Page 6 of The Duke's Dream
She raced to the wings, hoping to reach the dressing room before her tears fell.
“Miss Beaumont.” Langley’s voice arrested her movement.
Chin trembling, Helene faced him.
The aloof choreographer studied her. “Are you familiar with the blue fairy solo?”
The jumps and the allegro were easy enough, but the challenging sequence of pirouettes and chaînés? She struggled with those even when Katherina was not flailing her with her stare.
But she had earned Langley’s attention, hadn’t she? What would she do now? Wilt and sell oranges in the theater pit? No! She would be like Viola inTwelfth Night—even stranded in a foreign land, disguised and under pressure, Viola kept her composure and triumphed.
Gulping, Helene nodded once. Then twice.
Langley crossed his arms. “Excellent. Do it on the tips of your toes.”
Heart speeding, she brushed her slippers in the rosin box and took her mark near stage left, just off center.
If she had to fall, why not do it in style?
***
“Conducting a business transaction on the stage is highly irregular. Don’t you have an office in this place?” William asked as he followed Verón, Covent Garden’s new director, through dimly lit corridors.
“I promise I won’t tax your valuable time, Your Grace.” Verón pointed to the shadows. “But as the theater’s principal investor, you must see the renovations. You will understand my vision then.”
Tallow smoke hovered near the wall sconces. The air clung to his skin, thick with powder, sweat, and perfume. A figure moved in the shadows. Or was it an illicit couple? This was the sort of place he despised. A breeding ground for indulgence and disorder.
Darkness gave way to hazy light. William recognized the stage wings. Beyond the black panels, hushed voices and curling smoke hinted at a performance.
William halted, fixing Verón with a sharp look. He came here to discuss his investments, not join the theatrics.
Verón cursed in French. “I didn’t know there would be rehearsals today. I beg you to wait here, Your Grace. I’ll send everyone away.”
The director disappeared.
Music floated into the shadows. A violin, then a harp—watery and haunting.
The melody tickled his memory. Where had he heard it before? His legs moved forward before he could control them. William parted the silk curtains, and the distant hum of London’s tired day faded. Mist curled at his boots like rising fog on a lake. Trees stretched their gnarled arms toward a painted sky, their shadows flickering in the glow of unseen footlights. His pulse kicked, as if bracing for a storm that had not yet revealed itself.
Scenery and gaslight. He knew this, and yet—the blue haze, the eerie stillness—it tugged on something deep in him.
Movement flashed to his right. Glimpses of fair skin, of rounded shoulders. An impish profile.
She floated closer, a ripple in still water wearing white tulle. His pulse stumbled. Her feet—God above—her feet defied nature. He had seen ballerinas before. But this—this was something else. She was not dancing on the stage. She danced above it.
Then, the bluish light illuminated her profile.
His heart hammered against his ribs. It was her.
The sprite. He knew that face. By God, he knew those lips.
Impossible. She could not be the sprite who haunted his dreams. Just a dancer. A Covent Garden ballerina.
It had to be a stage trick. He was overtired. His mind was playing games with him. Yet, why couldn’t he breathe?
He was not prone to fancy. But how could he deny what was before him?
Oblivious to his turmoil, she danced. Not quite an angel—no, she was too playful, too sensual to be divine. She moved like mist caught in moonlight. Her arms curved overhead, her fingertips grazing nothing, reaching for everything.
