Page 93 of The Duke's Dream
William crowded the entrance.
Helene took him in—his crisp black-and-white finery, the way a grin lit a path straight to his eyes. He had a boyish air about him, as if he'd done something wicked.
Her heart flapped its wings as if released from a cage. He came. Even after telling her he wouldn’t.
His gaze locked on her. She hastily dried her tears, conscious of her own dishevelment. No matter what, she would not let him see how his absence had affected her.
"I thought you were going to Almack’s. In case you are lost, the assembly rooms are on King’s Street.” Helene covered herself with the shawl and stared outside. “Please don’t say all roads lead back to me. Your message this morning suggested otherwise."
She heard his long exhale and braced herself for explanations about his social obligations. How Lady Thornley had demanded the Silent Sovereign’s presence and how the bloody country depended on his lofty shoulders.
He picked up her sewing basket. “Why did you choose pink?”
Why in Hades’ realm had she marked his unmentionables? Baines shouldn’t have complied with her.
Helene shrugged, her cheeks flaming. “The only one I got. I use it to sew my slippers. Knitting is not my forte.”
“Then why did you feel compelled to try your hand this morning?”
Helene traced the frost on the glass. “I figured if you bothered other ladies, they would see it and realize I don’t share very well, but then you never undress, do you? Unless you do it for them.”
The thought of him undressing for those aristocratic ladies was more painful than she could bear. Which was pathetic, really. When she didn’t care for him. Not in the least.
“There are no others,” he burst out.
Tilting his head, he loomed before her, his body giving off heat. Let him rave at her for being unreasonable. Then she would end this. Helene was done with theliving.It was too hard. It hurt. The ballet was easier. La Sylphide’s heart didn’t ache while she waited for something beyond her reach. She would gladly end everything, and she wouldn’t miss him. Not at all. She clutched the shawl, her arms trembling.
He cradled her face. The warmth of his palms seeped into her cheeks. Helene hiccuped.
“I’m sorry.” His voice came out gravely, as if the excuse had been ripped from him.
The cashmere slipped from her shoulders. The promise of living in his eyes called to her, and she so wanted to live there…
But what of the pain? Helene picked up the shawl and shielded herself in the most expensive bauble her talent could buy. Shutting her eyes, she conjured Chopin’s nocturne and hummed, needing the cocoon of music.
His voice tried to intrude, but she hummed louder.
He grabbed her shoulders. “Stop trying to escape our reality.”
“No reality can cage me. I’ll flee whenever I want.”
He caressed her cheek. His mouth was so close, his breath brushing against her lips. She lost the music’s beat.
William tucked hair behind her ear. “Why didn’t you change from La Sylphide clothes?”
Because she had been so pathetically forlorn, she hadn’t mustered the effort.
Helene curled into the window seat. “Why doesn’t the sun come up at night, or rain doesn’t soar from the soil? You ask the most impossible questions.”
He knelt before her. Tenderly, he unlaced the ribbons and pulled away the silk slippers.
“Your toes are bleeding. Why put yourself through this?” He swept his hands over her arcs and massaged her insoles.
Helene stared at her feet as if they belonged to another woman. “When I climb on my toes, I give the illusion I’m flying.”
“I don’t understand.”
All those women… That’s why they came every night. “When people fly, they are free.”
