Page 17

T hree weeks later…

When Helene fell skillfully to the floor—a dead Sylph—the applause from the company resounded inside her chest. The long days of rehearsals reached an end. La Sylphide was in her bloodstream, in her bones. Helene arose with her and worked with her and dreamed about her. She was ready for her debut.

Langley pulled her to her feet. Smiling, he kissed her cheek. “Well done, dear, well done. Everyone, take a rest. Tomorrow, I want you here at four o’clock.”

As the corps and principals left the stage, Sophie passed by, bumping her shoulder. “Well done, perfect ballerina,” she smiled sweetly. “You dance beautifully, but how long will you keep the part without the Duke of Albemarle’s favor?"

Suddenly tired, Helene watched her former friend leave.

Louise caught her hand. “The snake is jealous of your success.”

Helene’s gaze drifted past the empty seats to Verón, a lone figure in the shadows. William had vanished after playing for her. She should be grateful, shouldn’t she? That he’d left her alone. Yet after those moments they shared, how could he stay away? Her cheeks heated as she recalled her boldness, kissing his lips... But she’d been swept up in the moment. She’d never danced like that before. And his music? What she saw in his troubled eyes was a passion for art that mirrored her own.

Louise linked her arm through Helene’s. “Come, let’s go to the cafe and get our friend her favorite pastry.”

Celeste clapped her hands. “Can we get a chocolate croissant?”

Helene forced a smile. “You two savor one for me. I need to do something.”

As dusk gave way to the glow of Grosvenor Square gas lamps, Helene stood on the frostbitten pavement, staring at the facade of the duke’s townhouse. The February chill seeped through her cloak, and her breaths appeared and disappeared as fleeting wisps of fog.

The windows caught the fading daylight. With its obnoxious brass fittings, the front door glared at her—a dour guardian of the wealth and secrets within.

What was she doing here? A foreign intruder, a visitor from another world.

Pulling her coat closer, she turned to leave.

“Miss Beaumont?” Baines’ voice startled her. “May I assist you?”

Helene crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I was just admiring this…this impressive mountain of bricks.”

“Shall I inform His Grace of your presence?”

Helene shrugged, ridiculously on the verge of tears.

Baines caught her arm, his expression a mixture of concern and disgruntlement. “There now. I will take you out of the cold.”

Instead of entering the house, he guided her over the corner to Park Lane and, after looking at both sides, opened a door built conspicuously into the wall.

They entered a vestibule, well appointed with gilded ornaments and velvet upholsteries.

Shivering, she drifted to the fireplace. “What is this place?”

Baines blushed, his gaze hopping everywhere but at her. “His Grace will be with you momentarily.”

After bowing three times, he left through an inner door, leaving her alone.

Helene wandered through the room, her fingers brushing over objects too garish to suit the Silent Sovereign. The opulent decorations, the separate entrance... This was where he entertained his assignations. Was she just another fleeting amusement to him? A nauseating pain pierced her chest—the bite of Othello’s green-eyed monster. It served her right for coming here. What had she hoped to achieve?

The door opened, revealing the Duke of Albemarle in all his polished glory.

Her pulse quickened. His sharp profile caught the light, each line impossibly elegant. His mahogany hair brushed the lapels of his gray coat—he looked like he’d been carved from restraint. How many days had passed since he’d played for her? Since she’d seen the man beneath the duke?

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Miss Beaumont. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Monsieur le Duc, how kind of you to receive me.” She made a graceful curtsy. “This was the place you invited me to the other day, wasn’t it? I commend you on the practicality.”

He frowned, gazing at a nude statue as if embarrassed by the lack of clothes. “My father built it.”

Helene lifted her brows. “So lechery is hereditary?”

His jaw tightened. “After my mother left, he took a mistress. They were together for years. The apartment was… convenient.”

Helene regretted her careless words and took a step closer to him.

“But I don’t believe you came to discuss architecture." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "May I be of assistance?”

“I wanted to update you on your theater investment, of course.”

“I didn’t realize Verón had appointed an intermediate.”

Helene lifted a shoulder. “Oh, it was all so sudden, but you know how these capitalist things go. I would have been spared this trouble if you had gone to the rehearsals…”

He exhaled, and the barest flint of emotion crossed his eyes. “Helene, I’ve been busy—”

“If you cared enough to check, you would see that I rose to the part. And I’m certain I would make even the most anti-reformist landowners of aristocrats proud.” Her chin trembled, and the last word came out strained. “Aren’t you surprised?”

“Not at all. I trusted you from the beginning.” His voice softened, and he caught her hand in his. “Your career is so promising. Nothing should interfere.”

Helene sucked in a breath, pulling away from him. “Not even you? Is that what you are trying to tell me? That you are so noble you invaded my life, and now you are leaving it to protect me?” She hated how her voice sounded—bitter, grating, needy.

“Helene—” He exhaled, lifting his hand as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall. “Some paths, however tempting, lead us astray.”

His jaw tightened, and his gaze shuttered, as if he were donning a mask.

It felt like a door had been shut in her face. A hollow ache settled in her chest, as if something precious had been lost. What treasures lay on the other side? She would never know, would she?

Her chin trembled. She should leave. He would keep his distance. Isn’t that what she had wanted? Tomorrow, she would become La Sylphide. Tomorrow, she might become a star. Then why did it sound so discordant?

“Didn’t it mean anything to you? When you played for me?” Her voice quivered.

He grabbed her arm and, with a swift pull, yanked her closer. The sudden force sent a shiver through her, her breath catching in her throat. Their gazes locked, the air between them thick with strained notes. His eyes shifted, the icy indifference melting into liquid turmoil. In the stormy depths, she saw it again—the blue flame of resentment flickering beneath the surface, threatening to consume her if she got too close.

She shouldn’t have come.

He was right. Some melodies, however beautiful, should be left unfinished.

A sharp knock shattered the moment.

He turned, voice rasping. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”

But the instant his back turned, she fled.