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I t was past eleven o’clock when William’s carriage overcame the traffic and arrived at Burlington House. The flicker of candles and chandeliers cast dancing shadows over the ballroom’s gilded walls. Laughter and music blended, pulsing with possibilities. William maintained a composed exterior while navigating the throng of elaborate costumes. Every nod, every polite smile was measured, a part of the dance he had mastered over the years. Beneath the surface, his thoughts simmered, his gaze slicing through the crowd in search of a woman dressed in white.

A Rosière. A peasant girl offered to the Lord. Of course he knew the tradition—he knew everything about France, especially customs that might ripple across the Channel. But Rosières were more than quaint symbols; they embodied chastity and submission.

She kept surprising him.

Joan of Arc would’ve made sense—defiant, national, if a touch overdone. A Greek goddess, perhaps.

But a Rosière?

What was Helene playing at? Was it a message? Was she ready to yield?

The image of her in white muslin swept through him like a fever.

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.

She glanced toward the gallery—and her breath caught.

The duke stood against the wall, straight-backed and still, his eyes tracking the dancers with quiet precision. Oh, to learn the substance of his thoughts. Was he angry? Did he miss her?

A strange thrill curled inside her. For once, she watched unnoticed. Not the performer but the audience.

A sharp poke in her shoulder broke the moment.

“Helene, really,” Louise muttered. “Must you always stare at the clouds?”

“I’m not—”

Louise raised a brow. “This is Mr. Elias Farley. Editor of The Clarion. He wants to interview you.”

Startled, Helene studied the man. So this was one of Louise’s radical acquaintances. They had often wondered where she disappeared to after rehearsals. As if they didn’t already have enough troubles without stepping into a political hornet’s nest.

The Roman toga marked him clearly—a republican, and therefore, dangerous.

He bowed low, candlelight catching in his flaxen curls. “Enchanted, Miss Beaumont.”

Helene’s lips tightened. “I’ll gladly speak about ballet—whenever you like.”

“I want to hear what inspired you to come as a Rosière. This is the silent protest England needs.” Farley’s eyes sparked with fervor.

“You mistake me, Mr. Farley. The Rosière was a jest. No manifesto tucked in the hem of my gown.” Helene’s tone stayed calm, but her gaze cut to Louise. “I want to move hearts through my art—nothing more. I believe in liberty, yes. In living fully. But I despise violence. I’ve lost too much to revolution already.”

“I love England,” Farley said, passion curling his words. “And my fight is not with blades. I write to incite change through knowledge. I shine a light on injustice—invite solutions, not chaos.”

A commotion stirred near the stage, a ripple of laughter and shifting masks.

“I hope you’ve brought a very large lantern,” Helene said, smiling politely. Then she slipped away, skirts whispering through the crowd.

She was admiring a fallen angel—black wings drooping, horns askew—when a gloved hand caught her arm.

“Dance with me, Rosière?”

She turned—and gasped.

The man before her was no angel. Tall and dark, he looked carved from something harder than flesh. His slicked-back hair sharpened the cruel angles of his face, and his eyes—black, unreadable—held a predator’s focus. He wore no mask, but his presence was disguise enough. A villain in plain sight.

“I’m not in the habit of dancing with strangers,” Helene said, frowning at his grip.

He didn’t let go. “But isn’t that the whole charm of a masquerade? To dance without names. Without rules.”

Her hands grew clammy as as he pulled her through the crowd, her eyes searching for a familiar face among the cherubs, queens, and satyrs. Where was Louise?

The first strains of the waltz saw her in the arms of the dark stranger, her back rigid, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

As they glided across the dance floor, Helene gazed at the gallery. Still, her duke was no longer there.

He guided her into the turn, and she saved her feet from his implacable boots by sheer instinct.

Helene grimaced. “I think our musicality is off.”

He chuckled. But instead of reassuring her, the sound made her more on edge. “I apologize. There are more pressing issues than dancing right now.”

Helene stiffened her elbows to keep him at arm’s length. “More important than ballet? You are not very flattering, are you?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Beaumont.”

Helene missed her step. Why did he know her name?

“I thought the point of wearing a mask was to keep one’s identity secret,” she whispered, glancing frantically at the door. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage now.”

“You can call me Montfort. Tell me about your costume.”

Viscount Montfort. Louise’s tales echoed in her mind. Spies and shadows followed Viscount Montfort like loyal hounds. Cold sweat formed in her spine, and her heart raced. What did he want with her? A mere dancer?

