Page 31

T he butler intoned her name, and Helene stepped into Lady Thornley's drawing room. Thankfully, her superb white gown concealed her trembling legs, and the lace gloves would keep her hands from becoming clammy. Straightening her pose, she smiled brightly. Look at her—about to enter this lovely British invention, the dinner party—and her cheeks hadn’t even begun to cramp. Who knew? She might yet succeed in proving to William she was not the Caliban he expected her to be—the wild, uncouth native from The Tempest —but someone who could charm his friends.

The scent of expensive perfume tickled her nose as she glided through the room, avoiding her reflection in the Venetian mirrors. When the murmurs fell silent, and multiple eyes turned in her direction, she felt the unsettling sensation of being exposed—like playing the naked man game in reverse, as if the finely dressed aristocrats were watching her promenade without a stitch of clothing.

Shooing away the ridiculous notion, she returned Lady Thornley's welcoming smile.

"Thank you for having me, My Lady."

When the older woman kissed her forehead, Helene curtsied.

"You are the guest of honor, my dear." She interlaced their arms. "They are all dying to meet you."

Helene gazed at the ladies and lords present. William was among them. Every inch the Silent Sovereign, he occupied the largest armchair, his very own throne. Clad in a black-on-black brocade vest and suit, he was so handsome she wondered how these women had not melted into bejeweled, beplummed puddles.

Their gazes met. Heat climbed to Helene's cheeks, and she fought the impulse to cover the evidence. How could she conceal that they were lovers if a mere glance caused her to go up in flames? When William made no sign of recognition, a pained gasp escaped her. Her mind knew it was for her protection, but her heart was not so wise.

The lady from William’s box sat beside him, her body angled toward his. From up close, she exuded beauty and sophistication, her blond hair sparkling with diamonds. Next to her, Helene's hair had the color of rotten wood.

"My dear friends, Miss Helene de Beaumont, our new prima ballerina." Lady Thornley tapped Helene's hand affectionately. "More than her ethereal performances as La Sylphide, it is her virtuous character that sets her apart. I've met her before La Sylphide, and I must tell you I knew all along she was born to shine."

Helene felt heat tinting her cheeks and bit her lip to avoid looking at William. Would Lady Thornley receive her as warmly if she realized this sylph had enjoyed her share of earthly pleasures?

After her hostess introduced her to everyone, Helene posed in a chair, her back stiff. The ladies crowded around her, and she restrained the urge to squirm. A curious energy emanated from them, not unlike when she stepped on stage, but at least there, the orchestra pit and all the theater's rituals acted as a shield. Here, she felt exposed.

"You must tell me how you keep so thin. Could you show us how you stand on the tips of your toes?"

"I'm not wearing my slippers." Helene smiled politely, accepting champagne from a footman.

The lady from William's box—Elisabeth was her name, caught her hand, her blue eyes sparkling. Her regard was disturbing. Did Echo feel the same when people gazed at him?

"Your performance was truly the talk of the town, wasn't it, Your Grace? It's all anyone could speak of at Lady Babcock's ball. You've brought something unique to our little circle."

"How charming that I could provide entertainment." Helene smiled sweetly. "I only hope you didn’t run out of things to discuss."

Viscount Montfort raised his glass to her, a gesture that felt more like a challenge than a congratulation. Lips curled into a perpetual smirk, his black eyes flashed at her. Helene hadn’t noticed him lurking in the shadows and swallowed her champagne, trying to steady herself.

Dinner was announced. Helene rose and arranged her skirts. William stood as well, and she started in his direction. He offered his arm to Lady Elisabeth. As Helene watched them proceed to the dining room, pain invaded her chest, so acute it forced the air out of her lungs. Her mind understood the act to be a formality. Yet, her heart throbbed as if she had been betrayed.

When he spoke something that made the other woman giggle, Helene flinched. How perfect they were for each other, and she, so small. They were the main couple in the ballet, and she was back being a part of the corps, watching their dance while keeping pose, a nameless statue.

Lord Cavendish stepped in front of her, cutting off her view. "Miss Beaumont, if you won’t take offense at my lack of grace, may I have the honor of partnering you at dinner?"

Helene inclined her head, her throat tightening. "Of course, my lord."

"Tell me, La Sylphide, do you really have wings?"

