Page 10

H elene dragged her feet from backstage into the greenroom. Her skin glowed with perspiration, the fabric of her costume damp.

Patrons flocked about, laughing and conversing with the dancers. Helene rushed to collect her things, keeping her gaze down to avoid unwanted attention.

The duke lounged in her usual spot at the barre.

The candlelight caught in the weave of his coat—black with embroidery so rich it gleamed silver. His longish brown hair curled just at his collar, the evening's shadows deepening the rough edge of his jaw.

But it was his eyes, stormy, changeable eyes, that made her stomach queasy. They tracked her movement, drawing her in as surely as if he had reached out and caught her by the wrist. Helene's breath hitched. He was beautiful in a way that should be against the law. No male should wield such power of distracting females from their hardwon dreams.

She slowed her steps, and schooled her features into a picture of nonchalance. "Are you waiting for a ballet lesson, Your Grace?"

"That depends... Will you be my teacher?" His words were measured, his shoulders rigid.

He had seemed almost relaxed at Lady Thornley’s house—unguarded, even. Tonight, he was different. As if he’d fortified himself against an invisible threat—stone-faced, immovable, and determined to keep the world at bay.

Not that she had any wish to get closer.

"I'm afraid I don't take lost causes. You should seek Katherina, our ballet master. She performs miracles with inflexible students."

"I'm not used to bending." He fixed her with a gaze so heated, she feared she might ignite. "Others do it for me."

Helene swallowed. She needed to get away from him. Her hands trembled as she reached for the fastenings of her bodice. But the duke was already there. Positioning himself behind her. Too close.

His fingers brushed hers aside. "Perhaps I only came to help you undress. These tiny buttons are challenging. And inflexible dukes appreciate recalcitrant buttons."

He lingered, the heat of his palm ghosting over her skin, and then he leaned forward. His breath caressed her nape. Had he just... smelled her? If she shivered, it was only because Verón was cutting the heating expenses.

Her cheeks flushed, and she shut her eyes as he pushed her hair aside, baring the curve of her throat to the cool air. His knuckles skimmed the skin behind her ear, a fleeting graze that sent a shiver rolling down her arms.

Helene licked her chafed lip. "They do?"

"You see, they put a valiant resistance…" He circled the first button on her nape. "But they eventually yield."

The fastening gave way with a soft tug, and Helene swayed—not away from him, as she should, but into his rigid space.

He pressed closer to her back, his shadow bathing her tulle skirt. The heat of his presence made her pulse race. What was he doing with her? It felt like a prelude, and like all preludes, it built anticipation, leaving her breathless, perspiring, discontent.

The next button slipped free.

"Tell me something, Miss Beaumont—why do ballerinas have such an excessive fondness for white?"

"You won't like the answer."

"One more reason you should tell me—Isn’t that what liberals do? Seize any opportunity to scold the traditionalists?"

If he put it that way… How could she resist?

Helene exhaled. "There is a custom in French villages. Once a year, they choose the most virtuous girl to be crowned before the lord. They dress her all in white, weaving flowers into her hair. She is called la Rosière."

"How quaint."

"Indeed… until one year, a lord decided to steal her for himself."

His expression did not change, but the tension in his shoulders increased.

She gazed at him pointedly. "La Rosière became a symbol of French purity against the corruption of the aristocracy."

"Thank you for the history lesson, Miss Beaumont. It is very interesting… and dangerous." He caressed her bottom lip. "But what if it is the Rosière who tempts the lord beyond endurance?"

His hand stilled and hovered between them. His eyes became cold, glacial even. It was that fierce emotion—the same she had glimpsed on the stage when they first met. The Silent Sovereign was dangerous to her. No matter Verón's threats.

Her stomach fluttered, and she tensed to leave, but he clamped his hand around her forearm.

The warming room hushed as she stared at his long fingers, willing them to let go.

But then he closed his eyes. A heartbeat passed, two. A muscle ticked in his cheek, then smoothed.

When he opened his eyelids again, the turmoil had faded.

What did it cost him to keep his emotions in check? He reined himself in with a discipline she had never seen before. And she understood discipline. Every movement of her body, every breath, every pointed toe was an act of control, honed through years of pain and practice. And yet—if only she could be as proficient with her own feelings.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost amused. "Where do ballerinas go when they are not haunting unsuspecting dukes?"

Impossible. Here, under the watchful eyes of Verón, she played her part. Outside, she would be totally vulnerable to this attraction that threatened her every dream.

She lifted her chin, forcing a smile. "Where ballerinas go, dukes cannot follow."

"That sounds suspiciously like an autocratic rule, Miss Beaumont. I thought only dukes were entitled to create those." He drew something on the skin of her arm. It felt like branding "Where do you go to practice your meager waltzing skills?"

"Meager, Your Grace?"

He didn't deign to look at her, his brow furrowed in concentration as he navigated her buttons. "I'm thankful I kept my two feet."

"Your two left feet." The last time she checked, they were still attached to his overly long legs. "I don't dance outside of the theater."

"Never say you have another autocratic rule I should be aware of—"

"Your Grace, perhaps curbing civil liberties is your leisure occupation, but I take ballet seriously."

He dipped his head, brushing his nose against her neck. "What if, for a night, you could be anyone you desired? A place where no one would know you."

Was he still talking about her? She had no other identity beyond that of the ballerina. "Funny, Your Grace, I work at the theater, and you are the one fabricating illusions."

"Your wit knows no bounds, Miss Beaumont." He chuckled, and she felt his tension leaving like the last note of a song. "I wonder what it would take to leave you wordless."

His laughter rumbled low, and it slipped over her skin like a velvet promise. And just like that, she became wordless. It was unfair—that a man who could unravel her with silence could do so even more with mirth.

He gave his full attention to her corset. The bodice loosened, no longer pressing but clinging, trembling on the verge of surrender. And, with a final flick, the fabric peeled away from her skin.

He traced the line of her spine, so slowly, and warmth invaded her being. Helene should leave... But she didn't. While she awaited, her arms useless appendages pending by her sides, she uncovered a hidden secret about herself—a breathless ballerina was a witless one.

What if he propositioned her again? Like last time. She had to remember Lady Thornley's words. This reckless attraction could not weaken her.

She should step away.

She should breathe.

The air shifted behind her, and then her coat covered her shoulders.

"I will think of a place where ballerinas and dukes can practice their waltzing skills."

Before she could retort, he kissed her cheek. "Good night, Little One."

And then he was gone.

Helene closed her eyes, her body undone. Her fingers curled into fists, pressing against the loosened fabric of her bodice. She had held on. But barely. And for the first time, she was terrified—not of him, but of herself.

Because for a moment, she had wanted to follow.

And next time… she might.