a party afterward? A ball? Did she know his friends? His family?
Was it to be with this lady that William had limited their visits to three times a week?
Perhaps the distance from the stage to the ducal box… not even La Sylphide could breach, no matter how high she soared. There were realms of William’s life shut off from her.
A group of dancers passed through her door.
Helene’s eyes met Sophie’s, and her former friend smiled sweetly.
“I don’t know how James is enamored of La Sylphide. She is so plain.”
Helene’s hand tightened around the powder, her breathing quickening, her throat rasping with unwanted tears.
The red lipstick caught her gaze, a flash of color among the pale makeup. Helene grabbed it, then applied it with a bold stroke, the vibrant red standing in defiant contrast to her pale skin. As her lips took shape in the mirror, so did a plan in her mind.
No one stopped La Sylphide.
***
William sat in his box, ignoring Cavendish's conversation as he focused on the stage. If Helene were here, she would say he was brooding. Was it too much to ask for some privacy? La Sylphide was more alluring than ever, and though she danced for all, he wished her art, her gaze, her every breath belonged to him alone.
Why had he imposed the condition of meeting Helene only three times a week? Often, when he left Helene's apartment, he would reprimand himself and vow to exercise more restraint, that he would curtail his visits, leave before dawn, attend other society functions but the theater, love her only once per night.
The resolution never lasted beyond Park Lane. By the time he reached Grosvenor Square, it was forgotten, and he already wanted back, back inside the garret, back inside her.
