Page 19

D ance. Kiss. Dance. Kiss. William’s heart beat in time with the rhythm as he meshed his lips with Helene’s. He had tried to deny this attraction. After spending the past nights grappling with the loss of his Sylph, he’d had enough. He pulled away to unbutton her coat. The wool was no protection against London’s cold. Tomorrow, he would buy her furs.

The coarse cloth parted to reveal a tulle skirt and a white bodice—La Sylphide’s costume. His heart thundered. This was too real, too close to the dreams.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the Sylph dead. He had known that La Sylphide would die at the ballet’s end. Still, seeing her lifeless, killed by James’ lust... The silence of the auditorium, the light fading from her body. If William unleashed his passion, turning it from platonic to real, would Helene vanish, too?

“You didn’t change from the stage clothes.”

She pulled her hair to the side. “Would you help me out of them?”

Her smile—and, above all, her eyes—were naked in their desire. She wanted him. And if that couldn’t chase away the lingering darkness, nothing could.

With his fingertip, he followed the silver thread glinting in the wing’s mesh, as if tracing starlight. Gently, he unstrapped them and set them atop her vanity. Then his hands moved to the tiny clasps of her bodice. One by one, he undid them, pressing a kiss to the revealed skin between each, as if her back were a sacred scroll to be read in touch.

Every inch held a promise. A marvel. A masterpiece.

When the tulle finally slid down her legs in a whisper, pooling at her calves, she leaped out of it. Not a woman, but a being from myth.

William turned her to face him.

With only her white pantalets clinging to her hips, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I fear France did not bless me with English curves.”

He stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her like a monarch assessing a conquered realm.

“Only tyrants are allowed to judge a nation’s blessings.”

With a sigh, she let go, revealing two pert breasts crowned by rose-colored nipples. William fanned her hair over her round shoulders and caressed the perfect mounds.

William’s mouth went dry.

“Helene,” he breathed.

She smiled shyly, as if fighting not to cover herself again. “Kiss me more.”

William kissed her nipple. She gasped.

He grinned. “You didn’t specify where. A negotiation secret—always be specific.”

Smiling at her exasperated breath, he drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking her with long pulls, savoring her rosemary taste.

From the apartment wall, string notes drifted into the room—playful, urgent, full of crescendos.

“Don’t tell me Miss Dubois is hiding somewhere, playing the violin,” William asked between kisses.

“My neighbor. He’s preparing for his audition at the Royal Academy. I can knock if it bothers you.”

“And forego the background music? Let him play away.”

William whirled her in his arms. Their own private waltz. They moved together, each caress timed with the lilting melody. Helene arched into him, spine bending in a swoon-like motion, and his erection throbbed against her midsection.

The melody soared, and he matched it with open-mouthed kisses across her skin—her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. A man could live in her kiss and die content. Her lips were soft, warm, alive. He kissed them. He nibbled and licked them. He cherished, tasted, devoured them—like a soldier starved of all sweetness, finally breaking his winter fast.

She cupped his cheeks, and drawing him in, sucked his tongue into her mouth with a boldness that stole his breath.

William pulled back, stunned.

“I’m sorry, I—”

Before she could finish, he let out a breath that was half laugh, half gasp, and lifted her into his arms.

Joy—raw, sudden, young—burst through him. He spun her. The room tilted with them, her breathless laughter spiraling into the air.

Keeping her high in his arms, he halted. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and brushed against his forearms. Candlelight glowed on her skin, highlighting the delicate lines of her face and neck. Her fathomless eyes shone, pulling him.

“Are you real?” he whispered, voice rough. “If I love you now, will you leave?”

She tilted her head, as if listening to music only she could hear, and then looked back at him with an aching softness. “I’ll stay for this dance.”

It was a beginning. He was not known as Silent Sovereign for missing negotiations. And if that failed… He would make sure this dance lasted.

William lifted her as if she were spun from mist and moonlight. The room blurred, the walls fading until there was only the hush of her breath and the heat of her curves against his chest.

He burned to possess her like a savage, yet he laid her down as one might place a star upon velvet. A star that made his blood boil. He would have her. His heart pounded, a passion that threatened to overrule all else.

His cock was painfully hard, throbbing with every heartbeat, and William fisted his hands by his sides.

If he touched her like this—as a man possessed—she might vanish.

She didn’t need obsession. She deserved devotion.

Then she would stay.

By God, he would go slow. The beast could not touch the Sylph.

When he lowered himself to the bed by her side, he had the desire in a tight leash.

