Page 128 of The Duke's Dream
Helene caught both of her hands in hers. “You won’t faint. Do you think Wellington fainted before a battle?”
“No, well, there is this one time when—”
“Maggy, you trained for this. You are beautiful, and this ordeal will take only three minutes of your life. All you will have to do is curtsy in front of the queen.”
“Should I picture her naked?”
“Pretend she is your grandmother. The poor lady is more concerned about the health of her ailing husband than about this event. Think that you will show her kindness. Breathe, and remember not to bend your knee too far when it is time to curtsy.”
The tittering of the girls increased, and they all flocked to the gallery’s window.
Helene fussed over Maggy’s dress, straightening the train. “Why the commotion?”
“An Austrian officer has stolen the spotlights. Well, I shouldn’t be complaining. If everyone pays attention to him, they won’t see when I make a terrible mistake.”
Helene lifted her brows at Maggy warningly.
Maggy smiled sheepishly. “His name is Christoph von Hohenberg, Count of Adlerstein. If I had my books here, I would research this title. Adlerstein means Eagle Rock in German. Don’t you think it is strange?”
Helene stilled, her hand pausing against the brocade of Maggy’s dress. When Helene was little, her brother used to take her to the top of the mountain behind their property. He called it their Pierre d’Aigle, Eagle Rock.
“You can teach him a thing or two about strategy,” Helene murmured.
The Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat and opened the door.
Maggy’s hand trembled in Helene’s. “Who should I pretend to be?” she whispered. “Tell me a part to play. Any one.”
Helene smiled and cupped her cheek. “You’ll play Lady Margaret Thornley—the gentlest, kindest, and most clever girl I know. Just let them see who you really are.”
Maggy’s eyes filled with sudden brightness. She nodded, beaming.
Helene followed Maggy to the throne room entrance and knelt to fan out the gown’s train.
As the lord-in-waiting announced Maggy’s name, Helene stood to the side, watching her pupil’s slow progress, her heart speeding up.
Maggy performed a perfect curtsy. The queen smiled, her gentle eyes crinkling at the corners, then bent to kiss Maggy’s forehead.
A second curtsy. A backward retreat. No stumbles. No missteps.
Helene’s vision blurred.
Maggy had done it. She had done it brilliantly.
Scanning the salon, Helene spotted Lady Thornley, whose face radiated pride. Their eyes met. Helene placed a hand over her heart. Lady Thornley smiled and gave a single, approving nod.
The connection was brief—but warm, like a sunbeam.
Before anyone else could recognize her, Helene slipped quietly back into the gallery.
The room was empty of debutantes now. Helene wandered to the window and pressed her palms against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface.
Below, the queen’s birthday celebration had begun in earnest. The orchestra struck a glittering melody, and couples glided into intricate shapes, their minuet a choreography of refinement and joy. Laughter and conversation rose like champagne bubbles to the ornate ceiling.
Every ballet had this moment—when the tension resolved, the final trials passed, and a grand celebration followed. It had always been her favorite part to dance.
William stepped into her line of vision, and her breath caught.
He was dressed in full naval uniform, the red lapels echoing the depth of his mahogany hair. Though it was a court requirement, it didn’t make him any less absurdly handsome. He bowed to Maggy and extended his hand. She hesitated, eyes downcast, until he said something that made her giggle.
