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“H elene, can we go now? These flowers are plotting against me.” Celeste sniffled into her lace handkerchief.

Waning sunlight poured over the cobblestones of Covent Garden market. Vendors called out their wares—crimson apples, cucumbers, silkworms, live poultry—everything was for sale.

“Don’t you tire of the food in the theater? This fried eel looks tasty.” Helene pointed at a costermonger’s treats, her stomach rolling at the pungent smell.

A scream, too close to Helene’s sensitive ears, made her jump. Tugging the coat closer, she recomposed herself, blaming the duke for her jittery nerves. Since he had touched her last night, she felt strange, alternating between waves of heat and cold.

The market seemed a world apart from the theater and her quiet apartment. Ballet dancers shouldn't lose time with things done outside the stage and the studio—this living . When a barrow boy passed by, carting semi-putrefied game, she decided she also didn’t like the smell of it. Let it be for civilians. A dancer should not indulge in the novelties the duke had brought into her life, the fluttering in her stomach, and the other, more private feelings he had awakened. She cared not for either.

This flirtation with the living ended today. Helene congratulated herself on her own cunning. Watching the duke step out of his lofty society to mingle with normal people would be heavenly. As an added benefit, he would realize they were from different worlds and stop pursuing her.

Celeste inspected a turnip. “I don’t get tired. Mrs Marie is a wonderful cook. And you don't care about food. Are you sure we are here to eat? This sounds suspiciously like a deception Viola from Twelfth Night would perpetrate. If so, please don’t leave me in the dark. You know how I enjoy the drama. In moderate doses, of course.”

Helene’s cheeks flamed. “Well, I—”

An angry-looking porter pushed her out of the way. Helene stumbled. She had braced herself to land in a smelly puddle when a hand steadied her.

“Your audacity knows no bounds, Helene.” The Duke of Albemarle’s voice brushed against her cheek.

Someone should forbid a male from using his tone, both authoritative and husky. It scrambled a ballerina's thoughts. His cuffs were rubies today, and the superbly cut wool greatcoat made him exquisitely well-dressed and gorgeously warm.

Helene forced a pleasant smile. “Your Grace, what a coincidence. Have you met my friend, Miss Celeste Dubois?”

The duke released Helene’s arm and bowed, suddenly all warmth and charm. “I’m pleased to meet one of Miss Beaumont’s friends. Do you have the same sharp wit as hers?”

Helene rolled her eyes at how fast he turned from tyrant to courteous beau. A thousand thoughts flared, most of them unsuitable for polite society.

Celeste peeked at him shyly. “I guess it is better to be a witty fool than a foolish wit.”

The duke lifted a brow, looking at Helene. “Foolery, madam, does walk about like the sun—it shines everywhere. We are all fools in someone’s eyes, are we not?” The quote from Twelfth Night slipped from his imperious lips like warm honey.

Helene restrained the urge to make faces at him. She, who had been independent and serious, taking care of herself and her friends since they arrived in London, wanted to reach out and muss up his hair, undo his neckcloth, and throw an eel inside his breeches just to see him squirm. Curse his hide for turning her into a petulant girl.

“Indeed, the line between the wise and the foolish is oft blurred by circumstance and pride.” Celeste beamed. “Enchantée.”

Helene watched the exchange, regretting her choice of a second. But how could she have known the tyrant would charm Celeste? Helene should have brought Louise.

“Two bundles a penny, primroses! Sweet violets, penny a bunch!” A flower girl screamed, piercing Helene’s eardrums.

“Are you used to this place, Miss Dubois?” the duke asked, smiling, his voice dripping molasses.

Celeste laughed. “What, here? We never have the time—”

Helene pinched Celeste’s arm.

“We are habitués, aren’t we, dear? This is our natural habitat, our watering hole, luv. If you can’t stand the gin in our breaths, then you came to the wrong place,” Helene declaimed in her best Toby Belch voice and cringed at her attempt to imitate cockney assent.

The duke leaned close to her ear. “I never scented spirits in you, Little One. I will taste you again. To be sure.”

Her breath caught. His tone was velvet-wrapped sin, and it did impossible things to her knees. Whatever challenge she put before him, he cleared it—a muscular, gorgeous, overly arrogant thoroughbred—and somehow used it to his own advantage.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The crowd thickened, and they had to shift to the side. A group of street urchins sped past them, brandishing turnips and tomatoes.