She stretched her arms and kicked her legs, suddenly playful, but when he touched her hip, her gaze flickered to his, noting his reactions. As if unsure of her beauty.

Didn’t she know how gorgeous she was? A Greek statue made flesh, the living form of his most intimate fantasy.

The moon chose that moment to invade the garret’s dusty glass panes, making her skin glow.

“Sylph’s dust?” he asked, his voice husky with wonder.

She smiled shyly. “It is just pearl powder.”

Just powder? To him, it was proof that dreams came true.

William spread the powder over her damp skin, painting her collarbone. Slowly, he circled her right breast, then the left as if casting a spell, and his breath caught every time her nipple pebbled under his fingers.

Leaning over her, he smoothed the dust down her ribs and over her belly, his fingertips sinking into the hollow of her abdomen. Tiny shivers rippled under his touch—like sparks dancing across silk.

She laughed. “Who knew the Silent Sovereign was a painter?”

Silent indeed. He didn’t trust his voice to answer. If he spoke, he might beg.

Instead, he traced a line from the point of her chin, down the elegant column of her throat, across her sternum—pausing to tease the hollow between her breasts. He continued down, passing over her stomach, until he reached the waistband of her pantalets.

There, he paused.

With one hand, he tugged at the satin ribbon.

Her breath caught. Her gaze locked onto his—vulnerable, searching, wanting.

“All of you,” he murmured, “deserves to shine.”

Helene laughed nervously. “I didn’t know you had a democratic streak.”

“I don’t.”

She was his only goddess. The rest could wither in hell.

And his sole goal now was to worship her.

He peeled away the cotton, exposing her mound of Venus.

The skin was nude, like in a classical painting. His eyes shot to her.

Blushing, she bit her lip. “La Sylphide does not have body hair.”

Her legs were closed, and her mound tapered down in a perfect v shape. William groaned, his breathing shallow.

As if to protect herself from his gaze, she bent her knees.

It was imperative that he saw all of her.

A soft moan escaped her as he spread glitter over her pubic bone. He drew swirling circles, inching closer to her entrance.

“Open for me, Helene,” William said, voice hoarse.

His knuckles whitened where they gripped the bed.

He caressed her thigh, and she opened an inch. La Sylphide had the most alluring sex in human and mythological creation.

His mouth watered. His vision tunneled. He forced himself to blink, to breathe.

Desire ripped through him like fire through silk.

William hooked his hand under her knee and tugged, spreading her wide. Her gasp was a delicious prelude. When he traced her swollen outer lips, they opened like the petals of an orchid promising midnight secrets.

Panting, she caught his wrist. “You will tease me again, like in the closet, and then—”

“That was cruel of me. Shh, Little One, I will give you release.”

William kneeled between her legs and gave in to the worship he had been aching to offer. Her scent intoxicated him. He nuzzled her opening and lavished her sex with his tongue.

“Oh, this is—Oh.”

She arched her back, offering herself to him. William wanted to howl to the moon.

Blowing warm air over her, he circled her bud and then took it between his lips, sucking at it greedily.

Her taste—he had glimpsed it in the theater, but now he gorged on it, lapping at her with abandon. She moaned, her legs closing around his shoulders. William made music to her sex, slowing down, worshipful, and then faster, forcefully.

Her cheeks flushed with color, and her skin glistened under the moonlight.

With a cry, she spent—her belly shuddering, a flush giving her pearly skin a rose tint.

Smiling, he gave her a last, slow lick.

“The moon…” She sighed, her face a study of bliss. “Is lovely indeed.”

She lay atop the mattress, lips parted as if dreaming. A sylph not vanquished but made more luminous because of the pleasure William had given her.

He stood at the edge of the bed, drinking her in. His cock was as hard as tempered steel. He had worshipped her. He had taken his time.

But now—God help him—he wanted to bury himself in her and lose himself in her dream.

The beast stirred.

No. He would not scare her. He would keep his lust at bay. He would earn every sigh, every shiver.

William opened his trousers, freeing his erection.

He traveled the expanse of her body, her dewy skin gliding against his shirt. Chest to chest, dream met flesh, and his pulse spiked. She gazed up at him, eyes moist and open, trust shimmering in their depths. He would have her—but not as a man overcome by lust.

The violin rose outside, its melody tightening like a bowstring. The whole room hummed with want.

His hand shook as he positioned her leg above his shoulder and guided his cock into her entrance. Poised above her, he flexed his knees. Her sheath took him—the head, then two inches. Hot. So tight.

