Page 51

F our years later

“I’m in love with your bedroom, Your Grace.”

The room at Grosvenor Square was spacious, with high ceilings framed by intricate plasterwork that dripped like lace down the walls. In the center, a fresco masterpiece captured the eye—a vivid scene of mythological creatures in a Bacchic revelry. Fauns played pipes and tambourines, while nymphs with flowing hair danced, their laughter almost audible in the playful curves of their lips. How did her husband ever manage to sleep among such frolicking beings? Helene particularly enjoyed a mischievous fairy that haunted the woods, clad in nothing but gossamer wings.

William placed his hands on her waist and pulled her down. They both groaned.

“Only with my bedroom, Little Duchess?” His voice sounded husky and strained.

“Not only,” Helene smiled and leaned forward to lick William’s nipple. “I love this bed, too.”

Draped with velvet curtains in a rich burgundy hue, the grand four-poster bed was the room’s centerpiece.

“It’s like a stage.”

His erection felt delicious inside of her, and she rolled her hips faster, pulling her hair over her shoulder. Perspiration coated her breasts and William’s skin, and Helene traced his muscles. They had arrived from Calais last night, exhausted, but as morning light filtered through the curtains, Helene desired to see and touch every inch of her naked husband.

“Are you saying you act your pleasure?”

Helene laughed breathlessly, loving how he lengthened inside of her. “If I act my pleasure, you scream it.”

“Minx,” he said, flipping her over.

Their eyes met, and he turned serious.

Helene caressed his cheek. “Are you happy to be back in London?”

“I’m happy to be inside of you. The rest matters little.”

Helene wrapped her legs around his waist, the way she knew he loved, locking them together. Her hands roamed his body—his shoulders, his back, the firm lines of his hips—as she moved with him, their rhythm familiar yet somehow newly thrilling.

She rose to meet him, hips tilting in perfect counterpoint, guiding him deeper, anchoring him in her heat. They had been partners in this dance for four delicious years, but each pas de deux was different. Each touch, each breath, each joining—a new choreography only they could perform.

Her climax blossomed, a crescendo rising through her muscles, carrying her higher with each breathless beat.

Her back arched, offering him everything, holding him to her with the fierce grace of a dancer completing the final, triumphant lift.

His name fell from her lips. And as he watched her, as he felt her shudder and bloom against him, William knew there would never be another dance like this.

Never another partner.

Never another stage.

Only her.

Only them.

Forever.

With a shout, William spent, and panting, rolled away.

They lay side by side, their fingers touching. Helene’s breath was shallow, her heart winding down. Morning sunlight bathed the walls in twirling rainbows. With a knowing smile, the fairy on the ceiling waved approvingly at them.

“How did you name her?” Helene said, confident that when younger, the Duke of Albemarle had spent many a night gazing at the beauty.

William shut his eyes. “Forward any questions to my secretary while I’m still reeling, Your Grace.”

Before she could respond, a bang sounded on the door.

“ Maman? Papa? ?a Va ?”

“ Oui , Viola. We are fine.” Helene said, shushing William with her palm.

“Are you sure? I heard an awful noise. Has father stubbed his toe again?”

“It was his knee this time.” Helene bit the side of her hand not to laugh.

Silence. A huff from outside.

“Can we go? I want to see the park.”

“Oui, chérie, find your new bonnet, that one with lace and tiny pink flowers, and we will meet you downstairs.”

Her feet padded away. All was quiet, the grandfather clock punctuating their breaths.

“I hope you hid her bonnet better this time,” William said, kissing Helene's nose.

Half an hour later, Helene descended the stairs by William’s side. When they arrived last night, the house had been dark, but daylight exposed all its grandiosity.

Parisian Society had embraced them, both during the last breaths of Napoleon’s empire and the restoration of Louis XVIII. But how would they receive her in London? There was no more war. Thornley had committed suicide a few months before. Napoleon was in Santa Helena. Her brother had left the army and was no longer the enemy.

But Helene was still a former dancer…

She could tell herself it didn’t matter, that she couldn’t care less what the ton thought, but she would be lying. This was William’s home, and he had many policy improvement plans. He deserved a chance to make a difference. She, too, needed support to build her ballet school, and Viola? When her daughter grew up, she would need the most successful, glittering debut this island ever had.

Helene’s stomach fluttered, and she tightened her hold on William’s hand. Sensing her distress, he kissed her cheek, his gaze comforting her.