The duke tensed, his voice losing the playful edge. “We will leave now. Something isn’t right.”

“You can certainly leave if this is too much for you. Celeste and I are perfectly used to some shouting.”

Celeste huddled closer to the duke, her face blanching.

A flushed runner passed them, baton at the ready.

The duke called to him. “What is happening?”

“It’s the cart transporting mollies to the pillory.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder until a pressing throng surged around them.

The prisoner’s wagon rattled into view.

Celeste held Helene's hand. “This is very midsummer madness. And in the middle of winter, no less.”

The duke became stiff by Helene’s side, his arm pulling her closer to him. Throat dry and rasping, Helene stared at the gruesome image. Two prisoners shook atop the cart—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, his threadbare clothes hinting at a once-respectable attire now reduced to tatters. Beside him, a younger one stood defiantly.

As the crowd’s jeers became a frenzied roar, a wave of bodies surged forward, pressing against the cart with reckless force.

Her gaze turned to the duke, and she grabbed his coat’s sleeve. “Are these the laws keeping society’s fabric intact? Why treat a man this way because he pursues his passion?”

“Society must uphold its morals. Such punishments deter behaviors deemed unnatural.” He spoke the words in a passionless staccato as if they had been ingrained in him.

Helene sucked in a breath. “You don’t believe that. You cannot believe that.”

The cart teetered and then toppled over, spilling the prisoners onto the cobblestones.

The crowd—a pack of frenzied wolves—descended upon the poor souls. Rotten vegetables and vile insults flew, striking the men with sickening thuds. Their desperate cries mingled with the jeers, creating a cacophony of human malice. Helene could scarcely breathe, her feet rooted in place. The sheer brutality of the scene—the inhumanity—left her aghast.

“Do something! The Silent Sovereign should do something.”

William’s expression became thunderous. “Yes, he should, and he will—get you out of here.”

He caught her arm and Celeste’s, pulling them away from the fray.

But the shouts—so loud, so full of hate—fractured something inside her. Flashes slammed into her—a different street, a different crowd, the thundering rhythm of the Carmagnole blaring as her father was dragged away. Cold sweat drenched her temples.

That had been then. These were not her people.

No one had saved her father. No one had stood between him and the mob.

Twisting free of the duke’s grip, she surged toward the cart.

She barely heard him shout her name. Her legs trembled, breath ragged, but she pushed through the crush of bodies. A cabbage struck the prisoner’s face. Laughter exploded around her.

Not again, her mind screamed. Not again.

Just as the Horse Guards burst into the chaos, iron hooves clanged against the cobbles like war drums. Screams swelled. A stallion surged toward her—a wall of muscle and fury, its nostrils flaring, eyes wild.

Helene stepped in front of the younger prisoner.

The world blurred. Her pulse roared in her ears.

The guard raised his whip—high, merciless, gleaming in the smoky light.

She braced for the blow, arms curling over her head.

Out of the chaos, a shield appeared. The duke moved like a soldier charging into cannon fire, thrusting himself between her and the oncoming blow.

The whip struck him square across the shoulder.

The impact sent him staggering. He tumbled off the curb, crashing to the ground.

Helene shrieked. The crowd vanished. The prisoners, the guards, the riot—it all blurred. The Duke of Albemarle was down. Because of her. She had orchestrated this entire spectacle—and now he bled for it.

Like a column of stone, he forced himself upright, jaw clenched, coat hanging from one shoulder. His gaze locked on the guard still astride his horse.

“You will return the prisoners to Newgate,” he barked, voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And the pillory ends now.”

The guard hesitated. “Orders came from—”

“Obey,” the duke growled. “Or I will ensure His Royal Highness the Duke of York hears precisely why his cavalry refused the command of the Duke of Albemarle.”

The man’s face paled. With a stiff nod, he turned his horse and began shouting orders to the others.

Helene darted to William’s side. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, though his breathing was shallow, and blood already soaked his sleeve. “You cannot stay here. We need to get off the street.”

Helene slipped her arm around his waist to steady him. “My building—it’s close.”