She whimpered, her eyes shut.

William touched her damp eyelashes. “You said you would stay for this dance, Little One.”

“I didn’t know the partner would be so large.” She strained against him, her mouth opening in a silent moan. “Perhaps Sylphs are not made to fit Tyrants.”

She had been made for him. He just had to keep the beast chained.

With astonishing strength of will, William got his desire under control. Only then did he lower his weight to her. Murmuring endearments into her damp skin, he kissed her chin, her eyelids, her lips.

“Take me, Helene.” William licked her perspiring skin. “Let me take you to the moon again.”

She lay back, her legs relaxing. A powerful thrust, and he sheathed himself to the hilt.

It was as if he had divided reality in two.

Her channel pulsed around him, hot, moist. Pure bliss. Pleasure rippled through his nerve endings, his heart sending lava in his veins.

He stood still, hearing her panting breaths against his neck, and then worried her bottom lip between his teeth. “See how well the little Sylph fits the Tyrant?”

She huffed. “All I see is a cocky tyrant. Now what—”

He didn’t allow her to finish, penetrating her deeply. “Now we dance.”

She laced her arms around his neck. Their rhythm synced with the violin. He licked the candlelight reflected on her skin, and thrust, he inhaled the fragrance of her hair, and thrust, he tasted the nectar on her lips, and thrust, he burned in the moist heat of her sheath and thrust, thrust, thrust.

Like a faun claiming a nymph, he possessed her.

She was here, she was real, she was his.

Pulling her into the cradle of his hips, he surged deeper. She met him with a dancer’s grace, rolling her pelvis, building the fire between them.

His thrusts grew erratic. Desperate. The bedframe shook.

He had to rein it in. She was delicate.

William kissed her lips and her eyelids when he craved to bite, lick, and tongue her every inch.

The music changed—heavy, heaving, climbing with restless momentum. The violin trembled toward the climax.

He couldn’t hold on.

But she hadn’t come yet. He needed her to fall with him.

To come with his cock buried deep inside her. To taste this pleasure from him. To want only him.

Reaching between them, he circled her clitoris—stroking, flicking, coaxing. She mewled, her hands roaming his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Her cry came like lightning. She shuddered, her body tensing, then melting, and her sex clenched around his erection. William drank from her mouth, wanting to taste every ounce of her release. Then she lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes, her lips parting as she surrendered, her pussy milking him in the aftermath of her peak.

The lonely violin crashed into the coda.

William thrust once. Twice. And came, his seed pulsing out of him in long bursts. Panting, he collapsed over her, undone. The only music now was the soft sounds of their breathing.

He had her, Helene, his sprite. His heart wouldn’t calm down, but she was his.

She was still beneath him. Still glowing. Still here.

She hadn’t vanished.

She had stayed.

***

“You’re crushing me, Your Grace.”

Her throaty laughter tickled his neck.

William shifted onto his forearms. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, smiling up at him. “I heard the first time can be painful, but I felt only a pinch. I suppose ballerinas are stronger than most.”

First time? His breath caught and he pulled back.

“What?” he rasped.

His gaze dropped. Pearl powder smeared across her thighs. And blood.

Not a sylph. Not a fantasy. But a virgin.

His heart slammed into his ribs, and a sickening cold spread through his limbs.

She had been untouched. And he—he’d taken her. Roughly. Blindly. Without knowing.

He stumbled back from the bed.

She reached for him. “William?”

He flinched.

“Where are you going?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her brows lifted, stunned. “Why, you horrid Tyrant, why? Because I hadn’t allowed a man to stick his penis inside me before.”

“And you thought to mention it now?” His voice snapped like a whip, louder than he meant. “After? What happened to your sharp tongue?”

She hugged herself, her lips quivering. “You don’t have to worry about it, Your Grace. I don’t plan on ever speaking to you again.”

Rage clawed at his insides, aimless. He had crossed a line he hadn’t seen. The Duke of Albemarle didn’t make mistakes.

“Helene—“

“Take your flowers and leave,” she whispered. “Our dance is over.”

***

Fastening his clothes, William stumbled from her apartment, down the stairs, and into the cold Soho night.

The gelid air buffeted his face, muffling the ghostly echo of his footsteps. Somewhere behind him, a door shut with finality. He kept walking—past shuttered shops and lamp-lit windows, past tavern laughter and the distant screech of carriage wheels. The city slumbered around him, indifferent.

