Page 19 of The Duke's Dream
She floated back to the grass, her delicate arms crossed in front of her, eyes moist. “You have no right to invade my glen.”
Guilt weighed his shoulders, constricting his breaths, but it was she—she who invaded his dreams. William reached out again. Caught her hand. As their fingers met, the dream shimmered and then dissolved. The sprite smiled sadly and faded away with the mist, leaving him alone.
William gasped awake, his hands clenching the sheets. His skin tingled from the misty touch. How cruel to be pulled back into the stark reality of his bed. His heart raced out of control. He should have taken the pills. Why had he not taken the pills? He couldn’t live like this anymore.
Shadows still soaked the house as he entered the music room. He lowered himself onto the piano bench, every motion stiff, reluctant. The lid groaned open. He stared at the keys like the trapdoors they were—each note a step into her spell, each chord a surrender. His fingers went to them anyway, slow at first, then faster. The music bucked and twisted, louder, sharper, until the air rang with the violence of sound. A guttural chord burst beneath his hands—too loud for the hour, too jagged for silence. It mattered not. He was still alone. Spent, his body hunched forward until his brow met the wood, the final keys trapped beneath his weight.
You cannot hold on to a dream, nor can you control your heart.
The sprite’s voice lingered in the music’s aftermath—like a note he had forgotten to play.
His fingers twitched on the keys. Empty.
No.
The memory surged—Helene’s skin beneath his hands, the scent of her hair, the way her body yielded and resisted in the same breath. The green room. The warmth. The closeness. How much closer he needed to be.
The sprite was wrong.
The Duke of Albemarle could grasp a dream.
And he would.
Helenehadneverbeensummoned to speak with the director. This could be it—the recognition she had worked so hard for. She pushed thoughts of the troubling duke to the recesses of her mind and straightened her posture. The door to Verón’s office loomed, impossibly imposing. Her hands trembled as she nudged it open.
Verón crouched near a makeshift table, tinkering with a miniature of the theater, complete with the ornate ceiling and the king’s box. The scent of old books and tobacco tickled her nose, a stark reminder of his commanding presence.
“Oh, Miss Beaumont. I’m glad you found the time to visit me. Did you know, when I started building this, I obsessed over every piece? Every seat, every curtain fold—had to be perfect. In this world, I am the dictator. One loose string, one misstep, and the entire production collapses."
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Do you want it to collapse, Miss Beaumont?”
Swallowing, Helene shook her head, her eyes following the tufts of hair on his spindly fingers.
“I didn’t think so..." He arranged the chairs with tweezers. "Do you know why patrons pay tickets to watch our ballets?”
“They come for the art.”
“Art, you say? They have the Royal Academy for that.” He clicked his tongue. “Ballet is a male sport. They go to a cockfight to unleash their violent impulses, and they come here to unleash lust.”
He must be wrong. Certainly, some males wanted glimpses of uncovered skin. Still, when the audience watched them dancing, it moved them. They glimpsed freedom and, if only between the overture and the coda, felt free, too. She danced for them.
“I dance to inspire.”
He made a strange noise of displeasure.
Helene wrung her hands.
“You left early last night. Was the Duke of Albemarle’s company not inspiring enough?” His voice was affable, almost friendly.
The duke had invaded her space! Was this why Verón summoned her here? To scold her for how she had treated him? "Being forced to mingle with guests after performances is demeaning.”
“Tell me, Miss Beaumont, do you know the Duke of Albemarle holds a considerable financial interest in the theater?”
Her posture stiffened, her smile fading into a tight line as she braced herself. “I’m certain you are much better suited to deal with the theater finances than I am.”
He set down the tweezers and picked up the tiny ballerina figurine, which was half the size of his hand. Raising the delicate doll so she could see it, he snapped it in two.
Helene gasped, staring at the painted little head, now discarded on his table.
