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H elene trudged over the private garden’s path. Leafless trees cast spiky shadows over the pebbles, and she crunched them under her walking boots. Her heart was still raging. How dare William send his solicitor? Did he really think she would accept money from him? Didn’t he know her at all?

When she arrived at Echo’s cage, she had decided that such an offer didn’t even deserve her reply. Let him stay enthroned in his country seat, wondering at her answer. He could wait all spring for all that she cared.

A ruffle of leaves alerted her to a newcomer. Maggy emerged, framed by a frilly parasol, and Helene pushed the offense out of her mind. Unlike William, her friend needed her.

“I came as soon as I got the message,” Helene said, hugging Maggy.

Maggy interlaced their arms and tugged her behind a tall shrubbery, out of view from her house.

Helene held her friend at arm’s length. “Does your mother know you are here?”

Maggy shrugged. “She has been in mourning since that day. She barely leaves her room.”

Helene covered her face. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t intend to—I feel horrible.”

Maggy grinned. “Lady Thornley is sad and sterner than usual, but I dare say she will survive. I miss you, Helene. How have you been?”

Helene plucked a crocus, her face heating. Of all the people in London, Maggy was the last one she wanted to let down. “I miss you, too. But you shouldn’t worry about me. Tomorrow is your presentation, and—”

“I decided I won’t go.” Maggy shrugged, her chin raised in defiance. “First thing in the morning, I will stow away in a boat to the Peninsula. I’m certain Wellington would appreciate a wallflower strategist. Much more than the bunch of aristocrats at St. James.”

“You will do marvelously—”

“I won’t.” Maggy bit her lip, her eyes flaring with panic. “Without you, I will step over my train, spill wine over the queen, and make a fool of myself. Just thinking about it makes me shake and sweat. Unless, of course, you were there with me.”

Helene’s heart constricted. She wanted desperately to help Maggy, but she wasn’t the ethereal figure who could inspire confidence anymore. She was only Helene.

“You know I can’t. Your mother forbade it—”

“She doesn’t have to know." Maggy joined her hands in pleading. "Please, I need you.”

Helene exhaled, her chin trembling. “You don’t need a swan with plucked feathers, Maggy. I’m no longer La Sylphide.”

Maggy held Helene’s hand, pressing it affectionately. “You taught me that what matters is on the inside. When I look at you, I don’t see the grand ballerina who enchanted London and fell from grace. I see a kind person, full of life, honest, strong, and principled, who does not hesitate to help others. I see my best friend.”

A wave of warmth invaded her chest, and she embraced Maggy, inhaling her scent of old parchment and ink.

“Does this mean you will be there?”

Helene hiccuped. “The Queen had better admit this plucked swan.”

***

Helene walked back to Soho, enjoying the respite from the cold. A few rays of sunlight graced the path, and she lifted her face, hoping to catch a bit of warmth. It would be risky to go to Saint James, but Maggy said the debutantes would be alone in a room... If Helene’s presence could help her confidence, it was worth a try.

Helene smiled for no one, just for herself. Her chest felt lighter for the first time in days. Maggy’s words kept playing like the coda of a gentle folk song. Maggy saw beyond the surface of what most people noticed when they looked at her. What a difference from the Duke of Albemarle… During their romance, Helene had come to believe he saw more, more than the ballerina, more than a person available for sale. But after the visit from his solicitor, she was no longer sure. What did he think of her to send such a demeaning offer?

When she arrived at her building, the hum in her head merged with the music of her neighbors. The air was alive with the sweet strains of the violinist on the first floor. From the third came the voice of the opera singer, practicing her scales and arias, and the tap-tap-tap of a hammer on metal added a down-to-earth counterpoint.

Invigorated, Helene was smiling when she reached her landing.

Light spilled from under her door. Helene’s heart lifted at the thought of Louise and Celeste being home early from the theater. They could help her concoct a plan to help Maggy. Louise was as cunning as a spy, and for all her romantic nature, Celeste had a vivid imagination.

Humming, she opened the lock. A shadow moved near the piano. Helene gasped.