***

William held the old railings and dragged his weight up Helene’s interminable stairs. His head had stopped bleeding, and only a dull ache on his flank remained. Helene led the way, her arm circling Miss Dubois’ shoulder. The silence suited him. If he had to speak, he would betray the anger in his voice. He was angry at her for putting herself at risk, angry at that soldier, angry at himself for allowing her to bring havoc into his life.

The shouting from the streets followed them up to her floor. Helene opened the door without a key. Why didn’t she have a lock? Did she sleep here every night, unprotected? Her rosemary scent lingered in the dark space. William narrowed his eyes, trying to take in her home.

This was where she went when she wasn’t haunting his thoughts. What would he find? A courtesan’s abode, filled with gifts from her patrons? The courtesans he had visited displayed such tokens like trophies, price statements—another tool for negotiation. Still, his hands clenched at the thought of Helene’s other admirers.

She raced to kindle an oil lamp. The meager light revealed simple furnishings—an iron railing bed, no doubt the composer of groans and squeaks, and a well-worn leather armchair by a small stove. Set against the forest green wall, the window was the apartment’s focal point. The glass would offer a panoramic view of bustling streets and distant rooftops. William touched the homespun cushions covering the window seat and leafed through the heavy tome sprawled nearby. Shakespeare’s complete plays. Why wasn’t he surprised? Comfortable slippers awaited their owner’s talented feet, adding a touch of homely disarray to the cozy nook.

William swept his eyes over the surfaces and couldn’t find a single bauble. Was it possible that when she was not haunting him, she didn’t go to a fairy limbo, as he had suspected, nor did she haunt other men’s beds? She came home to embroider curtains out of old costumes and read. This—this country cottage made her too real. Not a courtesan and not the sprite, but a girl who kept stunning him at every turn.

Helene rushed to straighten the books, avoiding direct eye contact with him.

Gunfire sounded outside, and Helene jumped. William crossed his arms over his chest. She could’ve died today. And he would’ve been powerless to avoid it.

“I think we all deserve a cup of tea,” Miss Dubois said, her tone brittle, and left, presumably to the kitchen.

Helene asked him to sit and moved about, collecting supplies.

The screams again. Insults and hollered profanities invaded Helene’s home. William’s head dropped back, and he pressed his temples. The prisoners were not his responsibility. The buggery act was from the sixteenth century—not of his making. Those men had pursued their passion and now would face the consequences. Why couldn’t he shake their horrified faces from his mind? He told himself it was because of Helene. The turmoil she brought into his life. Seeing her about to be hurt…

William caught the chain in his pocket and pressed the links, controlling his breathing. The worst of the event had been the regiment attacking the civilians. Yes. Something within his power to change. He saw in that soldier’s eyes, before the strike, the danger of allowing passions to run unfettered. Of the lack of control. Had he not learned to curb the same impulses in himself? Tomorrow, he would meet the committee. Cavendish had to reprimand the Horse Guards.

Carrying a basket of medical supplies, Helene knelt beside him. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes darted to meet his. William’s breath caught, his heart accelerating. Before him, in the shape of this girl, stood the wick of his inner fire. When would he put an end to this dangerous attraction?

Helene unfolded a linen cloth and dipped it into a basin. As she dabbed at the wound on his temple, the chill made his skin tingle, distracting the pain’s dull throb. William didn’t mind the discomfort, focusing on how her touch lingered longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the connection.

“I don’t think it will scar. Can I tend to the other, please?” Her voice was tremulous as she pointed to his waist.

“I didn’t know they taught nursing skills at ballet school.”

She placed her hand over his leg, her gaze pleading. “I saw when you hit the curb. Please. It’s the least I can do.”

William crossed his leg, dislodging her touch. “You’ve done enough.”

Her chin dropped to her chest. “I know.”

A shadow of pain passed over her lovely face, and her lips parted as if to say more, but then closed.

William rose. With brisk gestures, he unbuttoned his tailored coat and set it aside, then he loosened and removed the neckcloth. The waistcoat followed. He stood before her in his linen shirt. Few, if any, had ever seen him in this state of undress.

She sat on her haunches, her eyes traveling across the expanse of his torso.

His gaze flickered to the kitchen, but Miss Dubois seemed absorbed in her task, her back turned to them.

