Page 125 of The Duke's Dream
“You smell like sweat and rosin after a performance. You smell like rain and mist when you come from your lessons. When you wake up in my arms, you smell like my dreams. And when you dance for me, you smell like love.”
Their eyes locked. The warmth of his words filled her chest, buoying her. She searched his gaze for his true feelings. No more hatred burned in its depths. She found only serenity and resolution, as if he had made a decision and was pleased about it.
“But how you smell is not why I wanted this,” he said, washing her slowly, the cloth lazily brushing between her breasts.
Helene’s head dropped back against the tub’s rim. “No?”
“I wanted to take care of you.”
She could take care of herself. “I’ve been washing my own little body for several years now.”
The washcloth paused, and he withdrew his touch, his expression closing.
Helene touched his cheek. “Join me? The water is still hot.”
“I don’t want you to catch a cold.” He stood.
Helene missed his closeness.
The distance between them felt like a chasm as he grabbed a linen towel and helped her step out of the pool. His hands were steady, his touch cool—detached, as if he were handling something fragile rather than someone he desired.
Silence lingered between them, the air thick with unspoken words. His controlled facade felt like a barrier of ice between them. What were they doing? This didn’t sound like their music anymore. Instead of joy and playfulness, the notes wrung with longing, fear even—fear of her own feelings, fear of the hatred she had seen in his eyes not so long ago. And now this…this rigid control. It was as if the duke had taken William hostage and would never allow her to see him again.
He excused himself and vanished from the bathing room. Perhaps she was exaggerating.
Helene watched her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look like La Sylphide. Nor did she resemble La Diabla. She looked tired and small, engulfed in the white linen.
He came back with something in his hands—a cloud. Helene brushed her eyes. Not a cloud, but a sleeping gown of the finest, most diaphanous grade of tulle.
She brushed the fabric against her cheek, her breath catching at the sensation. So soft. Softer than anything she had ever touched. Her wings would have felt coarse in comparison.
“This is tulle illusion,” she whispered.
“I bought it for you,” he replied, his tone steady.
Helene closed her eyes, weariness seeping into her bones. “I’ve told you I don’t—”
“Tomorrow, you will sign the papers. I will rent a house on Curzon Street, and you will have servants, a coach and four, and all the luxury you desire.”
I don’t require furs, I desire only you.“But—”
“We tried doing this your way. The scandal affected both of us. I have a name to protect and a duty to this country. I can no longer risk my legacy for passion. You understand, don’t you?” He cradled her face, his eyes searching hers. “Would you let me take care of you?”
Helene dropped her chin to her chest, unable to meet his gaze. What could she say? His words, so practical, so final, weighed too much. He bade her lift her arms, and she did so numbly, allowing him to dress her in the delicate camisole.
She was so tired. She couldn’t be La Sylphide anymore, and she had no stomach for becoming La Diabla. The idea of being his mistress, of relinquishing all control, lured her like the promise of rest after an exhausting performance. How would it be to let go, to surrender to William’s tulle illusion and stay there forever?
As she curled into his chest and drifted off to sleep, her last thought was that the illusion was oh-so-sweet.
Heleneopenedhereyes,her heart racing. A most strange dream had plagued her sleep. She had been locked inside Echo’s birdcage while people spoke clever things for her to repeat.
Shaking off the disturbing image, she reached out to William but found only empty sheets.
She sat up in bed. Lying in William’s place was a white envelope. When she read the impersonal note, her smile faded. William had to leave to attend business, but he requested her presence this afternoon to inspect the house he meant to rent for her. The memory of William’s proposal came back in a rush. She had been so starved for him, so tired, so drunk of the steam and his cologne that she had allowed his offer to wash over her like a cooling rain.
Mistress. She tried to imagine it—this life he proposed. Not Cleopatra or Cressida, but Helene de Beaumont, strolling through a fashionable house with nothing to occupy her but the softness of fur-lined slippers and the rustle of silk dressing gowns. A life devoted to bathing, pomading, pruning, perfuming. French maids to dress her. French chefs to feed her. And a French mirror to watch herself fade. No ballet, no friends, no family, no children, just pampered flesh, exposed in the most favorable light.
But her nights would be for William, and she would be secure. Secure like Echo was secure.
