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H elene stepped off the stage, breath catching in her throat as she slipped between dancers shedding costumes. She wiped the sweat from her brow, but it did little to clear the heat rising beneath her skin. Why hadn’t she lifted her leg higher? What had she done with that second turn? La Sylphide deserved more vigorous jumps.

She paced, restraining the urge to peek as another soloist tried for La Sylphide. Nail-biting would accomplish nothing now. As Julius Caesar would say— Alea jacta est . The dice were cast.

Helene stretched her aching toes, the tightness of her pointe work still thrumming in her bones. She fanned herself with trembling fingers, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. Stoic like Caesar? Hardly. She was closer to a Macbeth in tulle, nervous, anxious, and prone to overthinking.

She turned toward the dressing room, hoping to escape before her emotions escaped her—only to freeze at the unmistakable voice. Imperious. Clipped. His.

The duke?

Heart lurching, she ducked behind a heavy brocade curtain, the fabric brushing against her bare arms. She couldn’t face him—not as dancing Macbeth, with flushed cheeks, sweat-mussed hair, and tattered tulle.

Peeking through the folds, she spotted him speaking with Verón, his posture deceptively casual, his presence anything but. Draped in black and command, the Duke of Albemarle loomed over the director like a Roman emperor surveying a conquered province.

She had pressed her cheek to the superfine of his coat last night. His scent, his warmth... They were all so real, so solid. Her hand came up to brush her lips as his words replayed in her mind.

I want you in my bed.

Hard, arrogant words. Just like him. But his lips? Tender, soft...

Soft?

The only thing soft here was her mind. She should remember his high-handedness, his audacity to treat her like a commodity—not his ruinous kisses.

Dust motes danced in the slanting light, tickling her nose and threatening to betray her presence with a sneeze.

She peeked out, trying to discern their talk, but the music swelled, drowning the sounds.

What could he want with Verón? Was he complaining about her refusal? What if he was questioning Verón about her past, like Viscount Montfort?

Not five minutes had passed when the Duke dismissed Verón with a nod and turned toward the theater’s exit. Helene held her breath, watching the long, commanding strides that carried him away. And just like that—he was leaving. He had come all the way to Covent Garden, and he would leave without even seeking her?

An unwilling sigh escaped her lips.

Verón lingered a beat longer, then gave his jacket a tug and strode in the opposite direction, his polished shoes clicking with unusual purpose. A deep frown etched his glossy brow.

Helene slipped from behind the curtain and followed at a distance. The director stopped outside Langley’s office, knocked once, and entered without waiting.

Helene’s pulse spiked.

She veered toward the broom closet tucked beside the office and eased the door open. Familiar scents—old polish, sawdust, the faintest trace of paint—welcomed her like old friends. When she was younger, she used to slip in here to listen through the vent, imagining Langley sketching roles just for her, the scratch of his pen composing her future.

She tiptoed across the cramped space and pressed her ear to the vent near the top of the shared wall.

Two times an eavesdropper in one afternoon.

She stood still, barely daring to breathe.

A chair scraped against the wood.

Langley cleared his throat. Helene sensed his anxiety and imagined him wringing his hands. “If this is about the Rosières, I assure you the corps was not attempting to overthrow the monarchy and storm the tower. I spoke with the girls, and they are contrite. They didn’t expect the repercussion—”

“I’m not worried about that.” Helene could almost see Verón’s dismissive gesture, his impatience tangible even through the closed door. “It was marvelous for the business. Tickets have sold out. Have you chosen La Sylphide?”

The moment stretched, a breath held too long.

A jolt ran through Helene, and her fingers knotted into the fabric of her practice tunic.

“La Sylphide will be Sara Parker.”

Helene clamped a hand over her mouth to conceal her gasp. Her eyes stung, and she bit her palm not to cry out. Why had she even believed she could win the part?

“Miss Parker? That won’t do for sales at all. Londoners are tired of old Sara after eight seasons.”

Helene held so still she feared her spine might crack.

“I see… Do you have a dancer in mind?”

She could hear Verón pacing, his steps drawing near to the wall dividing them. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe we have a brand new, promising ballerina in our ranks. Don’t you think our audience would be thrilled with Miss Beaumont?”

Helene’s heart raced, and she held her breath, her body leaning closer to the vent. Please, let it be real.

“She’s the best soloist in the company. Her technique is flawless, but she is not ready.”

Helene gasped. Not ready? Any more ready and she would have La Sylphide's wings.

“Can she do your ballet’s pointe steps?” Verón’s tone was commanding and cold.