Panting, he unfastened the shirt from the waist, and rolled the fabric upward, exposing the purple bruise below his right ribs.

Helene sucked in a breath.

“It’s nothing.” His voice came out hoarse.

Why must she care now when he was trying so hard not to? So far, she had been the sprite, beguiling and bewitching him, then flying away, fighting him at every turn. How was he supposed to react to this new Helene? It stirred things inside him better left dormant.

Helene retrieved a tin and opened it to reveal a homemade salve. With the tip of her fingers, she scooped out a small amount.

“What is that?”

“My personal receipt for sore muscles. Camphor and rosemary oil with beeswax. Should help ease the pain. May I?”

William nodded reluctantly.

As her hand approached his bruise, William tensed, anticipating the contact. When she applied the pomade to his flank, he exhaled, closing his eyes tightly. Pain mingled with a surge of desire so strong it left him lightheaded. He was glad for the pain. Otherwise, he would have pulled her onto his lap and kissed her to Morpheus’ realm and back.

Gently, she spread the salve over the bruise, her fingers moving in circular motions. Her signature scent of rosemary enveloped him, weaving through his senses. So this was the origin of her smell, a salve for her tired muscles, not to beguile but to soothe.

The riot still raged outside, and if he were not careful, so would the storm inside his chest. The heat of the camphor contrasted with the gentle coolness of her touch, and William exhaled, wanting to squeeze every drop of sensation from her care.

When her hands traveled from his ribs to his front, her face inches from his hips, he stiffened.

“Are you done?”

She nodded briskly and moved away from him.

While she stored her medical supplies, William dressed and went to the window. It was pitch dark, but he could make out movement in the street below. The tumult was dying down.

“I will leave you to your rest. I advise you not to step out of this apartment tonight.”

“No!” Helene’s voice was sharp, tinged with an edge of panic. “No, please. Stay the night. It is not safe to walk the streets. I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you.”

He set his jaw, his gaze avoiding hers. His legs were restless. He needed distance to regain control over himself. Staying was a risk to his sanity.

A crash reverberated outside her door.

Miss Dubois screamed, covering her mouth.

William cursed under his breath. How could he leave these women to spend the night here without a lock?

William nodded.

Miss Dubois nearly swooned, her relief apparent. Helene offered a grateful smile, her eyes meeting his.

She flitted about the garret, collecting pillows and blankets. “You can have the bed, and Celeste and I will sleep on the floor. We do that often when we are on tour.”

“You two share the bed. I’ll have the chair.” His voice invited no arguments.

He doubted he could sleep, anyway. William turned the old armchair to the door so he could keep watch.

He sprawled, his legs stretching before him. Crossing his arms, he shut his eyes. He could hear Helene and Miss Dubois fussing, whispering, settling for the night. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the armrest.

The bed creaked a broken symphony and then silence.

Long moments passed. Alert, William opened his eyes to a darkened apartment. His forehead stung, his side burned. The sounds of the building were strange to him. How had he ended up sleeping in Soho with no lock on the door?

The squeak again. William stiffened. Helene rose and, on silent feet, padded close. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watched her approach.

She placed a cover over him, leaning forward to reach his shoulder. Her divine hair brushed against his chest. Humming softly, she smoothed the wool. William held his breath, wishing to see her expression in the dim light.

His body relaxed under the blanket despite himself. Even awake, she haunted him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“I was cold.”

“And you gave me a blanket?”

“I thought you’d be colder sleeping here in the chair. It’s too close to the window, and I—” Her chin trembled, and she rubbed her nose furiously.

Sometimes, he wished he couldn’t read people so well. The only light source was the yellowish London night sky, but he knew. She was reliving the violence, and she was afraid. A creature of air and music should be shielded from harshness. If there were a deity who protected sprites, she should reclaim them the moment mankind mistreated them.

We don’t deserve them.

The sight of her, so frail and translucent, pained him. But it wasn’t like the dull throb in his side or the sting in his forehead. Sentient, alive, this pain sluiced through his veins, yearning to touch, to hold, to claim. The pain had a voice, a will of its own—it craved her.

He lifted the cover in silent invitation. The world outside faded to a murmur, every sound swallowed by the beating of his heart. Holding his breath, William waited for her.

