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T he clock ticked away the minutes as William's solicitor wrote, his brows scrunched in concentration. William crossed his leg above his knee and stared outside. A sliver of blue sky peeped from under heavy clouds, and children bustled about Grosvenor Square’s private garden, their laughter muffled by the window’s glass.

The rasping of the ink pen against the vellum made him drowsy, and his vision blurred. Images bombarded him—Helene’s naked back, the sprite dancing in the glen, Helene twirling on the point of her toes, floating, floating.

The sound of sand sifting over paper brought him out of the illusion.

“Your Grace, it is done.” The solicitor passed him the contract.

The paper’s weight felt right on William’s palms. “Excellent.”

Years of madness ended today. This was the rational course—rent a house on Curzon Street, first-rate servants, a coach and four, and place Helene de Beaumont in it.

He would have to hire a lady’s maid for her, certainly.

But he would retain undressing privileges. That was non-negotiable.

His heartbeat quickened, and the memory of her lily-white skin turned the frosty afternoon into the Sahara.

The Duke of Albemarle had negotiated an alliance with Metternich, drafted a treaty that reshaped kingdoms, and brokered a contract with Rothschild that secured England’s coffers for a generation.

And now, he was prepared to wrestle a lady’s maid for the right to unlatch a ballerina’s corset.

William reined in the impulse to race to Covent Garden. This wasn’t romance, but a way to exorcise his dreams. If he could have her in his life, he would silence this… this urge. It had to be done under strict terms. He would not allow an obsession to control him. He could end the arrangement the second it disturbed his political or social schedule.

Deliberately, he reviewed each clause until he reached the annuity. What if it wasn’t enough to sway her?

A knock brought in Cavendish. “I didn’t know you were occupied. I can return later.”

“Stay. Cooper was already leaving.”

After collecting his beleaguered briefcase, the solicitor nodded thrice and left William’s study.

“You look terrible. Have you been sleeping?” Cavendish opened the buttons of his military coat and sat in the chair opposite him.

William merely lifted his eyebrows. He never slept well, and last night, the dream had been relentless. “I trust you didn’t abandon the comfort of your own hearth to notice my appearance.”

“Who said I went to my home?” After a jaunty wink, Cavendish lit a cigar. “I received news from the Peninsula. Wellington plans to siege the city of Badajoz.”

William stiffened. “Did you speak with him about Astley?”

“Yes. The Iron Duke enlisted him as his aide-de-camp. Your brother won’t be in the front.”

William nodded, relieved. As the oldest, he should have been in the war, not his idealistic twenty-year-old sibling, who didn’t know how to tie his own neckcloth.

Cavendish smiled. “Astley is an excellent officer, Will. I fought in that terrain, and I’m certain the offensive will succeed. You will have him back raiding your coffers sooner than you think.”

“Thank you,” William said gruffly.

Thinking about Astley was a rabbit hole he couldn’t face. His brother had sailed to Portugal against his wishes, and William had to believe he would return.

Cavendish pointed at the contract. “What have I missed in the Committee this time?”

“This isn’t about the Safety Committee—or politics.” William splayed his hands over the mahogany, his gaze shifting from the document to his best friend.

Cavendish might be a libertine, but he was a trustworthy libertine. A libertine much more acquainted with the demimonde than him.

“I trust your discretion.” He passed the sheet to Cavendish. “I must know if the annuity is satisfactory.”

Last night, she had displayed intelligence and pride. The contract was made to appeal to her intelligence and overcome her pride. Who would flaunt the security of a generous allowance? Being under his protection would safeguard her reputation and shield her from the attention of others.

Cavendish scanned the lines. “Is Miss Helene de Beaumont the dancing beauty who entranced you at the theater?”

William crossed his arms. Her name in his friend’s voice sounded wrong. And beauty was too simple a word to describe her. Of course, she was beautiful in the traditional sense—the kind a master might paint—doe eyes filled with emotion, a perfect, lithe form, and milky white skin. But she had more. A grace no artist could capture. She didn’t move, she glided, fluid and delicate, a being beyond this world. Yes. When she moved, she was a Venus among mortals.

“Do you know she is French, right? I thought you hated all things French,” Cavendish said.

“I don’t hate the French.”

“Of course you do. It’s a prerogative of being English. If an Englishman uses a whore’s services, he takes French lessons. If he gets syphilis as a result, he gets the French disease, or French pox. If particularly badly Frenchified, he might lose his nose, in which case he ends up breathing through a French faggot-stick—”

“Are you done?” Asking Cavendish had been a mistake. William motioned to have the contract back.

Cavendish lifted his hands placatingly. “You met her yesterday and will already make her an offer? I don’t know when was the last time you acquired a mistress, but this is not how to go about it.”

William exhaled, tapping his fingers over the table. “I don’t require a textbook, Charles. My question was straightforward.”

