Page 21

W illiam gasped awake, gripping the cold sheets. Pulse speeding, his mind clung to fragments—her hands on him, her body beneath him, the mirror catching every flicker of want. Too vivid to be real.

The room was washed in soft morning light, tulle curtains glowing like mist. He exhaled sharply and turned his head—expecting emptiness.

But she was there.

Helene lay curled on her side, not touching him. Her hair fanned across the pillow like a spilled ribbon, one bare shoulder peeking from the sheet. Her back rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

He exhaled slowly. The light of day had not dimmed his feelings.

She was real. And more exquisite than any vision the night could conjure. No tulle, no stage, no sylph's dust—just skin and sleep.

His chest ached with something that felt suspiciously like gratitude.

Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing the curve of her spine. Then, not trusting his luck, he pulled her close, tucking her against his body, needing the anchor of her heartbeat against his.

Her warmth settled into him, grounding every part that had drifted toward fear.

He had touched her. Loved her. And she had not vanished.

The minutes ticked by. Below them, the building stirred—the clink of dishes, muffled footsteps on the stairs, the distant creak of a cart's wheels. Morning was claiming the world.

She had not vanished, but she was not yet his.

He couldn't remain here, wrapped around her, insulated from duty. He had business to attend to, and soon, his staff would notice his disappearance. But he would not—could not—leave before settling their situation.

William brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, letting his fingers linger. Her lashes quivered, and then her eyes opened fully.

He drank her in, memorizing the flecks of light in her irises, the sleepy curve of her mouth. A man could live in her eyes.

How could he speak of contracts when her lips made him fall silent?

He leaned in for a kiss.

Helene's impertinent finger on his mouth checked his advance.

"I have a proposition for you," she said, her voice rusty from sleep.

What? Stunned, William could only watch as she traced shapes in the linen of his shirt, her fingers igniting his skin.

"I like you, and you like me..."

He lifted a brow. "That has been well proved last night."

"Indeed. Quite to my enjoyment, I have to say. So…"

She bit her lip and glanced at him sideways, as if unsure of his cooperation for whatever scheme she had concocted.

Foolish girl. Bar helping Bonny invade their shores, there was very little she could propose that he wouldn't be amenable to accept.

"I want you as my amant de c?ur ," she said solemnly.

Her lover of the heart? What kind of romantic nonsense was that? Her serious tone contrasted with the absurdity of her words. Before he could respond, she placed the arrogant finger over his mouth again.

The Duke of Albemarle—who had signed treaties, commanded a squadron, and presided over court-martials—had been shushed. Twice. Before breakfast.

"I see you must be overly eager to accept the position," she said. "But you should know first what it entails. You can visit me here, and we will see each other after my performances and—"

"Helene, this sort of relation does not exist."

A simple arrangement, a contract, would keep things tidy—manageable. What she asked couldn't be confined by terms and conditions.

Her smile lit up the garret, and it positively disarmed him. "Well, then it will be our prerogative to invent it, will it not?"

Impossible relationships. William exhaled, trying to focus on how vulnerable and inexperienced she was. This was the cue to establish his guidelines.

"I'm glad you brought this up. I've thought about something in the same direction, albeit not as eccentric. In fact, I'll have a settlement ready for you to sign this afternoon—A house of your choosing, a carriage, and servants. A monthly allowance and a perpetuity of five hundred pounds."

She sat, crossing her arms. "What are you offering, Your Grace?"

William narrowed his eyes. By forcing him to speak plainly, she had maneuvered him into a corner. But retreat wasn't in his nature.

"The position of my mistress."

Helene stared at him.

In parliament, he could read the room and predict the outcomes easily. But Helene created her own rules, leaving him to navigate without a compass. William braced himself for her reaction. A sensible woman would seize the opportunity to enhance the terms. A foolish one would be offended.

His Helene laughed.

She opened her pretty lips, fixed her eyes on his, and laughed in his face.

Shushed and laughed at. What other brutal negotiation tactics did ballerinas hide in their tulle skirts? Perhaps he ought to send the party's MPs to dance class.

"So you will pay for something I'm quite willing to offer you for free."

"This is not a joke," he caressed her cheek. "You cannot expect us to embark on a relationship without terms being drawn."

If she were his mistress, a position society understood, it would shield her from scandal.

"That is exactly what I want." Holding his gaze, she took his hand and kissed his palm. "Like partners in a pas de deux, we stay together while our music lasts. We carry into this what we brought, and we take from it the art and the memories, nothing more."

His orderly life couldn't encompass a bloody pas de deux. She already consumed his dreams and his awakened thoughts. What would happen if he let her closer?

"Helene, be reasonable."

Ignoring him, she looked at her nails and hummed.

William ran a hand over his hair. "You are serious. I can't believe you are serious. You cannot buy food on memories. They don't pay the bills."

She lifted a pair of stubborn brows. "I have my art for making ends meet. I want an amant to make me happy. Are you available for the job?"

Exhaling slowly, he observed her—the unwavering gaze, the set of her jaw, the confident tilt of her head. For once, he read her clearly. She wanted a partnership of equals. And by God, she had the stubbornness to carry it through.