She had been untouched. He had stolen her virginity. What kind of man ruined a girl without noticing she was pure? His attempt to control himself was laughable at best and downright cruel at worst. Even keeping himself in check, he had been oblivious. What more signs did he need to see that the beast clawing at his ribs, tearing him apart, was dangerous?

He should have known. She had been so tight, her responses so fresh, so innocent.

William brushed his thumb against his forefinger, staring at Helene's fairy dust. He had been so afraid the Sylph would vanish. He had worshiped the Sylph—and in doing so, he had missed the girl. Not a spirit, but Helene. The sprite from his dreams had never allowed him close enough to do any damage… While Helene bled. Helene wept.

Helene looked at him with so much hurt in her eyes that his chest ached. Perhaps the sprite had been right to keep her distance.

As a boy, he had chased a butterfly once, back when life still allowed moments of wonder. He'd caught it. Touched the wings. Watched the shimmer rub off on his fingers.

After that, it couldn't fly.

Maturity hadn't changed him. He still chased fragile things, still ruining them with his touch.

The narrow lanes stretched endlessly, filthy tributaries leading to nowhere. A whore with her skirts hitched up asked for gin money. Another posed around the corner, staring at him with glassy eyes. William gazed away, his jaw set tight. He had initiated Helene into a life she might soon regret.

No. He would not leave it like this. He would provide for her. Make it right. She would sign the contract and never be destitute.

He turned on his heel and strode back to her building, up the stairs two at a time.

At her door, he paused. He had to make this right. She needed to know he would always take care of her.

Inside, the room had dimmed. Candles burned to puddles. The lilies drooped from their vases, petals curling like sleep. Silence reigned—a poor substitute for violin music, for her laughter, for her moans.

She lay above the counterpane, eyes closed, clutching a flower. The sight pierced him. What should he do? Intimacy had rarely been part of his life. He could forge alliances, negotiate treaties, command armies—but faced with her pain, all his achievements seemed hollow.

What use was a kingdom if he couldn't comfort one wounded girl?

Words of apology swam to the back of his throat but retreated. He wanted to vow he would never hurt her again—and if she still refused to see him, he would provide for her from a distance.

He approached quietly and poured water into the basin. Helene didn't speak. Didn't look at him. The sprite had been a dream, but Helene—Helene was real, and he had hurt her.

He sat beside her.

"I thought you had left," she whispered.

"Every road leads back to you, remember?"

Her hold on the flower tightened. "You should speak with the highway overseer to rectify this mistake. I'm sure he is under your authority."

William exhaled, wanting to reach out to her but unsure if she would welcome him. "You keep surprising me."

"Tyrants are easy to surprise. They have low expectations."

Of course not! "This is not the—"

"Shh, I'm hearing music now, and you are upsetting me." Her voice was soft, almost pleading.

The silence between them stretched, taut as a violin string.

William stilled. "What music, Helene?"

"Dido's Lament."

His heart sank. Of all arias—she had chosen the queen who sang herself into death after being abandoned.

"Hum it for me, Helene?"

She didn't answer at once. Her gaze drifted to the cracked ceiling, her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Then, a soft murmuring escaped her lips. The lament curled through the air like incense, aching and lovely. It calmed her trembling shoulders. Calmed him. While she hummed, he skimmed the cloth against her thighs, cleaning the blood.

"Take the powder off, please. It is dull now," she whispered.

The cosmetic had dried, forming swirling arabesques over her stomach and chest.

William rinsed the cloth in the basin. Savoring the chaste intimacy, he cleaned her, each stroke revealing more of the woman beneath the fairy dust. The scent of her soap and the sound of water splashing soothed him, and he enjoyed the sight of her skin, unadorned by the crushed pearls.

She was so small, so delicate. And so alone in a ruthless city.

"I will take care of you. I won't allow you to ever—"

"I chose to give my virginity to you. I don't hold you responsible." She turned away from him. "You can leave."

She would not forgive him. He refused to accept this. "Helene—"

She gestured to herself with a small, bitter smile.

“I bet the Silent Sovereign has women lining up for him—women with color in their eyes and hair, with more flesh in their bones.”

William froze. He worried she had been terrified of his passion—of how he had taken her with no regard for her innocence. And she thought he didn't want her? When he burned for her?

He dragged a hand through his hair, stunned.

“What?”

“It was fun,” she said, her voice brittle. “Our dance. You’re a wonderful partner—for a Tyrant.”

Then she looked past him, toward the door.

“But I don’t hear our music anymore.”