Page 91 of The Duke's Dream
Helene dropped her hand by her side.
A cluster of clouds covered the sun, plunging the garden into shadows. Helene shivered and hugged herself.
The butler called Maggy aside, leaving Helene alone with Louise.
Louise touched the cage. “This is what the duke is doing to you, you know?”
“Stop. Why is it so wrong if I take a lover?”
“I don’t care that you took a lover. You can take two if it suits you.”
“Then what?” Helene crossed her arms in front of her chest.
Louise caught her hand, pressing affectionately. “He is a duke, The Silent Sovereign, a bloody peer from the British aristocracy. They think themselves better than everyone else. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
Louise was wrong. Why couldn’t she see how wrong she was? Helene was safe, and her heart was safe, because she refused to fall in love with William. She and William enjoyed each other’s company—she told herself this was enough. But love? She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. She hopefully wouldn’t.
Helene reached for the bird, her hand trembling as she extended her fingers. “William is different. He cares for me, and I demanded a relationship of equals.”
Louise’s gaze remained unyielding. “You might compare a swan with a wolf and say they are equals, but they are not.”
Helene touched Louise’s arm. “Please, Louise, I’m not a swan, and he is not a wolf. Must you—”
“Then who are you, Helene?” Louise’s eyes flashed as she pointed at the cage. “Is that what you want to be? La Sylphide? A white fairy who doesn’t exist? Their plaything?”
Helene stared at her friend, then at the bird, her chin quivering.
“Who are you?” The bird croaked. “Who are you?”
Thearchedceilingsmadethe bathing room feel vast, each drop of water echoing as if in a cave. The frosted window invited in a pale, weak moonlight, a poor substitute for Helene’s dusty panels. William dropped his head back at the bath’s rim, closing his eyes, wishing she were here—not perched in that cramped basin of hers, knees to chin, but stretched with him in this vast marble pool, where he could wash her hair, her skin, every delicate inch she offered.
My passion is what I am. I refuse to live half a life.
Farley's words replayed in his mind and he rubbed his chest but failed to soothe the ache. What if he broke free from the chains of social obligation, of expected behavior, of perceived scandal... Would he be bathing alone in the cold, preparing to attend a pointless society function while Helene awaited him? Would he see her only at night, like a fugitive?
Or would he make her his wife?
The thought struck him like a blow, and he shot from the bathing tub. Water sluiced down his chest as chilled air slapped his skin. Impossible. He was the 6th Duke of Albemarle, the heir to a tradition that had upheld the British monarchy since Charles II.
The writer was wrong. Unchecked emotion led to chaos and had the power to unravel a man’s control. Passion was not a man’s entire identity but what tore it apart.
William shoved his arms into his robe and strode to his room. The grandfather clock struck the eighth hour, the time he usually met Helene at the garret.
At 8:05, she would open the door, her soft humming a welcoming melody. By 8:15, he would still be wrapped in her arms, their embrace too intoxicating to break. At 8:20, they would tumble into bed, the world outside forgotten.
He tightened the robe around himself—a poor substitute for her touch. They had to maintain the boundaries. Helene understood.
Obligation demanded that he attend Almack’s. Lady Thornley would be appeased, and the ton would stop speculating about his constant absence.
William crossed to the desk. Beneath the Almack’s ticket and voucher lay Helene’s pictures. She had appeared in The Times again. Her novel take on ballet—dancing on her toes—drew throngs to the theater each night. His Sylph was everywhere. Once content to haunt his dreams, she had now spread her wings over every corner of his life.
An insidious energy surged through his legs.
Stop. Get dressed. Get out.
William glared at the knee breeches, the stiff white cravat, and the chapeau bras—the prescribed uniform for the assembly rooms. The clothes would chafe less if cast in iron. Why this now? William’s history with Almack’s was a string of unremarkable evenings. The price of his station. Still, the prospect of attending Almack’s tonight had the appeal of entering a coffin.
Those were his friends. His world. He would do his duty.