Helene forced a nervous smile. "I had to leave them at home... I'm afraid they are not housebroken."

Laughing, he offered his arm and escorted her to the dining room, sliding into the seat beside her with a grin. Helene's gaze darted to William at the head of the table, where he received Lady Elizabeth and Lady Thornley’s adoring attention.

On her left sprawled a gentleman with a ruddy nose and a shock of red hair—Lord Ashford, if she recalled correctly. After three courses and several glances down her décolletage, she realized that while Lord Cavendish was a handsome rake with a sharp wit, Lord Ashford was a witless drawl with an air of pretentiousness.

Lord Ashford sipped his wine, his eyes straying to her lips. "So, Miss Beaumont, is what they say about dancers true? That you must possess a certain... moral flexibility to succeed?"

Helene gasped, her eyes darting to the ladies nearby, hoping they hadn’t heard the insult. She scrambled for a witty retort, but her mind went blank.

"Miss Beaumont's success reflects not only her remarkable talent but also her commitment and integrity. It's a rare combination that deserves our respect," William said, his voice sharp enough to send a brigade searching for cover.

Their gazes met—a brief touch. Helene glanced down at her napkin, at her untouched food, anywhere but him. Of course, she was grateful for his intervention. Then why did shame creep into her cheeks? Was it because, if she were truly a lady worthy of him, no one would dare speak to her so brazenly?

"Of course! I wouldn't dare say otherwise." Lord Ashford drawled. "We should send our precious La Sylphide to the Peninsula. Her admirable valor would surely tilt the scales in Wellington’s favor. He will need it as he has half the numbers of the French in Badajoz."

A wave of murmurs rose, the ladies tittering behind their napkins. Lord Thornley's face turned so florid, Helene wondered how his white hair didn't turn pink. Lord Thornley frowned at her, his gaze moving from her to William. Did he suspect something? Whenever she came here to teach Lady Maggy, he had always been polite. Did he find fault with his wife for inviting her?

"I'm certain Wellington has taken the disadvantage in his calculations. The Iron Duke will prove victorious," William said.

The whispering quieted, and several gentlemen nodded in agreement. From beneath her eyelashes, Helene stole a glance at him. He would be the country’s prime minister one day—would he remember her then?

Lady Thornley frowned. "Lord Ashford, while your concerns are undoubtedly grave, must we tarnish this fine evening with talk of war?"

"How can we escape from it? It is in every newspaper, every corner." Lord Ashford grimaced. "One cannot travel from here to Brighton without stumbling upon a barrack, a parade, a cavalcade. Napoleon has turned the country into a garrison."

Lady Thornley clucked her tongue. "Such harshness shouldn't intrude in a ladies' world. I prefer to circle myself with beautiful things, like in the ballet."

Lady Thornley looked at Helene then, her smile gentle.

Lord Thornley leaned forward. "My dear, not all of us can ignore the war." He spoke to his wife, but his eyes found Helene's. "I, for one, will only be at ease when all the French are expelled back to their borders."

Helene stiffened, her smile faltering as his words crushed her. Why did Lord Thornley stare at her as though she were the villain? William caught her gaze, but she glanced away, staring at her lap.

What future could they ever have beyond a hidden affair? She would never belong to this society that saw her as an ethereal figure at best and a French enemy at worst. Foolish, foolish girl. How had she allowed herself to fall in love with him?

When the dessert arrived, her temples pounded and the muscles of her face ached.

Lady Thornley lifted her dainty glass. "To our beautiful La Sylphide. May she keep dazzling us with her dance and virtue for many seasons."

Amid polite applause and clinking crystal, Helene drank her wine, wondering if a dinner party was not a sublime form of English torture designed to crown a person a first-rate success while making her feel like an utter failure.

***

William drummed his fingers on the table. As the ladies departed the dining room, he tried to catch Helene's gaze, but she passed through him with her chin downcast. He had sat through every veiled insult, every calculated snub, forced to bear witness while they carved at her with politeness. And he had done nothing. He told himself his silence had been for the best. Intervening would expose Helene to ruin. Guilt twisted icy tendrils around his heart. Why was it that the Duke of Albermale could shield his country from chaos, but was unable to protect his own woman?

The sprite’s voice crept into his mind as clear as if he was dreaming.

You have no right to invade my glen.

