Page 33 of The Duke's Dream
What was it about his nature that desired her so completely? Since he had started visiting her in the green room, he had been sleepless, he had been aggravated, he had been insanely hard, and altogether delighted. He wanted the courting to end this night, under the chandelier, swayed by a waltz, yet he didn’t. A part of him wished to extend his theater visits, to know her intimately, count her buttons, explore the little bumps of her spine and the downy hairs that teased her neck, and revel in the way her breath caught when he pressed her waist. The other wanted to part the sea of costumes, and devour her on the floor.
White flashed before him.
William pushed through the crowd, dodging men dressed in hoopskirts, shepherdesses, and nuns. Champagne flowed freely, and drunken guffaws mingled with startled laughter and clinking glasses. The headpieces made it impossible to see above the line of revelers.
That elusive white dress appeared again to his left.
His shoulders tensed as he scanned the garish guests. Had he put her at risk, leaving her alone in a room filled with randy gentlemen temporarily freed from social constraints? The cloying mix of perfume, sweat, and spirits churned his stomach. This was a mistake. He’d have a better chance of finding her in his dreams.
And then he saw her—a woman in white. His pulse quickening, William strode to her. She was wearing the dress he had imagined and had robbed his sleep. The muslin flowed gracefully, its high empire waist cinched with a delicate satin ribbon. A silk mask concealed all but the lips, and a crown of roses adorned her hair.
She turned to him.
It wasn’t her. The mouth was too full, the face too narrow.
William kept walking, circling the dancers. Where was she? When he spotted a blonde woman in white sipping champagne with a knight, a prickle of unease crept up his spine.
“I don’t recognize your costume,” William asked, frowning.
The blonde curtsied, batting her eyelashes. “Why, I’m a Rosière, My Lord. Care to choose me as the most virtuous girl in the village?”
Another Rosière? What was happening?
The ballroom suffocated him. William was scanning the crowd, when Cavendish saluted him.
He was clad in his guard’s uniform, his saber slightly askew. “Quite the crush, eh? Have you had any luck with your dancer?”
“I cannot find her. I’m heading for the gallery for a better view.”
Cavendish smirked and led the way up the grand staircase. The cooler air brushed against William’s heated skin, a relief from the oppressive warmth below.
From his vantage point, William surveyed the revelers, the gaudy colors blurring into a single mass.
Among the masks and gowns, he spotted a figure in a white dress.
He memorized her position and damned the time it would take to reach her. As he calculated the best route, he caught sight of another girl in white, slightly taller than the first, conversing with a milkmaid. And then two Rosières swirling in the country dance, and a small group by the punch. There was at least a score of them. Had he lost his mind? William brushed his eyes, cursing the overwhelming swirl of guests. If only he could order them all out. Out of the ballroom, out of the night.
Wait. Had she orchestrated this? All of them... wearing the same costume.
“They are all Rosières,” William said reverently. All indistinguishable in their uniform beauty.
Clever, Helene, so clever. A chuckle escaped him.
“What? Is that laughter I hear? The girl played you, and that’s all the mighty Duke of Albemarle will do? Don’t let your enemies discover this, or they will think you soft,” Cavendish said.
How could he be angry when she was so much more than he expected? Like in the dreams, she had leaped one step ahead of him. But while in his sleep, he raced against dawn’s approach, in this dance, time was in his favor.
Cavendish sipped his champagne, eyes sweeping over the dancers. “Do you want my help unmasking the chits?"
But that’s exactly what Helene had wanted him to do, was it not? She would probably amuse herself while he searched for her in the crowd.
“I will stay right here and flush her out.”
The moment she danced, he would recognize her. She could disguise her appearance, but not her grace.
***
Helene glided through the guests, her senses alight with wonder at Burlington House. Flowers in every exotic hue overflowed from the tables, and French globe lamps floated from the ceiling, casting flickering constellations over the silks and sequins below.
