Page 49

H elene perched on the window seat, her gaze fixed on the sun as it dipped below the horizon, setting the lush garden ablaze. Summer embraced France, the air rich with the sweet scent of lilies and the melodic chirping of robins. Despite the beauty, each sunset was a reminder of a day lost without William. She had crossed the channel, but her heart had refused to come with her.

Every day, she promised herself that she would be better and that she would point her toes again. She promised herself that today she would dance, and the pain would be small. She didn’t, and it wasn’t.

In her early days at the chateau, the pain had grown so intense that Helene feared it would consume her. Gaetan and the well-meaning servants had noticed her suffering and offered natural remedies, hoping to ease her distress. Under their scrutiny and her desire for privacy, she had compressed the pain into a solid ball on her chest. Somehow, the ball became her life force, combating the darkness like a firefly tries to illuminate the night.

And utterly fails.

Helene forced her gaze away from the window. Shouldn’t she feel better by now? Her room was nothing short of beautiful. Her brother had spared no expense in the mansion’s restoration, aiming to reclaim their family’s lost legacy. The walls, painted in pastel hues, were adorned with intricate moldings and gold leaf accents, reflecting the last rays of sunlight in a gentle glow. Gaetan had decorated it lavishly—crystal chandeliers that caught the fading light, a plush rug underfoot, and paintings of French landscapes.

William would have approved it, though he might find her brother’s tastes too lavish. But the cellar and the orangery were still the same. The revolution had not burned those. She longed to share the first blooms of the peach trees with William. Helene sighed, her shoulders drooping. Why couldn’t she let him go?

The bedroom burst open. Gaetan entered, looking vexed. Helene merely lifted her eyes from her book. He wore the uniform of his regiment, the prestigious Chasseurs à Cheval of the Imperial Guard. The dark green of his coat highlighted his longish golden hair. Gold embroidery adorned his collar and cuffs, and medals decorated his chest. Their father’s ceremonial sword hung from a white belt on his lean waist.

He stared at her, arms akimbo. “What is this, Puce? You are not ready yet?”

“Doesn’t it seem strange that the Empress is giving a ball when most of the males are out of town invading Russia?”

Something crossed her brother’s face, a flicker of regret perhaps. It quickly vanished, replaced by his debonair facade.

He shrugged. “Women must be entertained, and appearances must be kept.”

Her brother had blessedly taken a leave to rescue her from England. Still, she could not forget that mysterious exchange of papers between Viscount Montfort and him. No matter how many times she asked, he was always evasive. Sometimes, she wondered if Gaetan was a spy. Others, she tried to understand how her brother could be so faithful to Napoleon, a man who had emerged out of the fires of the revolution. According to him, Napoleon’s genius was compelling, and his eyes were so charismatic that it was impossible not to be in his thrall. Helene had met only one person capable of convincing with her gaze alone. Louise. How were her friends? She fervently hoped they were happy back in London.

Her brother tugged her arm. “Come, we can still catch the fireworks.”

Helene broke free. “How many times must I tell you I won’t go? I didn’t remember you being so stubborn. A stubborn giant—that is what you became.”

He beamed, one of his brows lifted mockingly. “A stubborn but handsome giant, I hope?”

Helene huffed. “Shouldn’t you be going? I don’t want to deprive Parisian ladies of a stubborn and handsome giant. They will certainly hate me then.”

“Stubbornness is a family trait. It is on the Beaumont coat of arms, after all. Ténacité est Gloire . Tenacity is Glory.” He said and caught her book. “French society is more liberated than those stuffy English… But I’m afraid they will be terribly disappointed if the sister I spoke so much about turned out to be a bookworm.”

Helene showed him her tongue. “I promise to keep this terrible habit in secret. In fact, I will stay right here, so no one discovers it.”

“Why don’t you use one of those lavish gowns I spent a fortune in? They would make even the Empress envious.”

He went to the armoire and pulled on the aquamarine with puffed short sleeves. The flowing silk tumbled down his arm. “You could be a Sea Nymph, enchanting all with tales of the ocean’s depths and mysteries.”

“I know nothing of the sea.” Unless one counted the turmoil in her breast as experience… Still, it would hardly be suitable for party conversations.

“What about this one?” He caught the red velvet. “Helene, the Queen of Hearts, capturing all male attention.”

Helene forced a smile for her brother’s sake. “The only thing I would catch with that decolletage is a cold.”

“A bookworm and a prude? I fear that won’t do for Parisian society at all.”

Shaking his head, he chose another, an ivory silk gown with pearls and a simple line. “This will suit you better, then. You could be an angel, bringing light and purity to our racy gatherings.”

The white reminded her of La Sylphide's costume and the many times William had undressed her from it, peeling the layers from her skin slowly, like one savors a cherished gift, or fast, breathlessly, as if he could not bear to have any clothing between them. A wave of longing shook her, making her legs weak.

Closing her eyes, Helene sighed. “I cannot. Not yet.”

Gaetan sat by her side on the window seat and passed his arm over her shoulders. “Until when will you mourn that Englishman?”

Helene took a shuddering breath, her chin trembling. Unexpectedly, warm tears welled up and spilled over, their heat stark against her cheeks. “Oh, Gaetan,” Helene leaned her head over his shoulder. “My heart must have inherited the Beaumont’s stubbornness.”