Page 24

H elene stuffed slippers, a wrap, and face powder into her bag, scanning the garret for her keys.

“Where are you, little monster?” she muttered.

No wonder she couldn’t find anything. His Grace had practically moved in, cluttering her space with his writing desk, his clothing, his papers...

William paused mid-shave, his gaze finding hers in the mirror. “Why the rush?"

Helene brushed her hair from her face. “Verón wants to see me before rehearsals. I can't be late, or he will sack me.”

Thinking about the director’s beady eyes and greedy mustachios made Helene shudder.

William resumed shaving, the blade gliding over his chiseled chin. “No, he will not.”

Helene exhaled. He had so much to learn, this duke of hers. It would be a bother if he weren’t so handsome and exceedingly accomplished in the bedroom.

“I want to succeed by my own merits, not because you bullied my director into accepting unacceptable behavior. Ballet needs discipline.”

He cleaned his face and stood. Morning light swept over his immaculate white shirt, which he had changed into behind her screen, denying her a glimpse of his skin. When would he allow her to see him nude?

“Verón won’t dismiss his star.”

“But—”

He shushed her. “To thrive in society, you must learn how to navigate it. In ballet, as in politics, it is better to be assertive and strategically prepared. Can I advise you on how to proceed?”

She rolled her eyes, still not comfortable with this new side of him, asking instead of demanding. “It seems I’m your captive audience.”

He caught her hand and lifted her index finger. “First, control your emotions. Don’t let him read you so well.” He lifted her middle finger. “Second, understand what your opponent wants. It is often something different from what he says. And third,” he tugged at her ring finger. “Prepare to negotiate. As the prima ballerina from Covent Garden, what do you want, Helene?”

Keeping her gaze captive, he sucked her finger into his mouth.

What she wanted indeed…

Helene gasped and forgot entirely about Verón and his greedy mustachios.

***

Helene paused outside Verón’s office, fidgeting with her pelisse. She repeated William’s advice—control her emotions, understand what Verón wanted, and negotiate.

Right. She could do this.

Gingerly, she opened the door. Verón was leafing through the Times, his face inscrutable.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. How could she understand Verón if he were made of facial hair and insensibility? What was he reading? Had the critic for La Sylphide already been printed? What if she was a hideous failure?

He lowered the paper. And stared at her.

Helene sucked in a breath, her pulse spiraling. Control her emotions, control her emotions.

“Mademoiselle de Beamont—”

Helene rushed forward, folding her hands in front of her chest. “The reviews are terrible, are they not? Please give me another chance.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she bit the inside of her cheek not to cry. Why did her emotions have to swim so close to the surface of her skin? “I promise I will do better.”

Verón eyed her, his brows meeting above his aquiline nose. “Indeed. You are terrible, awful— a grande merde —an astonishing… success!” He opened a feline smile and burst out laughing.

Sniffing, Helene brushed her eyes. Had he said success?

“Why the sad face? The reviews were marvelous! You took the stage by storm with the pointe dancing, chérie! La Sylphide is the most fantastic sensation since Napoleon crowned himself Emperor."

Helene dissolved on the chair, fanning herself. An enormous weight lifted off her shoulders. Could this be true? Would she keep the part, then?

“You are pale. Here, have a bonbon.” He offered her a salver.

She declined the chocolates, each one wrapped on a banknote.

“Silly girl, you don’t believe me, do you?”

Helene eyed him askance. Since when had he become so… so jovial? What was she supposed to make of this change?

Verón caught the newspaper and opened it with a grand flourish. “Look at these reviews: ‘Epoch-making;’ ‘A radical revolution in classical dance;’ ‘Four dynasties of dancers, from Mademoiselle Camargo to Madame Gardel, killed off in one strike;’ ‘La Beaumont fused the elegance and refinement of a lost aristocratic past with a new and airy spirituality;’ ‘The perfect romantic ballerina.’"

All the breath rushed from her lungs. They liked her. They actually liked her! How soon could she leave the theater and tell William all about it? This called for a celebration, something grand, like twirling in William’s arms at the Pantheon, or, better yet, strolling with him under the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens.

“La Sylphide is sold out for the season. We will make a fortune on publicity.” He placed an arm around her and made a sweeping gesture. “Can you see the possibilities? Imagine ships christened with your name, a brand of fripperies, lithographs, skinning medicines, and perfumes. You’ll become the standard by which all beauty is judged, the muse for artists and poets alike. Do you know who are your greatest fans? Women. From Duchesses to laundresses, they all want to be you.”

How could she live up to these lofty expectations?

“But why?”

“Because you represent all that is feminine and pure and unattainable. It is what you wanted, was it not? To inspire women?”

“Yes, but—”

“But me no buts. Remember Langley’s words? Don’t think, just do.”

Helene stared at her lap. It was all happening fast, and her life would change. Still, wasn’t this why she had trained so hard?

Verón cleared his throat. “Fame is capricious. Today’s muse can become tomorrow’s tramp. Only through careful cultivation of your image will you grow into a star. Don’t trouble your pretty head. Old Verón will guide you. Now… You might be asking what you will win.”

He clasped his hands, eyeing her intensely. “What do you want? No, don’t tell me. You will have a new wardrobe made for you by none other than Madam Piaget. All in white, La Sylphide has to wear white all the time. And a raise. I can’t have my prima ballerina living on soloist wages. Your own dressing room… What else, chérie?”

Helene lifted her chin. After blotching all of William’s teachings, she could not fail this one. Verón would probably balk, but she would set her slipper down firmly. She owed it to her friends.

“I want you to close the green room. No more patrons.”

“Done.”

Helene gasped. That easy?

Verón shrugged. “Your image of chasteness has to be kept intact. Having La Sylphide mixed with males in the dressing room won’t do. Which reminds me of the Duke of Albemarle…”

A furious wave of heat climbed from her cheeks to the tip of her ears. “I—”

“This is a serious matter. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with the theater’s biggest investor, but you must keep the relationship secret. Any breath of scandal can taint your image.”

Frowning, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was sure William would find no objection, being as scandal-averse as he was. They already met only at her apartment. No matter how much she would like to experience more—more living with him—her career had to come first.

“You are right, of course,” she said, nodding slowly.

Verón grinned widely and tapped her hand. “I’m glad we agree. After all, no respectable woman would be inspired by a sullied La Sylphide, would she?”