“Your costume, mademoiselle.”

“Are you familiar with The Rosières in France?”

“I’m familiar with many French traditions. Treachery among them.” This time, he could not disguise the slight contortion of his upper lip. “Who was the leader, Miss Beaumont? Who asked the corps de ballet to come dressed as Rosières?” His fingers pressed into her waist, none too gently.

Her heart pounded in her ribcage. “It was a joke. Do you understand jokes, Mr. Montfort? We are just French ballerinas. Beneath your attention.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You were—until your little ruse tonight forced me to notice."

Had she attracted unwanted attention to her group? What if this man discovered she was the sister of a French General? The enemy. Would he arrest her? Hand her over as an enemy spy?

Panic swept through her, its metallic tang flooding her mouth. Her heart was so loud that she feared it would outpace the orchestra.

“Do you know why I enjoy living here, Viscount Montfort? It’s because you English believe you are so superior that you leave us alone. Please don’t spoil my judgment.”

“Your besotted duke might applaud your wordplay, but I’m harder to please. When the music stops, you will walk away with me. I expect you to tell me who organized this display of French resistance.”

***

William leaned back against the gallery, drumming his fingers on the wall. The wait for Helene was tedious, as every wait was. People waited on him, not the other way around. And worse, his presence attracted attention, and before long, a throng of guests had lined up to greet him, from MPs to social climbers who wished for an introduction. At least among the demireps, he was free from the marriage-minded mothers, a staple of other balls. The ladies present, and he recognized a few of them, including Lady Johnson and Lady Trollope, were more interested in their own pleasure than making marriage connections.

William’s smile was automatic as he greeted an insistent group of MPs, their eager faces lit by the flickering candlelight.

“A splendid evening, indeed,” he murmured, his voice blending warmth and detachment.

William's hand twitched, fingers curling into a fist, then relaxing, as he scanned the room for signs of the white dress.

Thornley barreled his way into the group, his face reddening. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I think they call it the waltz. A most advanced dance, but quite harmless for politics,” William said.

“Not the infernal dance.” Thornley waved a dismissive hand towards the ballroom. “The girls in white. These—These rose Jezebels.”

William shrugged, assessing Thornley's reaction. “What of it?”

“They are rallying the Whigs against the war, that’s what. The purity of France, bah. I bet Farley will gush about this in his thorny editorials. They will undermine our position in parliament and—”

“If a group of girls can threaten our position, then it isn't strong in the first place.” William smiled condescendingly. “Rest easy. I have the party under control.”

Thornley’s lips pressed into a thin line and with one last scornful glance at the ballroom, he left.

The first notes of Chopin’s Waltz in D-flat Major rose from the orchestra. Several Rosières were led onto the dance floor. The hairs on his neck lifted. William knew she was among them—a shift in the air, an electric impulse. And then he saw her. Center-left, close to the Grecian colonnades. The grace, the utter poise. Helene glided while the others stomped.

He leaned over the railing, gaze fixed, refusing to let her out of his sight. Light caught on the folds of her white dress, making it shimmer with each twirl. All superfluous noises quieted, and the waltz filled his being.

Because he was so attuned to her, he noticed the second her shoulders stiffened, and her steps faltered. William’s gaze went to her partner, and he cursed under his breath—Rodrick.

Why was he dancing with her? Could it be Thornley’s doing? Some misguided suspicion because of the Rosières’ game?

Rodrick’s well-known ruthlessness, his penchant for ensnaring French emigres in his web, settled like rocks in William’s chest. The thought of Helene in his grasp, sent a chill down William’s spine.

Rodrick’s hand pressed too firmly on Helene’s back, and when he led her into the turns, his whispers were too close.

The mix of perfumes and sweat became stifling.

“What is he doing with her?” William gripped the balustrade with enough force to break the carved wood.

Cavendish frowned. “Rodrick? I dare say he is waltzing with her, old boy. Is that Miss Beaumont? She is a marvelous dancer. Mind if I take a turn, too?”

“He is a dangerous blackguard, and you know it.” William pushed away from the gallery, calculating the path to reach her.

“Where are you going?”

“I will claim my dance.”

***

William descended the crowded stairs, weaving between patrons in all stages of drunkenness. The infernal mask pressed against his eyes, restraining his vision. He ripped it off. People around him leaned forward, whispering his title. He ignored them. If Rodrick touched her—if he but harmed one inch of her skin.