She hesitated for a second, their knees touching. Part of him feared she would never arrive. When she climbed atop his lap, William exhaled all the air in his lungs, and the tension of the day, of a life, left him, like sand slipping through a broken hourglass. Until now, he had no conscience of how much he needed this—Helene coming to him of her own free will.

He quickly covered them with the blanket. Her limbs were icy cold. He rubbed her shoulders and rubbed her back, rubbed wherever he could reach.

“I’m sorry you were hurt. It was my fault.”

William kissed the top of her head. “I should have acted—”

She placed a cold finger over his lips. “No, I shouldn’t have asked it of you. I was shocked, and it was not your fault.”

He needed no absolution, but how good it felt. “Go to sleep now, Little One.”

She leaned into him, her body relaxing as a deep sigh escaped her chest. Their necks became intimate when she brushed her nose through his hair. Byron, Dante, and Wordsworth combined would fail to describe the bliss of her weight atop him. A profound sense of contentment spread over him as he circled his arms around her. Inside the blanket, they generated their own warmth—a tropical island within the chilled garret, the chilled London.

He rather liked it. Too much.

Her fingertips drew a circle over his chest once, twice, and then she slept.

He inhaled her musky scent, brushed his chin against her hair, and closed his eyes. He was spending the night in a garret without a lock, and a sprite had lodged herself in his heart. Yet, he felt richer than he had ever dreamed possible.

***

When dawn invaded the room, William woke up. His feet were icy and dormant, but his chest was on fire. He had never been more rested. No dreams.

In the milky light, the bundle atop him ceased to be a creature of warmth and undefined shapes to be a woman with detailed nuances. Long legs intertwined his, shapely arms brushing against his, a weight he could grow accustomed to, a face that could charm poets and stoics alike.

Helene nuzzled his chest, her mouth parted in a moan. William brushed the hair from her forehead. What was she dreaming of? He would give his entire estate to possess her power—become Morpheus and step into her dream realm. If he could invade her dreams, he would tease her relentlessly. He would pursue her in her secret meadow, using his magic to strip away her clothes. With a day-old beard, he would rub his chin beneath her breasts, along the underside of her thighs, discovering all the places she was ticklish until his sweet torture left her breathless with laughter. He would roll with her in turbulent lakes and make love to her atop clouds. He would lay claim to every inch of her glen until the very earth was spent.

All the blood in his veins migrated to his erection. Helene purred and shifted, now straddling his lap. The camisole rode high on her hips. Her hands delved inside his coat, and she brushed her cheek against his chest.

Placing his hands over her thighs, he skimmed his palms upwards, an achingly slow exploration that only halted when he arrived at the curve of her buttocks. She shuddered under his touch, and he caressed the dividing line, marking his territory, and he vowed to know each relief of her body like he knew the rolling hills behind his childhood home.

Her muscles were taut, even at rest, and she pressed closer, her heat brushing against his cock. William inhaled sharply. If he but freed his erection, he could be inside her at last. He would remove the coarse flannel and feel her fair skin against him, caress her spine, and know her intimately. He would grind and thrust and kiss her until she moaned in pleasure.

Her eyes moved rapidly underneath the lids. Restless, she whimpered. Was she having a nightmare?

She buried her face in his neck. “Non, Maman, Non,”

William froze, cursing under his breath. She was amid childish dreams, and he had been about to ravish her.

A snore reminded him of Miss Dubois, sound asleep in the bed. A groan escaped his chest. When had he become a villain? Disgusted with himself, he rose, lifting Helene in his arms, and placed her atop the mattress.

He tucked the blanket around her, securing it snugly. Sunlight filtered through the milky glass, softening her skin in a gentle glow. A strand of hair brushed her cheek, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with her breaths. For a moment, he simply watched her, seeing beyond the poised dancer and spirited debater. In the dawn's light, she seemed celestial—more angel than sprite.

There were faint shadows under the fan of her lashes—signs of the hidden burdens she carried.

Why won’t you let me take care of you?

She grabbed his hand with surprising strength, her slanted eyes piercing his. “Do you have to leave?”

“Hush, Little One. It’s morning already. I will send my valet to fix your lock. He is trustworthy.”