He could force his position, but at what cost? Her radiance this morning—did he really want to see it fade under the weight of hard truths? And if he couldn't convince her? What if she ended their music? Cold seeped into his stomach, and he clenched his hands. Unacceptable.

They were still in the little season. He could spare some hours on his agenda for her. The MPs were more malleable to increase the military budget than he had expected, and the real season, when balls and dinner parties would demand his presence, would only start after Easter.

I can't believe I'm about to lose this negotiation.

William exhaled long and deep. "We will do this your way for two months, and then you will sign the contract."

She smiled coquettishly, a mischievous glint in her eye. "How conceited, Your Grace! Are you so certain you can keep my affections for two entire months?"

He tried to grab her, but she danced out of his grip.

Laughing, she vaulted from the bed.

A shaft of sunlight caught her, bathing her in a radiant glow. In that ethereal light, she became half sprite, half siren—a vision of beauty and mischief. William's hand went to his chest as warmth filled him. A feeling so exquisitely acute it had to be pain.

He had taken a beating in their bedside negotiations, his plans upended by her spirited defiance. Yet, watching her smile—luminous and triumphant in the sunlit room—he felt like King Leonidas, knowing his defeat at Thermopylae would be remembered as a glorious victory.

***

There were few better places to share scandalous news than among dismembered gods.

Helene trailed her fingers along the cold marble of a faceless Aphrodite and took a bracing breath. The Elgin marbles loomed in noble fragments—much like her composure. Louise and Celeste flanked her, blissfully unaware that she was about to drop a bomb worthy of Mount Olympus.

She smoothed her gloves and lifted her chin. She was an adult. She was independent. She was in control. So what if she had taken a lover? So what if said lover happened to be England’s most formidable duke?

She had chosen him. That made all the difference.

Now, she just had to tell them.

Helene cleared her throat, but Louise halted before the Parthenon Pediments.

“Don’t you think these statues would be more awe-inspiring in their original setting?” Louise asked. “If Elgin hadn’t stolen them from Athens?”

Helene gasped, glancing at the other visitors. “Louise, someone might hear you! Elgin didn’t steal them—he saved them. The Ottomans would have destroyed everything if they’d stayed in the Acropolis.”

“That’s what Elgin says…”

Helene glared at her. Enough about Elgin. She wanted to talk about another lord… one who was not a robber of marbles, but of sighs.

Gathering her courage, she opened her mouth to speak—

“Can you believe the sheer vitality of this marble piece?” Celeste said, pointing to the statue of Selene’s horse.

“It says here that he pulls the Moon Goddess’s chariot across the heavens all night. He seems thoroughly exhausted.”

Moon. Night.

A flush of heat surged through Helene, pulling her straight back to William’s hands on her, his frame straining against hers, taking her to the moon—again and again.

The memory made Helene gasp.

“Are you all right, dear?” Celeste touched her forehead. “You seem a little feverish.”

A wave of heat colored her cheeks. Perhaps the Elgin Gallery, with its tall windows and gleaming marbles, was not the place to share the news after all.

On second thought, keeping a secret seemed like the best decision—for now.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Helene tugged at her bodice. “Can we move on, please?”

They stopped before the next statue—a reclining god. One arm slung over his head, the other draped across his thigh.

“Dionysus—the bringer of ecstasy.”

“Oh, he seems so… so robust.” Celeste’s gaze dropped to the statue’s penis. “I wonder why the Greeks had to be so explicit about their male—ugh—proportions.”

“They were on the short side with this one,” Helene blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Louise frowned. “How do you know?”

Helene felt a flush creeping up her neck. “I came across some… interesting engravings, that’s all—”

“You’re lying.” Louise’s eyes narrowed to daggers. “I can’t believe you would hide this from us. What happened?”

“Oh, Helene, do tell!” Celeste clapped her hands, eyes alight.

Helene traced Dionysus’s marble foot, cheeks blazing. “The Duke of Albemarle—I mean, William—came to my home after the opening night…”

“How was it?” Celeste whispered.

Helene cleared her throat. “It was pleasurable.”

“Did it hurt?” Celeste’s voice cracked.

Helene met her friend’s hazel eyes. “A little, but it’s nothing to fear. It can be sweet. Loving. Wonderful.”

Celeste’s gaze returned to the statue, hopeful. “Is he as well-formed as Dionysus?”

He hadn’t actually let her see him fully unclothed, but she could bet he was every inch as impressive.

“He is well endowed.”

Louise crossed her arms. “And is he as imperious as Dionysus?”

“Imperious?” Helene lifted a brow. “Are we even looking at the same statue? This Greek god is content. Happy, even.”

Louise scoffed. “Dionysus is not at rest. He’s waiting. Watching. He wants to possess. To mold. Just like every lord before him.”

That wasn’t true. “I tire of looking at Dionysus.”

Louise touched her shoulder. “How different do you think the Duke of Albemarle is from Lord Elgin? How long before he removes you from your true habitat and displays you in a gallery—under the guise of protecting you?”

“He won’t,” Helene said. “I have everything under control.”

William was different.

She had an agreement with him, didn’t she? She controlled her body, her heart, her life.

She did.

Didn’t she?