When he arrived at the dance floor, the orchestra was pulsing the waltz’s last notes. William scanned the dancers, the couples parting. Where the hell was she?

White flashed to his left.

Rodrick had his hand on the small of Helene’s back, his black glove wrapping around her white dress, a serpent tightening its grip on a lily.

A storm surged in his chest, filling the cavity like the tide. William clenched his fists, fighting to rein it in.

He was civilized, damn it. He could not allow an outburst to expose him. A calm intervention would suffice. Delivered with his usual diplomacy. He had to maintain decorum. A public scene would harm them both.

Rodrick seized her arm and pulled her toward the open French doors. Her skirts rustled like startled wings. Just before the night swallowed her, Helene glanced up at the gallery—eyes searching, almost pleading. For him.

The tide roared inside him. To hell with decorum. Before he could control himself, he was out of the ballroom, out in the open, and upon Rodrick.

Heart hammering, William seized Rodrick’s shoulder and shoved him back. “Take your hands off her.”

Rodrick stumbled, eyes flaring in shock.

Her willowy frame shuddered. She held herself up as if by the power of tension alone, arms gripping her midsection, her gaze fixed on William’s face.

William used the blackguard’s confusion to pull Helene behind him. She came willingly, her shallow breaths teasing the back of his neck. It was the only thing in the night that felt real, under his control. Not his thoughts, not his actions, not the riot of emotions, but those puffs of chilled air.

“If it isn’t the Duke of Albemarle, protector of the innocent," Rodrick said. "Will you ever understand that the innocent might not need your protection?”

William stepped in, his voice lethal. “You let Gaunt drown. Touch her again, and I’ll return the favor.”

Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of his harsh breaths.

But then Rodrick brushed the creases from his sleeve, smirking. “When I said I wished to see the Duke of Albemarle burn, I didn’t think the flames would lick this high so soon.”

William froze. The words struck like a blade beneath the ribs. He had warned himself what happened when passion reigned. When restraint broke. When men let go.

And yet here he stood, breath ragged, hands clenched, barely leashed.

Rodrick’s gaze moved from him to Helene calculatingly.

The blackguard grinned, exposing his feral white teeth. “That smitten, Will?” He bowed dramatically. “Then you better keep her out of trouble,” he said enigmatically and vanished into the night.

William watched him go, knowing he had handed his enemy powerful ammunition.

A soft gasp broke the fog.

Helene.

What would she think of him now?

William exhaled, and the air condensed in front of his face. “I’m sorry for—”

Crying out, Helene flung herself into his neck. Her mask bit into his chest as she clung to him. “Thank you, oh, thank you so much.”

It took William ten seconds to recover and wrap his arms around her. Relief came gradually, like the receding waters after a squall. He brought her closer, hugging her fiercely, and his chin found a resting place atop her head.

“Enough of this cat-and-mouse game."

Sighing, William savored the smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin, letting it wash away his anger.

"Let me take care of you.”

She pushed him away and whirled, hurrying back toward the ballroom.

He grabbed her wrist. Even through the fabric of her gloves, he could feel the coldness of her skin. She was terrified.

“What did Rodrick tell you?”

She set her jaw, gazing into the night. “I don’t owe you satisfactions over my—”

“Damn it, Helene, you are shaking.” He brought her closer, his heart failing to understand that she was under his protection now, that the threat was gone.

One moment, she was earthy and bold, the next, she was transparent in her vulnerability. Who was this ethereal sprite who haunted him?

“Am I? Is this not how you, English, want us to feel? Trembling as we wait for your advances?”

Despite her bravado, she was stiff, her rigid arms ending in two fists by her sides. Her distress was unbearable, and the mask’s serene expression made it worse. Seeing her face was as necessary to him as breathing, self-preservation, or defending his honor.

He tugged her under a gazebo. Whether it was trust or simply numbness, she followed—an uncharacteristic display of meekness from his stubborn sprite. The wisteria hung frozen and twisted above them, and a persistent moon cast feathery shadows over the gravel ground.

Panting, he reached behind her head to loosen the mask’s fastenings.

She caught his wrists. "What are you doing? Stop!"

"Hush, Little One, I must see you."

He removed the mask, revealing her lovely face—eyes wide, cheeks flushed. A tear that she had been unable to dry had left a moist ribbon on her skin.

With his thumb, William brushed it away. “Not all of us want our Rosières trembling and weeping. What did he do to you?”