She yawned. “Must I remind you I don’t receive gifts?”

“This is not a gift. It’s my condition for you to keep residing here. Do you relish trying my patience?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her perfect ear and gazed at him from under her lashes. “Do you relish being a tyrant?”

He frowned at her, baffled. A tyrant? He had sworn above the Magna Carta. Sometimes, he simply could not understand her. “Do you relish being obtuse?”

“I relish my freedom. At the theater, my body is not my own. Outside the stage, I don’t like to be ordered, cornered, or pressured.” She exhaled. “Would you mind asking what I want for a change?”

“If I ask, will you give me what I want?”

Sighing, she stretched her arms above her head. “No, but there is a tiny chance that I might consider it.”

She was thawing already. William grinned, and bending down, kissed her mouth. A chaste peck, and then he straightened. His dealings were straightforward—he ordered and people obeyed—but… “I’ll see what I can do.”

Startled, she touched her lips. Then her gaze flicked to his temple, and her shoulders deflated. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”

Quick to temper and quick to repent. Her list of positive traits felt endless. Other men might feel daunted. Not him. He would make her every nuance his object of study.

“Just be safe.” Midway to the door, he turned.

She was following him with her gaze.

“Helene.”

“Hmm?”

“What do you dream of?”

“My past in France. Flashes of it, pieces of it. Running feet on the grass. Arms enveloping in warmth, lilies, so many lilies. My mother loved them. Those are the dreams. The nightmares…”

William frowned. “The nightmares?”

She grimaced and glanced away. “What do you dream of, monsieur le Duc?”

You. I dream of you, Little One.

“Tyrants don’t dream.”

***

Unable to stand still, Helene cleaned and polished the floor to an inch of its life. The mere thought of the night spent in William’s lap induced a frenzy of heat in her rebellious body. Why couldn’t she control it anymore? She needed to vow to stop thinking about him—and truly mean it this time. No more keeping thoughts of him like a forbidden treat tucked away, ready to savor whenever she pleased.

Why had she lured him into Covent Garden? She couldn’t have anticipated the horrid scene, now, could she? Still, spending time with him had been a mistake. Who would’ve thought that he could be charming, caring, protective? And an infinite source of heat.

She shouldn’t have demanded he be less autocratic… If he obliged her—if he stopped doing the one thing that ignited her temper—how would she protect herself from him? Two weeks until opening night. She was so close to fulfilling her dream. A prima ballerina could not afford the living the duke offered.

Helene attacked the rug with her broom. “Tyrant.”

Like King Leontes from The Winter’s Tale , he would soon infuriate her with his despotism. Why, he might sweep her away to a secluded tower and decree she performed an entire ballet for his private amusement. Heat spread through her chest as she imagined his stormy eyes watching her every move, commanding her, and desire pooled in the part of her he had so viciously awakened.

Lost in the ridiculous fantasy, she didn’t hear the knock at first. But the sharp sound made her jump. The streets were quiet… If the Duke of Albemarle stood on the other side of that door…

She would club him over the head.

With grace, of course.

She peered at her reflection in the mirror. After cleaning a smudge from her cheek and smoothing her hair, she opened the door. A man in his fifties, dressed in the formal clothes of a servant, waited outside. In one hand, he held a basket filled with croissants, in the other, a toolbox.

“Girl, is this Miss Beaumont’s residence?”

Helene removed the kerchief from her head. “I am Miss Beaumont,”

“I’m sorry." He blushed fiercely. "I never witnessed one of His Grace’s mistresses doing housework.”

Mistresses in the plural? How many women did the tyrant have? “I don’t count myself as a dweller of his seraglio. Thank heavens for that.”

“I meant no disrespect. His Grace’s mistresses enjoy several privileges. He is generous and doesn’t spare resources to show his affection.”

“I don’t think affections can be quantified. All you see here, no matter how humble, was earned by my work.”

“Shall we start over?” the man said with a bow that nearly brushed the floor. “Baines, valet to the Duke of Albemarle, at your service. I brought you breakfast, and I’ll get that lock fixed in no time.”

Helene eyed the basket warily. Her stomach, however, betrayed her with a loud growl. She accepted a warm croissant, golden and flaking at the edges.

