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H elene shut her eyes, willing herself not to see the runway duke. Let him think her undesirable. She didn't mind his opinions. Not in the least. In fact, she preferred it this way. Then he could leave her alone, and she could stop obsessing over him. So what if she had given him her virginity? It was hers to give. She needed no man's promises—least of all a duke's, made out of obligation.

The air shifted by her side, and she heard something. It resembled the groaning of a ship, its creaking timbers bending with the swell. Then the sound changed—a cascade of chuckles turning into guffaws.

Helene shot up in bed.

The tyrant laughed, his head tilted back, his shoulders shaking.

"You horrid man! I don't know about the English women you convene with, but we French girls want to feel pretty in our lover's eyes."

His mirth was contagious, and before it could catch on her, Helene turned from him, clamping her jaw. How could he laugh after everything that had happened? Did he not understand how much it had hurt? After the joy they had shared, seeing him open the door and leave felt like performing a jump on stage, only for her partner to let her crash.

The mattress dipped, protesting his weight as he sat on the edge of her bed. He reached out to touch her arm, his fingers brushing her skin.

"Little One."

She opened one eye. Reluctantly.

His smile faded. "You have enough beauty to rival Titania. Like the Midsummer Night queen, you could make the moon blush and flowers bloom with your presence."

Did he mean it? Something in his eyes left her breathless, giddy, and totally uncomfortable.

She sighed. Dramatically. "Words, words, words."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

"Aren't you the skeptical Shakespeare?"

Helene caught a whiff of his scent and gazed at his lips. Intensely. A mistake—he had tempting lips. Her heart raced, and warmth spread through her chest. It was not attraction or his mellow voice, she told herself. How could she stay mad with a man who knew so many of the bard's quotes?

He traced her lips with his thumb. Helene's mouth parted, and he swept his tongue inside. Vividly aware of her nakedness, she absorbed the heat of his body against hers, the gentle pressure of his hands, the taste of his kiss. She leaned into his touch, wanting more of his weight.

"You still don't believe me?"

She shook her head. Dumbfounded.

He rose. "I will have to prove it to you, then."

"Where are you going this time?"

Ignoring her, he picked up the mirror she used for rehearsing and placed it before the bed.

Catching her hand, he tugged her until she stood before it. Her reflection stared back at her, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her bare skin.

She quickly averted her gaze. "You don't understand much about ballet dancers, do you?"

Her hands were clammy, and she swallowed. "If you did, you'd realize we don't like seeing our reflection outside the studio."

He came behind her, the black of his coat contrasting with her white skin. She felt his solidity, his breath warm on her neck.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because the mirror is our first teacher and our final judge. In short, he isn't forgiving."

"Tonight, the mirror won't give corrections," he said. "It will only show you what I see."

She hesitated, then glanced at the slim woman with legs much longer than her torso. Her expression felt foreign, as if she were looking at someone else. Mousy hair, mousy eyes—in movement, she could create beauty; in stillness, she was boring at best and plain at worst.

"I want you to dance with me, but I want you to look only at my hands."

"To what music?" she asked.

"Our music." His voice was a caress.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. The notes were already inside her, fresh as a summer stream in an ancient forest.

"I hear the C-sharp of a flute—teasing but gentle, sliding down in semitones before climbing up again. Then the woodwinds, brown and cedary, sultry… I love the strings, adding new colors, and the watery sound of a harp," Helene whispered. "And then you—the piano."

He held her waist. The contrast between his long fingers and her creamy skin left her breathless.

"Dance, Helene, dance for me."

She rose on the tip of her toes. Putting all her weight on one foot, she raised her other leg in high arabesque. She watched as her arm lifted, fingers extending delicately. He spun her on a slow promenade. As a compass needle followed the pull of the earth, they found themselves back in the mirror. Held by him, she was ethereal, the mirror framing a private world, a moment suspended in time.

Then he sent his right hand on a languid exploration, cruising from her hip to her thigh and knee. Helene watched her leg, how it seemed to go on forever, and how his gaze heated as he touched her.

She didn't recognize herself. Her eyes in the mirror were dreamy yet knowing, teasingly seductive, as if something was simmering inside her.

