Page 25

H elene sat at the vanity in her new dressing room, fingers hovering above the expensive makeup Verón had provided. The luxuries she and Celeste had only admired from afar. She reached for a red lipstick, but hesitated, looking at the door. What if it weren’t for her? Avoiding the new things, Helene caught her pearl powder.

When the door opened, she was applying the glitter to her arms.

Verón poked his head through the threshold. “You have visitors.”

Helene knew it. He would not refrain from inviting lecherous patrons.

Lady Thornley and the Duchess of Devonshire sauntered inside.

Gasping, Helene stood and curtsied.

Lady Thornley embraced her. “I knew all along. You are a star. Congratulations, child!”

Helene’s cheeks heated. “You are too kind.”

The Duchess of Devonshire—the ton’s grand dame—gazed up at her as if she were an apparition.

Helene plastered a smile on her face, unsure what to do with her hands.

Lady Devonshire touched the tulle of her skirts. “Thank you, thank you so much. When you dance, I feel it is me up there. Soaring!”

The curtain call sounded. Uncomfortable, Helene looked at the door.

“Seems this is our cue to leave.” Lady Thornley kissed her cheek. “I hope you won’t abandon Lady Margaret. She so counts on you for her presentation.” Her eyes clouded, and her lips curved downwards in motherly concern.

Helene smiled reassuringly. “Of course, I won’t. I love our afternoon lessons. Your daughter will do marvelously at St. James Palace.”

When they left, Helene gazed at her reflection, at her mousy hair and pale skin, unable to shake off the disbelief. Could she be the sensation Verón described? She touched her face, feeling the familiar contours, the same insecurities that plagued her daily.

The bell sounded again. Helene hurried out. The way from the dressing room to the stage passed in a blur.

Dancers grouped about the wings. The audience was so crowded that they had to arrange for extra seats. The energy in the air, the charged anticipation, pressed against her sides, making it hard to breathe. Fussing with the bodice of her costume, she walked to the rosin box. After digging her slippers deep into the coarse powder, she balanced on her toes and crossed herself.

The curtain opened.

The audience roared. Helene vanished like morning mist, and La Sylphide rose in her place—free to glide wherever she wanted.

The theater held its breath through her variations, and when she struck the final pose for each, the orchestra had to wait for the applauses. Helene danced with her feet, with her hands, with her soul. The audience was in thrall. She held them as La Sylphide and La Sylphide made them weep, made them laugh, made them fly.

Helene felt herself grow, expanding with each leap. Her arms and legs stretched out, so long she could touch every person in the theater. A surge of exhilaration coursed through her veins.

I am La Sylphide. I am unstoppable.

The orchestra swelled, building toward the first-act finale, and Helene’s heart soared with the music. Was William seeing this? Her success?

Her eyes flickered to the ducal box. The light glinted off something—a piece of jewelry, perhaps—and then she saw her. A woman, her blond hair gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. William leaned in close, his profile partly obscured. Helene saw the way her hand flitted over his arm, and then she smiled.

Helene’s pulse lurched, a cold spike piercing her chest, and her step faltered. Who was she? Why was she with him?

As the curtain fell, Helene stilled, her hand resting on the velvet, the fabric cool and smooth beneath her fingers.

The audience erupted in applause. “Brava! Brava! La Sylphide! Brava!”

The cheers grew muffled as she headed to the dressing room, the echoes fading with each step.

Helene looked at herself in the mirror, her chest rising and falling as she panted. She touched La Sylphide’s pale skin and pale lips, her fingers trembling. Covent Garden had been her home for twelve years, and from the very first season, she had dreamed of living on the stage and owning it. Never had she coveted another place.

And yet… how was it up there in William’s box? Was that woman sipping wine and flirting with him? Laughing and touching his arm? Would they go to a party afterward? A ball? Did she know his friends? His family?

Was it to be with this lady that William had limited their visits to three times a week?

Perhaps the distance from the stage to the ducal box… not even La Sylphide could breach, no matter how high she soared. There were realms of William’s life shut off from her.

A group of dancers passed through her door.

Helene’s eyes met Sophie’s, and her former friend smiled sweetly.

“I don’t know how James is enamored of La Sylphide. She is so plain.”

Helene’s hand tightened around the powder, her breathing quickening, her throat rasping with unwanted tears.

The red lipstick caught her gaze, a flash of color among the pale makeup. Helene grabbed it, then applied it with a bold stroke, the vibrant red standing in defiant contrast to her pale skin. As her lips took shape in the mirror, so did a plan in her mind.