If Helene had been the daughter of a nobleman, would he have pursued her so relentlessly? Because she had been a ballerina, he had allowed his desires to go rampant, believing she was his for the taking. No. He would have kept his distance. Observed the proper forms. Asked permission. Played the game. William swallowed his port, the burn too mild to match the bitterness rising in his chest. There was no point dwelling on the past. A past he would probably reenact if given the chance. Helene belonged with him, and he would not have it any other way.

When the last lady filed out, Ashford stood and stretched his back. “I’m going to piss. God, but I can’t wait to have that bird in my bed.”

Rage coiled tight as wire in his chest. William stood.

Cavendish stepped in front of him. "We must speak."

"Not now."

Cavendish caught his arm. "Is she worth it calling out a friend? Because if you advance over Ashford with your murderous expression, that is what will happen."

If it came to that, so be it. "Lower your voice."

"You've hidden the affair well, but these things have a way of surfacing." Cavendish pointed his chin at the group of men, now enjoying port and cigars.

William’s teeth ground together. "We've been discreet."

"A chap can be discreet about a French spy or a French chef, not about a French mistress and one who is the ballet sensation." Cavendish lifted his brows. "I came from White's. Someone placed a bet tonight. The subject is La Sylphide's monthly allowance, her annuity, and who will be her next protector."

A fracture opened in William’s chest. Cold air poured in. Helene. His Helene. Reduced to a name on a betting slip. A prize passed between gentlemen like a racehorse. If all knew, Helene's reputation would be ruined.

His pulse pounded. The weight of his fury so complete, he could barely breathe.

"Who set the wager?"

"Does it matter? Because of her, you are neglecting the season, even parliament. Thornley is furious. He wanted to dissuade Lady Thornley from having this soiree, but she is enamored with La Sylphide. You are lucky that none of the ladies heard about your affair."

He would not allow society to punish Helene. If the bet was placed tonight, he could manage the consequences before the rumors caught fire. "I will force the club to withdraw the bet."

He shouldn't have allowed Helene here. While she had been a character on the stage, people overlooked the woman underneath, but now, they would revel in the scandal. The ladies would have another subject for gossip and the men, a chance to compete for her attention. It was his fault.

Cavendish exhaled. "And if this gallant scheme doesn't work?"

William squared his chest, each breath a struggle against the iron bands squeezing his ribs. "I will protect her, whatever the costs."

Cavendish's eyes widened. "You cannot be serious. Thornley is right. You are mad."

***

Helene curled into the corner of Lady Thornley’s carriage. How long until it would depart? The dinner party had been more exhausting than a triple bill. She needed tea, a blanket, and to vanish beneath her counterpane like a tragic heroine. For sore muscles, she had rosemary and camphor. But what, precisely, did one apply to sore pride? Perhaps lavender for dignity. Or arsenic, if she had to endure another evening like this…

"She’s lovely on stage, but what else is there?" Lady Elisabeth's voice drifted up from the courtyard.

Helene froze by the window, arms folding tightly around herself.

"Everyone knows a swan loses its grace the moment it touches the ground."

So that was how they saw her.

"And have you noticed how she fawns over the Duke of Albemarle? Poor thing doesn’t know her place."

The words lodged like splinters. The carriage walls pressed inward, the silk upholstery suffocating.

Helene flung open the opposite door and stepped onto the street. The cold slapped her burning cheeks, but she welcomed the sting.

Her feet led her to Grosvenor Square, where she wandered aimlessly through the trimmed hedges and stone statues that seemed to look down on her with silent judgment.

What if William agreed with them? What if, beyond La Sylphide, he saw nothing worth keeping?

Her chest tightened. She shouldn’t have left the stage.

She turned a corner—and came face to face with Echo’s cage, the gilded bars dulled by the night's mist. Helene stared at the bird, hands trembling. Her lips parted to speak, but no words came out.

At her approach, Echo’s head turned, his inquisitive eyes catching the moonlight.

"Who are you?" The parakeet croaked. "Who are you?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."

Panting, she reached for the door. Her fingers trembled as they fumbled with the latch.

She had to set it free. If she set him free, everything would be all right.

Strong hands grabbed her, pulling her away from the cage. She struggled, twisting her torso, kicking furiously.

"Helene, stop," William whispered, his warmth seeping into her chest.