William’s presence dominated the small room, every taut line of his body radiating tension. Wearing a black overcoat and a murderous expression, he haunted her space like a ballet villain.

Lightheaded, Helene stepped inside. Her heart sped to the point of discomfort, and she gripped the chair for support. She should be angry with him, shouldn’t she? All those sleepless nights, she had rehearsed words to say to him, but now, they clogged her throat. She wanted him, by Apollo and all the muses, how she wanted him.

So much so that she stepped closer, her arms lifting towards him.

“You are back,” she breathed.

He touched the jewelry box atop the piano, and his face blanched of all expression. Helene followed his stare. The gifts. The cursed gifts. Why hadn’t she removed them? They were everywhere—the fur coat thrown over the chair, the jewels, the silver salver, the bonnet boxes, the bonbons.

A tempest brewed in his gaze.

“And you lost no time finding a replacement for me,” he said, his voice so cold it could freeze a pond.

His hatred had returned, colder and more dangerous than before. If she had ever doubted what he thought of her, now she knew—he saw her as nothing more than a whore.

***

William brushed past her and stormed out of the garret.

Helene stood frozen as the door slammed shut behind him, echoing in the silence he left behind. His scent still lingered like smoke after a fire.

How dare he barge into her life after abandoning her like some shameful secret. What if she had taken a lover? What claim did he think he still had? She attacked the steps, her legs protesting the jarring speed. Rage surged through her, hot and wild.

By the time she burst onto the street, chest heaving, his carriage was already barreling away—wheels screaming, hooves tearing into the cobblestones.

Lifting her hand high, she summoned a hackney. She spent the way to Mayfair inside her rage, reveling in it, patching up her wounds with it, constructing a shield around her battered heart. William had trampled over her, and she was ready to return the favor.

She alighted at Park Lane and went to the hidden apartment where he once invited her for a tryst. She pounded on the door, not caring if she scandalized the neighborhood.

Her palm throbbed by the time the door flew open.

Baines appeared, face flushed with annoyance. “The noise—”

Then he took in her tear-streaked face, her wild eyes, her trembling shoulders.

His tone shifted. “Miss Beaumont…”

Helene swiped at her cheeks, smearing away the tears. She didn’t want his pity. “I will speak with His Grace.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He’s not receiving callers at present.”

“He will receive me.”

Helene pushed past Baines, each breath tight and ragged as she crossed into the secret bedroom.

She stumbled over a rug, caught herself, and found the door to the inner house.

Her footsteps rang out in the cavernous silence of William’s grand foyer. Candle sconces cast a flickering glow on the somber portraits lining the walls—long-dead dukes, ancestral eyes glaring down in silent judgment.

Where was he? The sweeping staircases and towering ceilings loomed around her, a fortress he had erected to keep her at bay. She faltered, her chin dropping to her chest. What was she doing? He had left her. Why should she care if he thought she was a whore?

A little voice inside her urged her to let him find his peace and search for her own. Their dance had been beautiful, and if she left now, she could treasure the memories, like she had told him the first time they made love.

Piano notes fluttered from the house’s recesses like water dripping in a cave. The sound lured her, and she felt her legs following it of their own will.

Light flickered beneath a half-open door. She crept in.

William sat at the grand piano, his reflection wavering over its black gloss like smoke. Energy bled from him. It was in the rigid brace of his shoulders, in the way his fingers struck the keys—heavy, violent. Whatever he fought against tore at him.

He was a stone wall, impassive. But the music—oh, the music—spoke the words he wouldn’t say—sorrow, regret, confusion, hatred, perhaps love—the emotions so raw and painful they hurt in her own chest.

A sheen of tears blurred her sight, and the aching notes drowned her anger, leaving her bare and in the dark.

He needed to know the truth, if only to keep him from hurting. A wave of longing washed over her, so strong it almost crumbled her legs. Would he hold her? At least one more time? Like a pair of moths’s wings, her legs fluttered her to her source of light—the piano, him. Like those short-lived beings, she didn’t resist the attraction. How could she, when for her, William’s music was irresistible?