The lilting notes of a flute soared between them. They slipped into the imaginary music without leaving a ripple—seamlessly easing their bodies through the air, slowly as if sliding over honey.

Suddenly, he lifted her. His shoulders were solid beneath her palms, and he carried her not as if she were a plain ballerina but the Silent Sovereign's queen.

When he lowered her, she curled her leg around his torso.

All the time, she watched his eyes watch her. He seemed intoxicated by her.

Helene lifted her leg in passé and then extended it into a développé à la seconde. He held her calf, supporting her. In this position, she was wide open. A heartbeat passed, two, ten. Their gazes met in the mirror—eyes that saw each other, that liked what they saw.

Then he lowered his touch. His hand made a delicious path from her knee to her thigh and lower. When he arrived at her core, she was perspiring, her drumming heart adding percussion to their music.

His hand covered her sex completely, his tanned skin contrasting with her fair complexion. He kept his palm pressed against her mound, holding it there, letting her feel his heat.

Their reflection wasn't perfect like ballet. But it had a different kind of beauty—raw, pulsing with an energy that made every hair on her body stand on end.

Their gazes met.

The irresistible pull between them expanded, filling the space until it felt like no air was left.

"Do you believe me now?" His voice sounded husky.

She leaned against him, giving him all her weight. Reaching up to touch his face, she nodded slowly.

He believed her beautiful, and she reveled in the power of her body, in the earthiness of it. Her skin tingled where his hands touched her. How addicting. If being nude could make her feel so, she rather enjoyed the absence of clothes.

"I want—I want you inside me now."

He kissed her neck. "Aren't you sore? I don't want to hurt you again."

She bore her full weight over bleeding toes. Having him inside her was not pain. It was bliss.

"You won't."

He backed away and sat on the edge of the bed. With his arms around her waist, he guided her atop his lap, her spine meeting his chest.

"Never again will I lose my control with you." He brushed his nose against her neck and then sucked at the tender skin. "I don't want you to feel anything but pleasure. I will kiss your shoulder, and if my lips are not soft, you tell me. I will caress your skin, and if the pads of my fingers are not delicate, you tell me. I will brush my cheek against yours, and if my skin chafes you, you, being so much softer, you tell me, and I will stop. Upon my honor, I will stop. Even if it kills me, I will stop."

Helene's gaze flicked to his eyes. No longer icy gray, they had turned into the blue of a storm on the North Sea. What if what was at risk was not her body but her heart?

When he entered her, his erection filled her channel, wonderfully full. He went so deep, her breath escaped her. She saw in the mirror her head falling back against his chest, her mouth parting, his hand around her neck, then his mouth closing over her earlobe. He gripped her waist and pulled her down and up, down and up, a dance of pull and release. Pleasure burst, radiating from her core to her soul, and she held back a scream.

"How does it feel?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Full, tingling… nice."

"Only nice?"

"A nice way to reach the moon."

She felt him chuckling against her neck. "Then brace yourself. I plan to take you there many times before the night ends."

He made love with her slowly. For each part of her he exposed to the mirror, he told her how pretty she was. He held her breasts and flicked her nipples. Then he lowered his palms, trailing his hands down her thighs.

He grabbed her knees and pulled them open. Through the mirror, she saw her sex and the place they were joined. Her lips parted, and her heart raced. His breathing changed, too. He hooked one finger into her mouth, and she sucked his digit. As she gazed at their reflection, she marveled that this powerful man was paying homage to her. She rather liked this side of him, tender, commanding, in control of her, of himself. Fully clothed, he controlled her, and she could melt in his arms. It made her feel petite, feminine, and so desirable.

She had imagined making love would be akin to what she experienced after a performance or hearing glorious music, but this was different. It was physical and earthly and disorganized, animalistic.

And yet, she found beauty in it and found herself beautiful in his eyes. While the mirror judged, he applauded, while the mirror pointed at flaws, he kissed them, while the mirror was harsh, he was tender... She better not get used to it.

Then he touched her bud of desire, and thought dissolved into nothingness.

His fingers moved in maddening little circles, grazing where she needed, then teasing away, soaking in the slickness he summoned—always just out of reach.

She arched into him, breath catching, her body chasing the rhythm he refused to give.

And then he gave it to her. The right pressure. The right tempo.