No one stopped La Sylphide.

***

William sat in his box, ignoring Cavendish's conversation as he focused on the stage. If Helene were here, she would say he was brooding. Was it too much to ask for some privacy? La Sylphide was more alluring than ever, and though she danced for all, he wished her art, her gaze, her every breath belonged to him alone.

Why had he imposed the condition of meeting Helene only three times a week? Often, when he left Helene's apartment, he would reprimand himself and vow to exercise more restraint, that he would curtail his visits, leave before dawn, attend other society functions but the theater, love her only once per night.

The resolution never lasted beyond Park Lane. By the time he reached Grosvenor Square, it was forgotten, and he already wanted back, back inside the garret, back inside her.

Cavendish cleared his throat and leaned forward. "If you want it to remain a secret, you better stop glaring at every male in the audience."

William crossed his arms. "When will you get your own box?"

"Why would I do that? The Duke of Albemarle's view rivals the Regent's, and you keep the best liquor stock."

As if to prove Cavendish's point, Ashbourne helped himself to William's port. Rodrick drank near the exit, ignoring William's unwelcoming glare. The master spy stared at his glass, smiling at the appropriate cues, but his nonchalant alertness didn't fool William. What did Rodrick want? He shouldn't be so close to Helene. If the warning at the ball had not been enough, William would have to use other methods to deflect his interest.

One of the ladies he had not invited either giggled, concealing her reaction behind the fan.

William lifted his brows at Cavendish.

"They came with Ashbourne. He is courting the Fitzherbert's chit," his friend said.

Helene leaped back to the stage for her solo, and William forgot all about his unwanted guests.

A collective sigh escaped the ladies. Lady Arabella Fitzherbert, with her serene countenance and blue eyes, always so poised, leaned forward precariously. One more round of ' ohs ' and ' ahs ' might send her tumbling into the pit. Beside her, Miss Elisabeth Harrington grabbed the railing, her golden curls bobbing with excitement. Both followed each pirouette and grand jeté with unfeigned delight. Their chaperone, the dignified Countess Fitzherbert, maintained a composed demeanor, though her gaze, too, was drawn to the performance.

Verón had been right. Women were enamored of his Helene. He could not help sharing their awe, and though conversing with debutantes ranked low in his preferences, William curbed himself from blurting—wasn't she wonderful? Did you see her stage presence? Her leap was to die for.

He had debated foreign policy with Pitt, sparred over trade acts with Fox, and once argued strategy with Wellington until dawn. And now? He was mentally curating compliments about jetés and footwork—just to keep pace with a cluster of nineteen-year-old girls in silk gloves.

When Lady Fitzherbert fanned herself, exposing her engagement ring, his elation soured. What would he give to have Helene here with him? To enjoy her company outside the garret?

William washed the impossible thought with a swallow of port, then pushed the glass away. He had already drunk too much. The dreams were disruptive enough without alcohol.

The music changed for the pas des deux. Vestris entered the stage, his muscles bulging beneath the Scottish kilt. William gritted his teeth. Why did he have to hold Helene so close? Was it acting, or did the male dancer covet her as James coveted La Sylphide?

Ashbourne leaned forward, his eyes glittering. "I bet every gentleman in this theater wished to be him," he whispered.

Heat flooded William, and a prickling sensation started in his neck. It took all his restraint not to rearrange Ashbourne's indolent face. The foppish buck was right, though. Every lady wanted to be La Sylphide, and every man wanted to undress her diaphanous gown. And all William wanted was to shout to the world that La Sylphide was his.

When the curtains closed, ending the first act, the crowd's thundering applause was deafening. Darkness enveloped the stage.

William stared at the red velvet. Where did she go? Why couldn't he join her?

Ashbourne left their side to speak with the women.

"Having a hard time controlling the jealousy?" Cavendish said, his eyes twinkling.

William gave him a warning look, already regretting having confided the affair to him. While William hated scandals, if the liaison became public, it would be ruinous for Helene. Her career depended on her reputation, and William would allow nothing to taint it.

"Don't worry. The ton doesn't suspect that its latest amusement is the mistress of our Silent Sovereign. They believe her to be as pure as the white tulle she wears. Verón did a superb job with her image. We should hire him to do the same with the army."

He swallowed the port, and it swam in his empty stomach. Helene wouldn't need Verón if William had not ruined her.

"If the army were unblemished as Helene, Verón wouldn't be needed."

Cavendish covered his chest. "Ouch, dully noted, my friend. Won't you ever forget about Covent Garden?"

"Perhaps when my ribs stop paining me."

