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H elene paced the length of her garret. She glared at the piano, ignoring its sweet siren call. Her whole body tingled, and her legs couldn't stay still. Hadn't she asked the generous tyrant not to give her gifts?

The very air around the instrument seemed charged. Why didn't William send her jewels or furs? Those would be so easy to refuse. Sighing, she caressed the gleaming mahogany and pressed the middle C, a brief touch, not daring to produce sound.

What wondrous music could be coaxed from these keys? What moments of joy, of intimacy… Memories from the last time she had a piano in her house flitted like poignant notes before her eyes. The melody had the scent of lilies and jasmine tea and rain-coated grass.

The door opened. William stood at the entrance. His expression was hidden under layers of starch and wool and a hat. Something boiled inside of her, and she raced to the door and flung herself at him, linking her legs around his lean waist. A will consumed her to pummel his chest and force him to remove the piano. The promise of music shouldn't be taken lightly. If she accepted this gift only to have him take it back, she would die.

When his arms crossed behind her, the cane he carried tumbled to the floor.

Heart pounding in her chest, Helene grabbed his hat and flung it away. Breathlessly, she kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, his ear, his hair, and the corner of his mouth.

Chuckling, William held her at arm's length. "I thought you would be mad."

"I'm raving mad. Haven't we agreed I would not accept presents from The Duke of Albemarle?"

"I see." With her draped over him, he sat on the piano's bench. "This is not a gift for you."

Helene eyed him askance.

"It's for me. I want our music to keep playing, Little One, and I can't do that without a piano, can I?"

Warmth invaded her chest, and she touched the keys reverently.

"Then… I suppose I can keep it here for you. While our song is still playing."

Her garret already accommodated his shaving apparatus and writing desk, not to mention a change of clothes his valet often came to exchange for new ones.

A wry smile pulled the corner of his lips. "How generous of you, Miss Beaumont."

Helene beamed at him and struck the keys for the first time, wanting to hear how song filled the corners of her small apartment.

He placed his hand over hers, his expression serious. "We need to talk."

"If this is about Lady Thornley's soirée, I sent her my acceptance already. She is doing it in my honor. It would be rude to deny her." Helene shifted away from him, her eyes inspecting the ivory keys.

She had been so happy with the invitation, thrilled to spend time with him in his society, and his reticence cut her deep. A voice inside her head whispered that he didn't want her among his friends, that he only cared for her between bedsheets. Helene shut the thought. Of course, he cherished her. It was only to protect her reputation that they kept their relationship a secret.

"Though I think it is not advisable for you to go, our discussion is about another subject." His voice was icy, matter of fact.

Helene frowned, adrift at the sudden change of his demeanor.

"We need to speak about your past."

Helene's breath caught, and she quickly averted her gaze. Pulse speeding, she struck aleatory chords. Why did he want to talk about her past now? Did he suspect something? Had he discovered about Gaetan? What would William think if he knew she was the sibling of a marshal from France? The hated enemy?

"Helene?"

"Oh, of course. Where should I begin? I came from the woods, like every sylph before me, and—"

He caught her hand. "This is a matter of grave importance, not only for us but for the country."

Helene smiled while her insides quivered. He must know something. But what? An obscure fear congealed her heart. Everything she had gained thus far could be destroyed. Like her family in France. Taken away by angry people, guns, machetes—a cruel song.

"The country? What did I do? You speak as if I killed someone or tampered with the landowner's rights, God forbid. Is there a death penalty for that? I bet it is written in Britain's blood code—"

“Whatever you tell me, I will hold as a secret.”

"How magnanimous of you, Your Grace."

She hated when he slipped into his parliamentary persona—distant, formal, shoulders squared—a mantle of righteousness and superiority that ruffled her swan feathers.

Helene stood abruptly and went to the window. Crossing her arms, she stared at London's soot and mist until her eyes blurred.

She heard him exhale and, from the corner of her eye, saw him remove his coat. Then, he unclasped the diamond studs from his shirt and rolled the sleeves. Helene’s gaze licked his naked forearms. Before, he never had as much as shown her his throat, and now she was entitled to these tantalizing displays. He didn't need the Silent Sovereign to interrogate her. Glimpses of his skin were enough to lull her into confessing anything.

He positioned himself behind the piano, stretching his long, long legs underneath it. Was he about to play? Helene held her breath.

His fingers met the keys. Each note sparkled, a treasure, a glistening gem. Her heart swayed with the sweet intimacy. William's virtuoso's hands moved with a grace that mirrored her ballet, precise yet infused with passion. They differed in everything—her softness to his hardness, his restraint to her abandon, his society to her freedom—but in this, they were one: music.

She closed her eyes, letting him take her in his swirling depths, a cocoon of sound that held her still and safe. Song had always been a command, a call to motion, and she savored being William's audience, tasting the luxury of music for music's sake, her first serenade.

As if William were the piper and she the eager little mouse, she perched on his side and leaned against him. William had solid shoulders, the perfect size to pillow any heartache.

Helene sighed. How could she explain to him? Lying was wrong, but the thought of having their music end because of something beyond her control made her desperate.

"There is pain in the past," she whispered. "And things better left unsaid."

"Do you remember when I played for you at the theater?"

Helene traced his jaw. "How could I ever forget?"

It had been the first time she had glimpsed the passionate man beneath the Duke of Albemarle's facade.

"Do you know why I left?"

She drew a lyre in his arm. "The Silent Sovereign remembered a colony he had to subjugate?"

A wry smile tugged his lips, and he shook his head, his attention riveted at the keys. "I don't play the piano in public."