Her head dropped against his shoulder, and her toes curled as if en pointe, every nerve stringing taut and electric. The pleasure pulsed from her center outward—like a pirouette spun out of control, tighter, faster, each turn building until she lost all sense of where she ended and he began.

The last thing she saw before she surrendered completely was the storm in his eyes—his own fall into the dance they had created together.

***

Helene stared at the glass of water without drinking it. The kitchen floor chilled her bare feet, and that sneaky draft was at it again, brushing her ears like a ghost with a grudge.

What did tonight mean?

Closing her eyes, she touched her breasts. They felt fuller. Her lips… Would they ever be the same? Helene shook her head briskly. She would not act like Hamlet, brooding over what had passed between her and the tyrant duke. She would not dwell on the bliss, or the risk to her heart, or how she’d feel when he returned to his grand house.

She was an independent woman. She’d enjoyed herself. That was it.

Bracing herself, she padded back to the bedroom, her pulse erratic.

The duke stretched over the mattress, and the bed groaned like an out-of-tune cello. Something bubbled up inside her, a feeling suspiciously close to delight, but she quickly forced her expression to remain neutral. He had a palace of a house. Why would he want to sleep in her garret?

He looked up, a satisfied smile on his face. He was all too pleased with himself, too confident. Smug. Who was this man, and where was the Duke of Albemarle?

“Are you sure you fit in my bed, Your Grace?” she asked, trying to hold her voice steady.

He adjusted the pillows like a man settling in for winter. “From now on, you will call me William.”

Helene suppressed a smile. “Are you sure? Won’t this breach in protocol topple down society as we know it?”

A lock had escaped his ordered hair and brushed his forehead. Helene’s hands tingled to reach for that daring strand and start a revolution. She would incite the rest of his hair into a strike and mutiny his body against the tyranny of clothes.

“Not if we are discreet.”

“Very well. It is a terrible nuisance to keep ‘Your Gracing’ you, anyway.”

Glaring at the little space left for her in her bed, she climbed atop it, facing away from the smug stranger who wanted her to call him William. What would the girls say if they knew he spent the night here? Louise would scowl and plot sabotage. Celeste would sigh and quote Shakespeare. Helene rolled her eyes and pondered the advantages of keeping it a secret. Still, when had she ever been able to keep anything from that meddling horde?

He turned to face her, his hand resting on her hip. “You did the triple pirouette.”

Helene shrugged, trying in vain to escape from his gaze. “I’m glad your counting faculties are sharp.”

He searched her eyes, a sorcerer who could see all her secrets.

“I thought Langley told you not to. To stick with the doubles.”

“You were afraid I would fall flat on my face and ruin your investment?”

“I was afraid you’d get hurt.” His fingers pressed into her waist. "Why did you do it?”

Helene glanced away, her cheeks warming. “I glanced at your box, and I saw you. I knew you wouldn’t let me fall.”

He grunted and gave a nod and then was silent.

Helene exhaled. Thank God he would let her sleep now. Yawning, she tried to settle in her narrow allotment of mattress. So this was how inequalities began—the landowners claimed acres, and the ballerinas were left with a strip of field—barely wide enough to stretch. She was fluffing the pillow and muttering under her breath about tyranny and mattress real estate when William’s arm crossed over her shoulder, and tugged her until she was propped by his side.

Quite against her wishes, she placed her cheek over his chest. A pounding against her ear made her jump. His heart. Of course, she had listened to her own pulse after the allegro jumps. But never this close and this strong.

Helene grumbled a bit. Just a bit. It was nice, this closeness. Too nice.

“There is an ongoing rumor that the Silent Sovereign is repulsed by intimacy.” She brushed her cheek against the fine linen of his shirt, longing for the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t like that nickname. I can be quite vocal when needed. And nothing about you repulses me.” He kissed the top of her head.

Suddenly, it was too much. The opening night, the flowers, the mirror, the making love. Tears burned at the back of her throat, and she made an effort to swallow them.

“Don’t be so nice to me. I said I wouldn’t fall in love with you, Your Grace.”

“Helene, I thought we agreed you would call me by my name now.”

“I won’t fall in love, William .”

She felt him smiling against her hair. “Whatever you say, Little One. Just sleep.”