Viola raced to them. Her heart burst with love every time she gazed at her young daughter. She had Gaetan’s golden hair and William’s long legs, but her feet—her very arched ballerina feet, those she had inherited from Helene.

Viola carried a sweet in each hand, and when Helene looked at her sternly, she popped one in her mouth and hid the other behind her back.

“Now that we are in London, mademoiselle, your discipline will be more strict. In St Cloud, your uncle and your father competed to see who spoiled you more—”

“You are being unfair.” William frowned, catching Viola in his arms. “I was always much better at spoiling her than your brother.”

William twirled Viola, and gleeful cries reached the house’s arched ceilings.

Carrying Viola with his right arm, William embraced Helene. “I’m the most privileged man in the world. I can hold all that I love in my arms.”

Just as they were about to leave for a stroll, the doors swung open, and Lady Thornley entered the foyer.

Helene halted and exchanged a tense look with William. Why had she come?

Time had not dimmed her affection for the elegant lady. Dressed in a plum day dress, she remained the same poised woman who had championed her throughout her ballet career. More than that, as the Society’s leading hostess, she would play a critical role in Helene’s acceptance by the ton.

Helene stood rigid as Lady Thornley approached, her figure framed by the sunlight streaming through the open doorway.

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” she greeted them, her tone respectful yet warm.

“Lady Thornley, a pleasure as always,” William said with a measured smile. “If you will excuse us, Lady Viola requires fresh sweets from the kitchen, and I’m nothing if not my little lady’s faithful servant.”

While Viola giggled, her husband, the most powerful, most gorgeous man in the Western Hemisphere, winked and left, leaving her alone to contend with such an unexpected visit.

Lady Thornley smiled. “She is exquisite, your daughter.”

“Lady Thornley, I’m sorry for your loss,” Helene said, extending her gloved hand. “Are you coming to call upon us?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Her eyes met Helene’s. “I had hoped to pay my respects and make you an invitation.”

Lady Thornley’s warmth surprised Helene. It was more than a mere social formality—it was a lifeline, a bridge to the acceptance she so dearly needed within the ton.

Helene’s heart fluttered. “Oh, of course, I—”

“I want you to assume my position as Almack’s hostess.”

Helene sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. “But I could never—”

“Yes, you can, and you must do it as a favor for an old friend. I tire easily these days. I will have to introduce you to the others. You will love Princess Esterházy. I believe you will become fast friends. Of course, we will have to plan a ball to present you. It will be the season’s most important event, as befits The Duchess of Albemarle.”

Eyes moist, Helene caught Lady Thornley’s hand, too overwhelmed to speak.

Lady Thornley kissed her cheek. “You helped my daughter, Helene. A mother never forgets.”

Helene nodded, tears coming freely now.

After Lady Thornley left, they exited into the square. William grinned at her and tweaked Viola’s nose. He was smug and too sure of himself.

Helene glanced at him, shading her eyes to protect her vision from the sun. “Did you know?”

Laughing, William kissed her lips. “Shh, Your Grace, our music is playing, and you are disturbing it.”

Just then, a flute whispered awake, its melody curling through the air like a wisp of smoke. The notes rose and fell, languidly, sinuously, a drowsy heat on a summer afternoon. Strings weaved in, their sound like sunlight singing through the leaves, casting shimmering patterns on the grass.

Viola sprinted after a squirrel, her giggles trailing behind her. A sudden draft seized her new bonnet, tugging it free. The white muslin soared, ribbons unfurling like a magical pennant. For a suspended moment, the bonnet danced against the blue sky. Her laughter crowned their private symphony, a melody of pure joy.

As their music flowed, a singsong voice could be heard among the harp’s crystalline notes. A sprite peeped at the lovely family from between the leaves and flowers.

The flute returned, and the sprite paused, her laughter fading into a whisper as she realized the day was drawing to a close. The melody became tender, almost wistful, and she fluttered to a mossy perch, her wings folding gently around her.

As the last notes of the piece played out, the sprite waved her hand in farewell. With a delicate sigh, she closed her eyes, her luminous form slowly dimming as she drifted back to sleep. The meadow returned to its quiet, dappled stillness, the sprite’s presence now a sweet memory hanging in the air.

Smiling, Helene and William looked into each other’s eyes, and their gazes met as if they had just fallen in love at first sight, as if they had loved each other an entire life.