Page 85 of The Duke's Dream
Cavendish cleared his throat and leaned forward. "If you want it to remain a secret, you better stop glaring at every male in the audience."
William crossed his arms. "When will you get your own box?"
"Why would I do that? The Duke of Albemarle's view rivals the Regent's, and you keep the best liquor stock."
As if to prove Cavendish's point, Ashbourne helped himself to William's port. Rodrick drank near the exit, ignoring William's unwelcoming glare. The master spy stared at his glass, smiling at the appropriate cues, but his nonchalant alertness didn't fool William. What did Rodrick want? He shouldn't be so close to Helene. If the warning at the ball had not been enough, William would have to use other methods to deflect his interest.
One of the ladies he had not invited either giggled, concealing her reaction behind the fan.
William lifted his brows at Cavendish.
"They came with Ashbourne. He is courting the Fitzherbert's chit," his friend said.
Helene leaped back to the stage for her solo, and William forgot all about his unwanted guests.
A collective sigh escaped the ladies. Lady Arabella Fitzherbert, with her serene countenance and blue eyes, always so poised, leaned forward precariously. One more round of 'ohs' and 'ahs' might send her tumbling into the pit. Beside her, Miss Elisabeth Harrington grabbed the railing, her golden curls bobbing with excitement. Both followed each pirouette and grand jeté with unfeigned delight. Their chaperone, the dignified Countess Fitzherbert, maintained a composed demeanor, though her gaze, too, was drawn to the performance.
Verón had been right. Women were enamored of his Helene. He could not help sharing their awe, and though conversing with debutantes ranked low in his preferences, William curbed himself from blurting—wasn't she wonderful? Did you see her stage presence? Her leap was to die for.
He had debated foreign policy with Pitt, sparred over trade acts with Fox, and once argued strategy with Wellington until dawn. And now? He was mentally curating compliments about jetés and footwork—just to keep pace with a cluster of nineteen-year-old girls in silk gloves.
When Lady Fitzherbert fanned herself, exposing her engagement ring, his elation soured. What would he give to have Helene here with him? To enjoy her company outside the garret?
William washed the impossible thought with a swallow of port, then pushed the glass away. He had already drunk too much. The dreams were disruptive enough without alcohol.
The music changed for the pas des deux. Vestris entered the stage, his muscles bulging beneath the Scottish kilt. William gritted his teeth. Why did he have to hold Helene so close? Was it acting, or did the male dancer covet her as James coveted La Sylphide?
Ashbourne leaned forward, his eyes glittering. "I bet every gentleman in this theater wished to be him," he whispered.
Heat flooded William, and a prickling sensation started in his neck. It took all his restraint not to rearrange Ashbourne's indolent face. The foppish buck was right, though. Every lady wanted to be La Sylphide, and every man wanted to undress her diaphanous gown. And all William wanted was to shout to the world that La Sylphide was his.
When the curtains closed, ending the first act, the crowd's thundering applause was deafening. Darkness enveloped the stage.
William stared at the red velvet. Where did she go? Why couldn't he join her?
Ashbourne left their side to speak with the women.
"Having a hard time controlling the jealousy?" Cavendish said, his eyes twinkling.
William gave him a warning look, already regretting having confided the affair to him. While William hated scandals, if the liaison became public, it would be ruinous for Helene. Her career depended on her reputation, and William would allow nothing to taint it.
"Don't worry. The ton doesn't suspect that its latest amusement is the mistress of our Silent Sovereign. They believe her to be as pure as the white tulle she wears. Verón did a superb job with her image. We should hire him to do the same with the army."
He swallowed the port, and it swam in his empty stomach. Helene wouldn't need Verón if William had not ruined her.
"If the army were unblemished as Helene, Verón wouldn't be needed."
Cavendish covered his chest. "Ouch, dully noted, my friend. Won't you ever forget about Covent Garden?"
"Perhaps when my ribs stop paining me."
Cavendish leaned forward, his voice turning secretive. "The siege of Badajoz is underway. Wellington has cut the French supply lines."
If they gained the city, it would demolish Napoleon's position on the peninsula. Straightening in the chair, William held his breath. "And Astley?"
"Safe. Behind the front. Wellington is fond of him. Says he is the best philosopher in the army."
That sounded like his younger brother—always the idealist.