Cavendish leaned forward, his voice turning secretive. "The siege of Badajoz is underway. Wellington has cut the French supply lines."

If they gained the city, it would demolish Napoleon's position on the peninsula. Straightening in the chair, William held his breath. "And Astley?"

"Safe. Behind the front. Wellington is fond of him. Says he is the best philosopher in the army."

That sounded like his younger brother—always the idealist.

William closed his eyes briefly. "Thank you. Keep me posted."

After a knock at the box's door, an usher handed William a folded note.

Helene's perfume wafted up from the paper. William's hand shook as he opened it.

'Send your friends away.'

William crumpled it. Was she in trouble?

Masking his concern, William urged the company to leave.

The moment they were gone, he paced the Persian rug like a man awaiting battle orders, anticipation thrumming through his veins. Had someone threatened her? Was she hurt?

The door creaked open. Helene stepped inside. A black mantle covered her, revealing only red lips, the color inviting, alluring.

He should admonish her. She shouldn't intrude on his social life and risk her career.

"This is reckless, Helene. Why did you send my guests away?"

"I had to. I wouldn't want them to see this."

With a flick of her wrist, she unclasped the pin of the mantle. The cloth whispered around her torso and pooled at her feet.

She was nude.

His heart stopped and thudded again. Seeing Helene dressed in nothing but red lipstick set his blood on fire. He should send her away. They were in a public space, surrounded by society.

Candlelight flickered on her breasts, as a little smile played at the corner of her lips.

Gazing at him boldly, she pointed to the stage. "The second act has just begun. We have until the end of that Scottish reel."

"Helene," William said, leaning close, smelling her skin from her collarbone to her neck. "Why did you come?"

She traced her lips with his forefinger. "Do you see this color?"

"How could I not?"

"La Sylphide cannot wear red, only white… I need to remove it."

"How do you plan to do that?"

She knelt before him, her skin a sultry contrast to the Persian rug. His chest filled to the point of explosion.

While she worked on his trousers, he felt drunk. Thoughts, limbs, memories, all became hazy, as if he had been drinking gin since the dawn of time.

The woman worshiped by London was at his knees, about to worship him.

Cold air brushed the skin of his cock as she freed him from his small. Her touch was urgent, thirsty, as if unsure of her welcome. Didn't she know that to him, kneeling at his feet, with her red lips and fathomless eyes, she wielded more power than Alexander the Great?

She paused, the cherry of her lips one inch away from the head, her moist breaths brushing against the sensitive skin. William stared, transfixed. Not even Michel Ney charging in with the entire French cavalry could make him move.

Helene kissed the tip. Just a lick. The jolt caught him unaware. William's head fell back, and a groan escaped his chest. Who was this being, and what power had she over him? Her mouth closed around his cock, the red lips.

William sucked in a breath, his heart stampeding, and his shout was muffled by the bagpipes and drums.

She lavished loving attention on him, sucking and kissing, each caress of her red lips threatening his sanity. Her hands climbed from his calves to his hips, and then her fingers dug into his flanks, pulling him closer.

Her movements became frantic, her breathing rasping against his groin, and then she choked.

William pulled his cock from her mouth. Panting, he caught her from the floor and lifted her onto his chest. She found his lips, kissing him with a passion that bordered on desperation.

If she was desperate, he was ravenous. He wanted more. More than her lips, more than three times per week, he wanted all. Her breath was ragged, and she clung to him, her body trembling. He pressed her against the wall, one arm securing her waist while the other slid under her thigh, hitching her leg around his hip. Her ballerina legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he positioned himself, his chest brushing against her breasts. With a powerful thrust, he entered her, their bodies merging in one long, delicious movement.

Bliss. Ecstasy. Temporary relief.

She had no more red in her lips, but he devoured her mouth, wanting all her colors, all her taste.

"I hate—sharing you."

Their breaths turned louder than the orchestra's reel.

"You are the Silent Sovereign, and I'm the Sylph." She panted, her channel pulsing around him. "When the curtain calls, I will return backstage, and you will stay here."

She buried her face in his neck, and William groaned. What were they doing? She was in his arms, and she was not—it was like making love to a cloud, a cloud with faded red lips and humid eyes. His own eyes became moist.

He hadn't shed a tear in his life. Not when his mother deserted him, not when his siblings ran away, not when his father died.

William felt like a ship adrift in open water. No compass. No stars. No bearings.

Which was impossible. His feet were planted.

And then Helene came apart in his arms, shattering like moonlight on the sea. And he knew the truth.

He was lost. Utterly lost.