He halted. “I don’t perform for audiences.”

“I won’t blame you. Audiences can be fickle. One moment, they love you." She couldn’t remove the bitterness from her voice. "The other, they abandon you.”

“Faithfulness and loyalty are the rarest of commodities. I just learned that myself.” His eyes bore into the keys. “Leave.”

Helene braced herself and lifted her chin. “Not before you speak with me.”

“Suit yourself.” He stretched his fingers and positioned his hands atop the piano. “When you tire of this little game of yours, you can find your way out.”

His hands fell on the keys like hammers. The music rose, a fortress of sound. She could almost see the portcullis drop, the moat fill, the drawbridge vanish, locking her out.

Helene stared at his perfect back, his perfect hair, his perfect cruelty. He meant to wear her out. Another woman might scream, throw a vase, collapse in tears. Helene stepped out of her shoes, and when her stockinged feet brushed against the Persian rug, she peeled off her cloak.

Helene placed herself under the chandelier’s diffuse light. If she couldn’t touch him with her art, she couldn’t touch him at all.

His breath caught, and he missed the beat, a tiny slip in his flawless performance. She affected him still. But in love or hatred?

She raised her chin. Counted the tempo.

One, two, three. A breath. A heartbeat. A lick of her lips. Then—movement.

A quick sauté , a clean relevé , a sharp soutenu . She let his music guide her, and with each step, she answered what his words withheld. Her entrechats were her denials, her fouettés his accusations thrown back at him.

She danced his rage. His longing. His jealousy.

He repeated the musical phrase—an invitation, or a challenge—and she answered with a storm of movement, her body answering his call with abandon.

Then, the music softened.

She lifted her leg in arabesque—a breath of surrender. Did he remember it? When he held her before the mirror and taught her how beautiful she was? Her balance wavered. Still, she held it. A silent plea for him to come, to hold her waist,and accept her as she was again.

He lashed the notes like the strike of a whip, and she stumbled.

The melody spiraled out of control. Heart speeding, she found the inner beat of his madness and responded to it with a madness of her own. She went on the tip of her toes and lifted her arms in fifth position, and as she opened them slowly, she pleaded with him to see her longing, to see her at last. Their gazes clashed. Something flared in his eyes, and he changed the tempo.

Helene lost the music.

Tiredness crept over her limbs, making them weigh like clubs. She was exhausted, broken, and weary of being in the wrong. Swaying, she blocked the discordant notes, listening only to her heart. She let go of her technique and bowed to the music, not caring if it wasn’t symmetrical, harmonic, or beautiful. She danced as if her parents had died in a bloody revolution, danced as if she had been the most celebrated ballerina in London, and then not, danced as if she had fallen in love with a man who wanted her out of his life. She danced as if she had legs to last a lifetime.

Cradling her truths near her chest, she prepared for her last try. She spun in a pirouette. Once, twice, she found her spot in his eyes and turned. Thrice…

He looked away. In the same breath, he deprived her of his gaze and her balance. She fell, like so many before her, with a scream in her throat and a broken heart.

Only the ground received her, her heaving breaths upsetting the carpet’s fibers.

Silence came abruptly, the music and movement ceasing, leaving nothing but her thudding pulse. She heard a soft curse and the vibrations of steps.

Hands warmed her shoulders, and he pulled her up.

She lifted her trembling chin into the unattainable heights of his gaze. “There was ever only you, and if you don’t believe me, never speak to me again.”

His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that stole her air.

“You haunt me, Helene.” His voice was tense... smoky. “You haunt me, damn you.”

Helene’s heart sped, and she would’ve stepped back if his arms were not clasping her. He looked at her as if she were a butterfly he couldn’t catch—and might rather crush than let her escape. His eyes were like blue flames, burning with desire and something darker, that hatred he couldn’t always hide from her. It was dangerous to her, that blue fire, and she desperately needed to shy away from him.

But she was so cold…

He cradled her face with his hands and brushed the pad of his finger over her lips. Warmth spread over her, and she leaned closer. She desperately needed to get away from him, but her body didn’t care. Her body was desperate for him.