She had suspected as much but stayed quiet, shifting closer to feel more of his warmth and let him know she treasured every note emerging from his talented fingers.

"When I play, I unleash a fire inside of myself."

He stroked the lower keys, the sounds discordant and violent, clashing with his calm demeanor. He looked at her then, and that same look of hatred that she had glimpsed the first time they met flared in his stormy irises.

"It is unacceptable," he said through gritted teeth.

Helene interlaced their fingers, unwilling to cower before him. She sensed that the boy inside of him needed to know he could manage his vast powers. "You play with passion, and you have a beautiful talent, and if I were not a greedy woman, I would feel sorry for all the people you are depriving of your music. Still, the sun doesn't stop shining because he fears he will burn humanity."

He halted the notes, and anguish seeped into his expression. "Would you tell me of your past? Please?"

Helene exhaled, brushing her moist palms against her skirts. "My stronger memories are from when we settled here in London. Langley and Katherina gave us free rein in the theater. We did as we pleased. We only saw Langley in ballet class, and then he honored us with his brilliant attention. I learned English from an actress at Kemble's company. She taught us to read and write."

"Let me guess, Shakespeare?"

Helene smiled wryly. "Are you not surprised I don't 'thee' and 'thou' everyone? I left that phase behind… eventually. It was a fun childhood—our only discipline was ballet."

"And before London?"

"We lived in a chateau near Saint Cloud. My memories fade every year, like the tapestries in our grand foyer. I remember the music... My mother loved it. Our home was always filled with dance and song."

Helene freed her fingers to play the melody of those lazy summers. Her notes scented of plums bursting in the heat, wild buttercups, and her mother's lilies. All so different from the exotic orchids she received in the theater.

"Was your father an aristocrat?"

Helene froze, her breath hitching. If she told him her father had been the Marquess of Beaumont, would their relationship change? A part of her longed for him to say, 'Marry me. You are a lady, and it is my duty.' But what of her brother? He was a Marshal of France. Wouldn't the Silent Sovereign be able to link her family title with the current Count of Wagram?

The silence in the room pounded against her ears.

Helene averted her eyes, her pulse quickening. "No, he was a wine merchant."

The words settled like stones in her chest.

William's expression sharpened as he caught her shoulder, his gaze locking onto hers. "Do you still have connections in France?"

Helene's heart flapped against her ribs, anxiety twisting her insides.

She swallowed hard. "No."

The lie slid out, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Exhaling, he pulled her into his lap and buried his face in her neck.

"Thank God," he whispered, his breath rustling her hair.

Helene remained stiff in his embrace, a chill creeping through her. That horrible man, Viscount Montfort—had he told William about her? What had he uncovered?

"I'm worried now. Should I pack my things? Am I no longer welcome in Britain?"

William's grip tightened. "Forget about this, Helene. I shouldn't have said anything."

"I never saw you so tense. What is it?"

"I don't want to upset you."

"Nothing important to you can upset me."

"Elias Farley didn't stop criticizing Wellington's campaign."

Was this about the journalist, then? Helene sighed, relieved. "He is intelligent, and his views are sharp, but love, having a different opinion, is not always bad. Let people think. Trust in your policies—"

"Farley enjoys the company of men, and Thornley will use the information against him."

"Oh, no."

The image of those prisoners in the cart haunted her. Those were the consequences of same-sex love. Violence, shame, death.

"I talked to Farley. Tried to warn him. But he is obstinate, willing to risk everything to live his passion fully." His hands fisted, and the keys protested the disturbance.

Helene caressed his shoulder. "You did all you could to help him. You are a great man." She had been wrong to believe him an aristocrat who cared only for his own interests. He worked hard for the country, and his morals were noble. "I knew inside the Silent Sovereign lived a Mellow Monarch."

He looked at his hands, exhaling, and then up at her, his eyes haunted. "How can you be so certain?"

"I could tell you it is because I sense a wonderful heart beating in your chest, and that despite you being a tyrant, I'm proud of you. But that would make you vain, so I will say instead that I refuse to live in a Shakespearean tragedy, and if this is a comedy, then you cannot be an evil monarch, like Claudius, or King Richard III, but a good one. Perhaps Leontes, the Duke Senior, or the King of France, from As You Like It ."

His smile was a gift that made her heart sing. "I thought you had outgrown Shakespeare."

Helene shrugged. "I have my ups and downs."

He linked their hands. "Why not Oberon? Since you are a Sylph, I should be the king of the fairies."

Helene thrilled the higher keys and peeped at him from under her lashes. "Possessive tyrant that you are, I doubt you would have made me fall in love with Puck, even to make me learn a lesson."

Exhaling, he pulled her back into his lap. "You are right. You have such a lovely backside. Why would I resort to something else?"

Helene laughed, brushing her cheek against his three o'clock stubble.

"I wish I could tell you I'm doing this out of compassion for Farley." His voice wavered, and he inhaled sharply as if trying to steady himself. "My mother was the same. My father said she couldn't control her passions. She left us to pursue her desire for another woman."

All this time, he had been suffering in silence. Heart clenching, she cradled his face. "Love, I didn't—"

"All my life, I have resented her. And I should also resent Farley. A man in my position should despise those who allow passion to control them, but after I met you…" His voice grew softer, and he brushed her lips with his thumb, his eyes reflecting turmoil. "I cannot avoid relating to him. When a contact implied you might have connections in France…"

William kissed her palm, his breath warm against her skin. "Do you know what I'm grateful for before I sleep? I thank God that nothing stands in the way of our love."

Helene's fingers stilled in his hair as a weight pressed against her chest. What if he found out about her brother? Would he still feel the same?