Page 99 of The Duke's Dream
Helene sighed, closing her eyes. This living was... intense. While in the theater, twists were expected and rehearsed in advance, in the living they caught one wondrously unaware. Who would say that she, after waking up as Viola in the first act ofTwelfth Night—sad as a frog in the sand, lost in a strange land—would go to sleep as Rosalind in the final act ofAs You Like It, reunited with her love, happy as a swallow in summer.
A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Beaumont, is everything all right there?”
Helene sat, holding the sheets to her breast.
“Yes, Madam La Roux, all is splendid,” Helene shouted and glanced at William with a conspiratorial look.
“We heard some dreadful shouting coming from here.”
“Oh, you did? Are you sure?”
“Sounded like a donkey braying, only louder.”
“Oh, that!” Helene’s voice shook with mirth. “I was making a new voice exercise, that’s all. No need to worry.”
When the steps disappeared from the landing, Helene giggled, slumping back on the mattress, her body relaxing again. William laughed, too. He was a sight to behold, naked, his chest shaking with humor.
When the mirth faded, their fingers met, interlacing above the counterpane.
“You lost control.”
Helene spoke nonchalantly, as if William rampant had not changed the fabric of her being.
He took a deep breath, and his other hand, the one she was not holding, covered his face. “I know.”
Her lips twitched. “The Silent Sovereign brayed like a donkey.”
A groan. “I know.”
“You lost control, and the earth is still standing. Oh, did you hear that? I think it was an earthquake.”
“Don’t make fun of it.”
“I’m not,” she protested, laughing, deliriously happy. “I’m no longer making fun now. I promise. Look. See my face. I’m contrite.”
William leaned over her, studying her face. “You are not contrite. You are beautiful, and you are glowing and very kissable, but not contrite.” He kissed the tip of her nose and stretched, exhaling deeply. “And I would love to ravish you again, but my body won’t cooperate.”
They were silent, their fingers laced, and Helene tried to match the rhythm of her breathing with his.
He closed his hand around hers. “You said you wouldn’t fall in love.”
She had revealed that, too, hadn’t she? “I know.”
He leaned over her, suddenly serious, and touched the corner of her lip. “Are you afraid?”
Helene gazed at him from under her eyelashes. “Do you plan on hurting me?”
“I would rather cut my own arm.”
Smiling, Helene pulled the blanket over both of them and settled in her favorite place, above his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart. “Then I’m not afraid.”
Oneweeklater…
William pushed inside Tom Cribb's saloon, the latest edition of the Clarion burning beneath his arm. Farley had done it again—attacked the war effort, scrutinizing the flow of money leaking from the Peninsula. Curse the writer for putting him in this position. If William allowed Farley to keep writing, he could sway Parliament against increasing the military budget. But if he did nothing, Thornley would demand the writer's arrest.
William's idea, though risky, was the only solution—if he could buy Rodrick’s help.
The stench of sweat, stale ale, and damp sawdust clung to the air, turning William’s stomach. Gentlemen in fine waistcoats jostled with tradesmen in rough coats, their elbows digging into each other’s ribs as they fought for a better view of the ring.