“Yes, she’s been studying it for some months now.” Langley’s words trailed off.

“Voilà.”

“She is not ready for the fame.” Langley’s voice carried a paternal worry.

Heart aching, she closed her eyes. She had been born to be La Sylphide. For La Sylphide, she could handle anything—fame, sore toes, even heartbreak.

“You shelter these girls as if they were delicate hothouse roses. But Miss Beaumont is a wildflower—she will thrive under the open sky, where she can flourish, don’t you think?”

“I think you should allow me to plant my flowers as I see fit. Am I not Covent Garden’s choreographer?”

“You know what? I tried to keep you in blissful ignorance of the matter. But today, I will intrude upon your fantasy to bring you some real-world truths. I appreciate what you do here, Langley. You take care of tulle and wings and ballet steps, and I take care of well... everything else. The theater has a new investor.” Verón’s voice dropped. “When the Duke of Albemarle makes a request, we obey. Right now, he has two demands—the ballet’s music score delivered to his house and Helene de Beaumont as La Sylphide.”

***

Helene trudged up the stairs of her building. The mournful strains of the opera singer on the second floor blended with the melancholy notes of the violinist on the fourth, forming a sorrowful symphony. A layer of soot coated everything—from the small windows to the old railing to London’s air. Outside, the city slumbered under a heavy sky, chimneys staining the horizon with their relentless smoke. The theater was there too, with its grand portico. A place she went to create beauty and feel beautiful too… When had it become a chessboard filled with power plays and hidden motives?

Her reflection was trapped inside the windowpane, her silhouette blending with the gray smudges. Helene touched her hair and rubbed the rouge from her cheeks. Plain eyes, plain hair, plain lips.

Only when she was a character on the stage was she beautiful, and now she could not even trust that beauty. How could she? After she had denied his advances last night, she thought—a wave of heat climbed to her cheeks. How long until the duke saw this, too? And when he did, how would she keep her part?

Light spilled beneath her garret door.

She stopped, hand hovering over the handle. Laughter drifted from within—Celeste and Louise. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself to maintain the facade of the triumphant ballerina her friends expected to greet.

Helene opened the door gingerly.

“You did it!” Louise beamed. “Our Helene is La Sylphide. It was so well deserved. Now you'll show them that the French make better ballerinas.”

Celeste kissed her cheek. “You’ll be the most beautiful sylph the stage has ever seen. They’ll all fall in love with you.”

Helene managed a smile, tight at the corners. She dropped her handbag to the floor, her shoulders taut. They were celebrating a lie.

“This is for you.” Celeste stepped forward, cradling something in both hands like an offering. “It’s not much, but I darned the toes with leather string. It’ll hold you steady when you rise en pointe.”

Helene took the slipper, the satin cool and soft against her fingers.

“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s too beautiful.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away, pressing her face into her palms.

“These aren’t happy tears, are they?” Celeste’s voice softened as she brushed a stray curl from Helene’s damp forehead.

Louise placed a steady hand on her back, fingers warm through the fabric of her dress.

“I didn’t earn this on my own. The duke… he insisted Langley cast me.”

The opera singer’s haunting aria echoed through her garret, her voice climbing to a fever pitch.

Helene couldn’t look at her friends. Celeste would try to romanticize the situation, but Louise would rightfully reproach her. Would they resent her now? Even worse, would they condemn her for asking favors? Helene had kissed the duke, hadn't she? Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps he would have left her alone if she hadn’t enjoyed it so much.

“I didn’t ask him to do it. You must believe me. Tomorrow, I’ll speak with Langley, with Verón. I won’t accept the role.”

“You’ve worked harder than anyone," Louise said. "You deserve this, duke or no duke.”

“But I vowed—we all did—that we would shun bribing gifts.”

Favors didn’t come without strings attached. What would the duke request? Her stomach tightened, and she pulled the cloak closer around her.

Louise grabbed her hand. “You didn’t ask for it. This wasn’t your fault.”

“Langley wanted Sara.” Helene’s voice faltered, guilt tightening her chest. “I robbed this of her, and—”

“You can either be Lady Macbeth and cast yourself in a tragedy, or…” Louise steepled her fingers. “Lady Rosalind in As You Like It .”

Helene smiled through her tears. “Is this my cue to don male clothes and escape to the woods?”

“Don’t be silly. Everyone knows you cannot wear trousers.” Celeste kissed her cheek. “Louise is right. You’ll be the star of your own delightful comedy. As the curtain opens, the promotion you thought was a tribute to your talent was a gift from a well-meaning but misguided suitor. Like Shakespeare’s heroines, you’ll weave magic into the plot, turning it around with grace. Your performance will be a dream, showing off your true artistry. And, of course, you’ll be surrounded by sparkling friends who will fill your journey with laughter.”

