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W illiam paced the length of his bedchamber in Albemarle Park, the soles of his boots muted by the thick Persian rug. The silence—it made him deaf. Even the servants had tiptoed around him since his arrival last week. Coming here had been pointless. Instead of soothing him, the absence of music only deepened the pain.

If the sprite had respected his grief under his mother’s roof, she now returned with cruel insistence, haunting his sleep without mercy.

He glanced from the tin of sleeping pills to the vast four-poster bed. His hand trembled. Take the damn pill. Take it. Control yourself.

The former dukes of Albemarle stared down at him from their lofty perches on the wall. Across the chamber, the portrait of his father gazed down with somber expectation—the embodiment of honor and restraint, a man who had served his country with stoic distinction. His great-great-grandfather must be rolling in his grave. That man had risked his head to restore King Charles II to the throne. And here was William, paralyzed before a pill.

He pressed his fingers to his temples. What right had his mother to ask him to forsake Helene? He hadn’t accepted her choice, and she’d died denying his. How fitting. How utterly pointless. If he’d had more time, perhaps he could have convinced her—could have explained that Helene—Who was he fooling?

It wasn’t about Helene. It was about him. About the part of him that always craved what he could never have. Even now, with his mother newly buried, he battled the urge to return to her.

To Helene.

His mother had asked for one thing only: that he honor the family name. That he protect his father’s legacy. He couldn’t stain the Albemarle name. Not with this. What right had he to blacken a wall lined with trophies?

William hastened his steps. If he could pace fast enough, he might outrun the urge to return to Helene.

Unable to breathe, he threw open the shutters. A shaft of moonlight penetrated the room, painting his hand in a bluish hue. His skin tingled at the memory of Helene’s touch. The ghostly sensation haunted his fingertips, his arms, the curve of his neck—places her hands had once roamed. Pain bloomed in his heart, sweet, all-powerful.

The cursed moon was to blame, igniting this—this endless ache. If only he could sleep it off.

He grabbed the tin, staring at the sickly white pills. Take it, damn you. Stop the dreams. Cut this passion from your flesh. But his vision swam, and the pills blurred into slithering worms. His heart thundered, a knot tightening in his gut. Why couldn’t he do it? Images of Helene flooded his mind—her playful defiance, the sound she made when she slept, the fathomless depths of her eyes when she danced for him.

William let out a bitter laugh—the wealthiest man in the country couldn’t afford the luxury of a dream.

His legs carried him in a frenzy around the room. As the hearth’s light faded, the portraits changed—no longer noble, only accusing.

He stopped, panting, the walls spinning around him. His ancestors glared down, unmoved.

“Enough!”

They could have their legacy, but not his thoughts. No one could steal his dreams. In his dreams, Helene was his, and damn them all.

With a roar, he hurled the tin at the wall.

Spent, he collapsed into bed. The silk sheets were a poor substitute for Helene’s homespun covers.

Chest hollow, he shut his eyes and begged sleep to come.

Please come, Little One. I’m tired of being alone.