Helene’s body went lax in his arms. "I must set him free."

William embraced her. "He won't survive the London winter. If you release him, he will die."

Whimpering, Helene clutched his coat and buried her face in his chest, needing to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry, Little One." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry."

***

William held Helene in his lap during the ride to her building, her shivers echoing through his body. What if he couldn't contain the rumors? William stroked Helene's back, whispering reassurances, his gaze darting to the window. The mist had cleared, but a chilling rain lashed the silent streets.

Carrying her in his arms, William climbed the stairs of her building. Her silence squeezed his heart. Why had he placed her in such a fragile position? He would protect her at all costs, even if it meant exposing his house to scandal. After opening the door, he settled her on the bed. It pained him to leave, but he had to go to White's. He had to remove the bet.

William left a candle burning at her bedside, and after stoking the fire, he kissed her forehead. "Sweet dreams, Little One."

"Where are you going?"

"I have business to attend to."

She frowned, her voice husky. "At midnight?"

William shut his eyes. How could he tell her that if he didn't leave, she would be ruined? "I—"

"Say nothing. Just go." Helene's chin trembled. "You came, you saw, and you can boast you conquered La Sylphide. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

The bitter words pierced his chest. "What are you saying, Helene?"

"It is all everyone sees when they look at me. La Sylphide." Her breath hitched, and her eyes swam with tears.

William passed a hand over his face, his eyes burning. Hadn’t he done the same? Obsessed over the sprite on stage, been enthralled by the illusion, chased a fantasy? But now—God help him—he knew better. Knew the scent of her hair and the curve of her stubborn mouth. Knew to cherish her clever retorts and the strength behind her softness. Knew that La Sylphide was the dream, but Helene was the truth. Ever since he met her, she had challenged, defied, infuriated, and utterly entranced him.

“You conquered me, Little One. Not the Sylph. You. I have commanded regiments, debated the fate of nations, stood before kings without blinking. But one word from you, and I forget how to breathe.”

Her lips trembled. He brushed his thumb across her cheek.

"You conquered me, Little One. By God, you conquered me. I don't know how you do it with your delicate limbs and astute mind, but here I am, conquered."

She gave him a watery smile. "Then don't leave. Please."

William caught her in his arms, holding her close, needing to feel her heart beating against his.

She tore at his coat. "I need to see you. You will vanish if I don't see you."

He helped her peel off their clothes. Skin to skin, they meshed their bodies, their hearts pounding in sync—a rhythm of desperation and raw need.

She mounted him, his cock sinking deep into her core. A shudder went through her, and she moved fervently, grinding her hips to him as if she wished to meld their souls. Clawing at his skin, she wanted everything at once, feverishly, violently, tenderly—to kiss and be kissed by him, to caress and be caressed, to taste and be tasted, to explore and be explored, to love and be loved, as if their time was ending, as if their music was on the final beats.

With a heaving breath, she slumped over his chest. "I can't find it. I—"

"Easy, Little One. We will get there. Together." William pulled away from her and lay her on her back.

He touched her briefly, reverently, her chin, her neck, the sides of her breasts, her calves. Kissing and licking, not wanting to spare the tiniest part, William loved all her body. The underside of her arm that framed her face when she danced, the ticklish part behind her knees, the curvature of her stomach that shook when she laughed—he loved all.

He whispered his devotion to her inner thighs and lapped a lullaby on the lips of her sex. He played a sweet ballad, drawing the notes with his tongue, flicking her bud like a harp, and then closing his teeth around it, sucking gently.

When her belly quivered and her breathing changed, William kissed her ankles.

"I love your ballerina’s legs," he said, "and if you ask me to give my pledge to a single part, I might take a decisive pledge…" He kissed her ticklish knees. "A very serious pledge…" he moved further up her body and licked her navel. "A wicked, passionate one…" He kissed the underside of her breast. Agonizingly slowly, he entered her and gazed into her fathomless eyes. "To your brilliant mind. La Sylphide haunts my dreams, but Helene consumes my every waking hour."

When her release came, she mouthed his name, and tears poured from her eyes. It was shattering like the breaking out of a fever. William caught her in his arms, cradling her like a child.

Brushing his lips on her forehead, he rocked her to sleep.

"Rest, Little One. While you dream, I will make everything right."