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W illiam pulled away from her. Cold air replaced his warm breaths, chilling her naked skin. She held still. She had climaxed, and the way he took her meant he desired her, didn’t he? Then why did her throat tingle with this need to cry?

Just when she was about to search for her dress, dreading the moment she would have to face him, he pulled her back into his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, so strong and dear to her. How she had missed it. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

She heard the rustling of clothes, and then his coat landed over her shoulders. He dressed her like a parent who protects a child from the cold, and when his scented warmth engulfed her, he caught her in his arms, one arm below her knees and the other underneath her shoulder blades. He performed the task without once looking into her eyes.

When he started walking, she wondered wildly if he would throw her out on the streets, and a hint of hysterical laughter bubbled inside of her, but even that faded when they took the stairs up instead of down. Up and up they went over darkened steps as if they were climbing to the very heaven of his home.

When he gave instructions to Baines, Helene hid her face in his neck, her cheeks flaming.

Not half an hour later, he carried her into a spacious bathing room with high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork. A bathtub, its copper surface gleaming like molten gold, perched atop a platform, waiting as though for a deity’s indulgence.

William set her on her feet. Helene stood naked in sixth position, as out of place as the girl who arrived from France at her first ballet class. He peeled the coat away, and before the chill could settle, he lowered her into the steaming bliss.

A sigh escaped her as she sank into the William-scented water. A fireplace dominated one wall, its flames creeping and flickering, filling the humid silence with warmth.

He settled on the platform and extended his hand toward a walnut table where assorted soaps and crystal bottles gleamed in the firelight. “I have wanted to give you a proper bath since I saw you washing back at the garret.”

Shame crept up her cheeks, and she covered the evidence with her palms. She had not experienced a bath like this, not even once while living in England.

She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “You think I smell bad?”

“Not always.” A wry smile tugged at his lips as he rolled up his sleeves, revealing his muscular forearms.

Helene’s eyes drank in each exposed patch of skin. He lathered the washcloth, dipped it into the water, and moved behind her. With a soft touch, he swept her hair over her shoulder and began washing her back.

“You smell like sweat and rosin after a performance. You smell like rain and mist when you come from your lessons. When you wake up in my arms, you smell like my dreams. And when you dance for me, you smell like love.”

Their eyes locked. The warmth of his words filled her chest, buoying her. She searched his gaze for his true feelings. No more hatred burned in its depths. She found only serenity and resolution, as if he had made a decision and was pleased about it.

“But how you smell is not why I wanted this,” he said, washing her slowly, the cloth lazily brushing between her breasts.

Helene’s head dropped back against the tub’s rim. “No?”

“I wanted to take care of you.”

She could take care of herself. “I’ve been washing my own little body for several years now.”

The washcloth paused, and he withdrew his touch, his expression closing.

Helene touched his cheek. “Join me? The water is still hot.”

“I don’t want you to catch a cold.” He stood.

Helene missed his closeness.

The distance between them felt like a chasm as he grabbed a linen towel and helped her step out of the pool. His hands were steady, his touch cool—detached, as if he were handling something fragile rather than someone he desired.

Silence lingered between them, the air thick with unspoken words. His controlled facade felt like a barrier of ice between them. What were they doing? This didn’t sound like their music anymore. Instead of joy and playfulness, the notes wrung with longing, fear even—fear of her own feelings, fear of the hatred she had seen in his eyes not so long ago. And now this…this rigid control. It was as if the duke had taken William hostage and would never allow her to see him again.

He excused himself and vanished from the bathing room. Perhaps she was exaggerating.

Helene watched her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look like La Sylphide. Nor did she resemble La Diabla. She looked tired and small, engulfed in the white linen.

He came back with something in his hands—a cloud. Helene brushed her eyes. Not a cloud, but a sleeping gown of the finest, most diaphanous grade of tulle.

She brushed the fabric against her cheek, her breath catching at the sensation. So soft. Softer than anything she had ever touched. Her wings would have felt coarse in comparison.

“This is tulle illusion,” she whispered.

“I bought it for you,” he replied, his tone steady.

Helene closed her eyes, weariness seeping into her bones. “I’ve told you I don’t—”

“Tomorrow, you will sign the papers. I will rent a house on Curzon Street, and you will have servants, a coach and four, and all the luxury you desire.”

I don’t require furs, I desire only you. “But—”

“We tried doing this your way. The scandal affected both of us. I have a name to protect and a duty to this country. I can no longer risk my legacy for passion. You understand, don’t you?” He cradled her face, his eyes searching hers. “Would you let me take care of you?”

Helene dropped her chin to her chest, unable to meet his gaze. What could she say? His words, so practical, so final, weighed too much. He bade her lift her arms, and she did so numbly, allowing him to dress her in the delicate camisole.

She was so tired. She couldn’t be La Sylphide anymore, and she had no stomach for becoming La Diabla. The idea of being his mistress, of relinquishing all control, lured her like the promise of rest after an exhausting performance. How would it be to let go, to surrender to William’s tulle illusion and stay there forever?

As she curled into his chest and drifted off to sleep, her last thought was that the illusion was oh-so-sweet.