Helene lifted her eyes, biting her lip. “Will you truly be there with me?”

“How could you doubt it?” Louise brushed Helene’s tears. "We are The Swans of Paris, are we not? And as birds of a feather… we ought to stick the English with our rapiers, not fly from them."

Celeste clapped her hands. “This will be perfect. You’re going to prove to everyone, especially to Langley, how ready you are. The duke might have opened the door, but you’ll be the one dancing through it! This is your moment, Helene. Dance it for yourself, not for anyone else.”

Helene exhaled all the air in her lungs and nodded. She’ll keep the duke at bay, her heart safe, and her career ascending. “I’ll be La Sylphide.”

***

The grandfather clock ticked, each stroke echoing the tension coiling in William’s chest. Shadows thickened in the study, creeping across the carpet inch by inch.

Helene flickered in his mind—dancing in his arms, light as air, otherworldly. A vision he couldn’t shake.

His gaze strayed to the door. It should have arrived by now. Had Verón outmaneuvered him? Nonsense. He would not dare contradict The Duke of Albemarle.

What would be Helene’s reaction? Part of him yearned to witness her joy firsthand. The other hoped she’d never suspect who had pulled the strings. Let her believe she had earned it. Proud as she was, she would probably refuse to be La Sylphide if she knew he had requested it. Asking for Verón's secrecy had been the right decision.

He tapped the desk with restless fingers, the sound uneven against the polished wood. The Times lay open before him, unread. Soon her name would be in its columns.

Why had he demanded the promotion?

His decisions concerning Helene had been impulsive at best and erratic at worst. If she rose to stardom, having her as a mistress would prove more chaotic than this impromptu courtship.

The door creaked open.

Baines stepped in. “It is done, Your Grace.”

William rose. “And the music score?”

The valet approached with the pages.

“Dr. Flemming sent a note. The doctor asked to speak with you about your mother. And Lord Thornley’s secretary came here twice today.”

William didn’t look up from scanning the notes on the score. “Not now. Tomorrow.”

He crossed the threshold into the music room, the sheet clutched in his hand. The Erard grand piano gleamed beneath the candlelight, silent and waiting.

His father had despised it. “Music stirs the passions, William. It softens the mind, weakens the will. A man rules with logic, not lust.”

He’d said it with disgust the day he caught William playing a nocturne, eyes closed, lost in feeling.

“Feel too much, and you become a danger to others. And to yourself.”

But his father was not here now. Only the Erard, his fingers, and the Sylph's call.

William’s hands hovered over the keys, fighting a pull stronger than gravity. He knew that music seemed light as mist, but it churned oceans beneath his ribs. He knew the dangers of giving vent to such feelings. He'd seen what happened when men surrendered to the whims of the heart—nations fell, marriages dissolved, people died…

He held back for one heartbeat, two.

Yet, he succumbed.

When his fingers descended, the cool ivory greeted his touch—familiarly forbidden. He stirred the music, and the music stirred him. Could logic ever wield such power?

The overture bloomed, rising like mist from ancient moss. Oaks whispered old secrets. Moonlight flickered behind drifting clouds. Somewhere, in that imagined glade, a being made of mischief and hummingbird wings yawned awake, stretching in a shaft of silver light. William’s heart surged and then soared. The notes weren’t simply played—they breathed, casting a spell that shimmered over the room like dew on leaves.

His right hand flitted across the upper register—fluttering sylphs in flight—while his left thudded a steady mortal rhythm, the grounded ache of the man who yearns for them. The melody spilled from his fingers and swept him along. He wasn’t playing the overture. He was inside it. He moved with it. Longed through it. A man chasing the story and becoming it.

The music showed him so much. He saw Helene entering the stage, he saw her turning into her toes, he saw her painting the music with her gracious hands and her lightning-quick feet. He could listen to her dancing it, just as he could see the notes.

Too soon, the final chord burst like a floodgate. He released a breath he hadn’t known he’d held. The music fell into silence. The spell, broken.

But the yearning didn’t fade with the last note.

He sat, eyes closed, pulse still racing.

Slowly, reason crept back into his mind, steady and cold.

If she rose to stardom, keeping her as his mistress would be impractical. But keeping her from rising? Unthinkable.

Doubts flew from his mind. He had done the right thing. This part could belong to no one else.

His Helene was La Sylphide.