“These are delicious. How did you know I was starving?”

“His Grace instructed the chef to bake them for you, Miss Beaumont. He also said to tell you that you are too thin, and you must eat them all. I’m inclined to agree, if I may be so bold.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. Too thin? How dare he.

There he was again—His Majesty King Leontes—issuing royal decrees about her waistline.

She shoved the basket aside and attacked the floor with renewed vigor.

The valet looked at her inquisitively.

Helene brushed her hair out of her forehead. “Is there something wrong?”

He shook himself. “I beg your pardon, Miss Beaumont. I will get to work right away.”

Helene watched Baines as he crouched beside the door, tools clicking softly as he worked on the lock. What manner of employer was the duke? She could picture him now, a martinet of the highest order.

“How long have you served His Grace?” she asked, sweeping in slow arcs around the rug’s edge.

“I served the late duke first,” Baines replied without looking up. “When he passed, the son returned from the Navy a war hero—and kept me on.”

“A war hero?” Her broom faltered midstroke.

“He rescued a ship of prisoners and saved an entire village from bombardment. His bravery and loyalty were legion.”

Helene sighed, the sound barely more than breath as she caressed the rug with the broom. The duke in uniform... red coat setting off those storm-cloud eyes, brass buttons gleaming on his broad chest. But then she stiffened. No doubt those medals had been earned fighting her own countrymen.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she said, “He must keep you quite busy. Does he give you any time to rest, or are you always running about at his bidding?”

Baines chuckled. “He’s demanding, that’s true. But I’ve no reason to complain.”

“He must’ve been spoiled as a boy.”

“Quite the opposite.” Baines’s tone dipped. “His father was... rigid, if you’ll pardon the understatement. And the duchess left when he was just a lad—” He cut himself off with a sharp breath. “Forgive me. I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t speak of his family.”

His mother left by her own free will? Against her better judgment, Helene pictured a younger version of His Grace alone in a vast estate. No wonder he was always brooding.

Helene rested her chin atop the broom’s handle. “He must be hard to please.”

“Not at all, Miss Beaumont.” Baines winked. “You have no reason to be worried.”

Heat invaded her chest, making her cheeks burn. “So, this is what you do, then? You visit women His Grace is interested in? Does he have plenty of them?”

He laughed, his belly shaking with mirth. “This is the first time I come to a young lady’s house to fix her lock. I’m all set here.” He cleaned his hands in his trousers and stood, dropping a sheet on the floor.

Helene bent to pick it up.

“Ignore this rubbish, Miss Beaumont. These are just some verses I scrawl now and then. Please don’t bother your pretty head over them. Nobody else does.”

“I love poetry. May I?”

He bowed. “Of course.”

Helene read the lines and lowered the paper.

“Terrible, ain’t it?”

“Can I give you my honest opinion?”

“If you may, miss.”

“I love the sentiment. I love you didn’t contain the passion. Still, you are trying to sound like someone you are not. Why don’t you throw away the fancy words? Write in your own voice. Your passion will resonate with others who have had your experiences.”

Baines accepted the paper and gazed at her. “Passion, you say?”

Helene smiled. “Is there any other way to live?”

His demeanor shifted. There was an uncomfortable solemnity now. “You know what, Miss Beaumont? You are just what His Grace needs.”

Helene blushed and covered her discomfort with a startled laugh. “You should leave all this passion for poetry.”

Helene watched Baines pack away his tools, his earlier words echoing in her mind.

He gave her the key to her new lock and, after a last glance at her, stepped out of her garret.

She was about to close the door when he pivoted back.

“I was almost forgetting. His Grace asked if he might go to the theater this afternoon. To watch your rehearsal.”

Helene paused, twisting the key in her hands. The duke was a high-handed aristocrat, a tyrant. Why would he ask her? That was an act of respect, not dominance.

“Are you sure this is what he said? Your employer owns the theater. He doesn’t need my blessing.”

“He was quite insistent.”

Helene stepped back. “You don’t mean that. Certainly you don’t.”

"I may be getting old, Miss Beaumont,” Baines said, “but I can still tell a beautiful woman from a plain one. And I can still remember a message.” He met her eyes. “His Grace asks your permission to attend your rehearsal—and he kindly expects your answer.”