Mumbling in French, she shook her head.

It must have been about the jest. Had Thornley not approached him with his irrational fears? Still, William hated that her irreverent play had led to this. “No matter, I won’t allow him near you again.”

He caressed the wet needles of her lashes, brushed the stubborn arch of her brows, the proud tilt of her nose. Too fleeting. His memory was not precise enough. Her every feature had to be recorded—etched into copper, painted in oils, carved into stone.

Anything to make her real. Anything to make her forever.

Helene took a shaky breath. "Can you please stop looking at me like this?"

This?

How could he, when this was exactly how he felt—like a man staring at the dream he chased every night, craved every day, needed with every breath?

"I know not how, Helene," he whispered. "I don't know how to stop looking at you."

He could recite Caesar's Commentarii in Latin, and Homer in the original Greek. He spoke every relevant tongue from Vienna to St. Petersburg, could outline a campaign strategy in his sleep, and understood the secret machinery behind Parliament and diplomacy.

And yet he didn't know how to take his eyes off a French ballerina who barely reached his shoulder.

The orchestra drifted through the open doors, distant now, like a world they no longer belonged to.

“Tomorrow, Langley will choose the main part of La Sylphide. I need to go,” she said, leaning into his touch.

“You cannot go.” William cradled her cheeks. “Not before teaching me how to stop looking at you.”

The garden, the ballroom, the feathery leaves faded, leaving only moonlight and the pounding of his heart.

“Teach me, Helene,” he breathed.

The sprite would’ve vanished by now. But Helene gazed at his lips, her eyes dark wells of beauty and mystery.

William laced his arms behind her spine and brought her closer.

The diffuse light bathed her skin with a silvery glow, making her ethereal. Tenderly, breathlessly, he cupped her chin, his eyes locking with hers.

He leaned in slowly, half wondering if dreams tasted sweet, half afraid she would fade under the pressure of his lips. They did, and she didn’t. William kissed the corner of her lips and knew that clouds tasted of champagne and a hint of rose water. He was kissing her—his sprite. Entwining his hands behind her neck, William brushed his lips against hers, softly at first, savoring the texture of her skin, then desperately, longing to imprint it on his own.

Her lips parted, and William slid his tongue into her mouth. Desire poured through him, heady and hot. He tilted her head and kissed her fully—lips, tongue, breath. Nibbling. Licking.

He was kissing his dream… and for the first time, he was awake.

Her breath hitched, and she pulled back, fingers curling into his coat as if she needed an anchor.

“Do you know why the English call this a French kiss? No? I have a theory. You’re far too dignified to even think of sticking your tongue in someone’s mouth if the French hadn’t invented it first." She delivered the words in short bursts as if to keep her mouth occupied with anything other than his tongue.

He laughed softly, brushing his lips against the tip of her nose. “Kiss me back, Helene.”

She did, her tongue shy at first, and then bold. He luxuriated in the softness of her lips. When he felt her resistance melting, her body pliant in his, his hands traveled the breathless path to her lower back, caressing the buttons of her dress, a reenactment of their nightly dance. She poised her little hands over his shoulders, tentative, as if unsure what to do with her limbs. Then she held his face. A hint of desperation infused her touch, as if she, too, was afraid he might vanish. She traced his jawline with her thumb, a timid caress that had his blood boiling.

Why had he fooled himself into believing all he had wanted was to catch his sprite? Now that he had her in his arms, he had to lock her inside of himself, he had to own her.

She pulled away, her breathing shallow. “I won’t fall in love with you.”

“I don’t require your love, Little One.”

“What do you want?”

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You. In my bed.”

Their courtship had lasted long enough. He had nearly throttled Rodrick tonight—proof that his restraint was fraying. Once the contract was signed, she would have a place in his life, on his payroll, and this obsession would resolve itself.

“I’m not for sale.” Her voice trembled. “I hope this night has satisfied your… curiosity. And that you’ll finally give up.”

She might deny their desire, but his lips still carried the taste of hers.

William leaned against the trellis post, crossing his arms to stop himself from reaching for her again. “You seem to know so much about Englishmen. But you forgot our most important trait.”

She touched her trembling lips, as if afraid they were different. “A fondness for tea and entitlement?”

He allowed a slow smile. “We never give up.”

Her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Sweet dreams, monsieur le Duc ,” she whispered, brushing past him.

William watched her go, the scent of her still clinging to the air. Sweet dreams?

No.

Tonight, he would be wide awake.