Page 92 of The Duke's Dream
At William’s pointed look, Baines turned his back to give him privacy.
Reaching for his smalls, William paused.
Delicate stitching adorned the linen. He squinted—initials. Helene’s.
Was it not enough that she was in the papers, on bookstore windows, in every drawing room conversation, in his dreams—and now, in his underwear?
He had stood in the war chambers of Lisbon, crossed the marble halls of the Palais Bourbon, and walked the gilded corridors of Windsor—yet here he was, about to stick his legs into a pair of linen drawers embroidered with a ballerina’s initials.
His gaze slid to Baines, who studied his nails with the gravitas of a man avoiding execution.
William cleared his throat. “Baines, do you know how my smalls came to be embroidered with Miss Beaumont’s initials?”
The valet blushed, his composure slipping. “Is it not the haberdasher’s letters, my lord?”
William lifted a brow. “In pink?”
Baines tugged at his cravat and eyed William askance. “I went to Miss Beaumont this morning to give her the note, Your Grace. When she read that his lordship would not visit her tonight, the poor thing was forlorn.”
Forlorn? He stared at the H and B, tracing the uneven stitches. Did this mean she cared? After professing every night that she would not fall in love? His pulse quickened, and an urge gripped him to race to her apartment and see for himself.
“She was now?” William asked.
“She wanted to know if his lordship had other female friends. I told her not currently and not that I’ve known of.”
“And she?”
“She seemed distressed and asked if I could bring her a token from you.”
“And you did? Why?”
He didn’t doubt that Helene would demand something so outlandish, but Baines was his most trusted servant. He dealt with scores of tenants and servants seeking favors, but he seldom put anyone’s interest before William’s.
Baines shrugged. “Miss Beaumont makes His Grace happy, and asks nothing in return.”
William brought the cloth to his nose, searching for her scent. A whiff of rosemary sent him to her meadow, and a summer shower washed away philosophical questions and social duties. A chuckle escaped his chest. Trust his Helene and her pink stitches to free him from the iron coffin he had locked himself into. She was young, she was his. What else mattered, at least for this night?
William put on the smalls. “Get me a pair of trousers.”
“But, Your Grace, breeches are needed for Almack’s. Last week, the Duke of Yorkshire was sent back because he wore trousers.”
“Isn’t it wonderful, Baines, that we can depend on this country to uphold social strictures?”
A knowing smile lit up Baines’ aging face. “You are most ingenious, sir.”
Indeed, he was. Lady Thornley would be appeased. He would have tried to go, would he not? If they sent him away, it would not be his fault.
***
Helene wrapped her new cashmere shawl around her shoulders and leaned further into the window seat. Beyond the glass, London’s rooftops loomed, outlined by the foggy sky.
For the tenth time, she tried to focus on her book, but her attention kept wandering. Helene brushed the preserved lily across her nose and sighed. How pathetic it was. She should have gone with the girls to Vauxhall. Wasn’t she the most famous ballerina in London? Shouldn’t she be enjoying herself? Yet, instead of dancing under the fireworks, she felt like weeping under a blanket.
She blamed William—that repressed, impossible man. How easily he’d cast her aside—how thoroughly. If he wanted to keep his distance, fine. Perfect. She was perfectly content on her own. She had no craving to waltz with him at Almack’s. She certainly didn’t want to be accepted into his exclusive world. So what if she never saw him in court attire? She didn’t love him. And she was dazzlingly happy.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, landing on the lily’s brittle petals.
She was tucking it between the pages of her book when the latch clicked—and the door creaked open.