“How do you know if she will, er... you know—”

“That’s a matter for my command, not yours,” William replied, his tone sharp, cutting off any further intrusion.

She was not indifferent to him. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her gasping when he tested the breath of her waist and brought her closer to scent her hair. The blush that rose on her neck when he caressed her spine… William cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs. He knew she would suit him—in every way.

Cavendish returned the contract. “Look, send her some gifts, buy her a promotion. When she is ready to be reeled in, take her to your secret apartment and get rid of this obsession. It might save you a lot of gold.”

As if he had the time or the inclination for pointless courtships.

William lifted his brows and said between gritted teeth. “Is the amount enough?”

“Are you jesting? An annuity of four hundred pounds? Bloody yes. The Marquis of Worcester didn’t pay as much for Miss Harriet Wilson when she became his mistress. And Miss Wilson is the most fashionable courtesan in town.”

William pocketed the contract. He didn’t want Wilson. Wilson couldn’t bring him peace. He wanted Helene de Beaumont, and he would have her.

***

William left the house. His coach awaited at the entrance. A short drive to Covent Garden would settle matters. No need for pointless courtships. The arrangement would spare them both from emotional entanglements—and, more importantly, purge the sprite from his mind.

When he was about to enter the carriage, a glimpse of red waving in between the gray pedestrians caught his attention.

His heart lurched. Miss Beaumont—in Grosvenor Square? Had he been too late? Had she already accepted another offer?

William waved his cane at the coachman. “I’m walking today.”

Turning on Park Lane, William followed. She took short, efficient, brisk steps. With her chin high and posture straight, she carried herself higher than anyone else, making it easy to keep pace.

She stopped at number twelve. Thornley’s residence? Impossible. She couldn’t be the old man’s mistress, and even if she were, why would she visit him in his own house, and during the daytime, no less?

William halted, his breaths condensing in front of him. A knot formed in his stomach, and he fought the impulse to vault over the steps, grab her arm, and force her to turn around.

The butler admitted her without a fuss. So she was known to the house.

The door had clicked shut when William knocked.

The butler bowed. “Your Grace, how may I assist you?”

William set his jaw. You will tell your master that I saw her first. “I require a word with Thornley.”

“The Viscount is not presently at home, sir.”

“This is urgent.” William crossed the threshold. “I will wait.”

Sounds of laughter and the notes of a waltz carried to the foyer from somewhere upstairs. Lecherous bastard. Under his wife’s roof, no less.

William clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the butler. “And Lady Thornley? I presume she is out too?”

“I’m right here. What a wonderful surprise, William. And just what we needed.” Lady Thornley glided into the foyer, her dress askew and hair escaping its coiffure. Was it his imagination, or was she breathless and excited?

With his wife in the house? Thornley should be imprisoned.

The music rose louder. William stiffened. “Agnes, good afternoon. If you are having a musicale, I can return at a more opportune time.”

She caught both his hands in hers, her eyes twinkling.

“You have perfect timing, darling. We were desperately in need of a gentleman.”

What was her game? William followed her to the ballroom. She slid the double doors without hesitation. All the windows had been opened, and sunlight streamed over the parquet floor like scintillating ribbons.

A female pianist butchered a waltz. Two women danced, weaving in and out of the light, their skirts swirling together to form a bell shape.

Lady Thornley tugged him inside. “You see, my daughter’s deportment teacher is giving a waltz lesson, but it is difficult without a partner.”

The music stopped, and the women separated.

Understanding washed over him like a cool, cool rain, and William exhaled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since he had spotted Helene in the square.

A teacher. A respectable teacher.

He shouldn't have assumed the worst. What the devil was wrong with him? He had not risen to his position by making rash judgments. Kings had trusted his discernment. Yet the moment this ballerina was involved, he abandoned reason as readily as a boy in his first skirmish of love.

Helene whirled until she faced him, her skirts tangling around her legs.

Their gazes met. A jolt coursed through him. The ballroom faded into those dark eyes, so luminous. A sigh escaped her open mouth, and then she turned from him, addressing her pupil.

How could she dismiss him so easily when his every breath had been strained since he saw her last night?

She had removed the gray coat and red shawl, and the bodice of her modest dress outlined her lithe figure. With her hair swept back in a chignon, she had an air of quiet dignity, every bit the respectable governess, a picture of propriety. Meanwhile, the contract in his pocket scorched his skin.

“Would Your Grace be kind enough to step in? I would consider forgiving you for never appearing at Almack’s to do your duty as a peer and bachelor.”

Lady Thornley was one of the assembly rooms patronesses and the leading hostess of the Tory party. William made a mental note to attend. “I would be happy to.”

The girl, Lady Margaret, if he remembered correctly, blanched. Her unassuming presence shrank, and her gaze flitted all over the room as if searching for the nearest exit or a hole to place her head in.

“Mother, I think… I think that I, that my—”

“I’m afraid I’ve overworked poor lady Margaret, Lady Thornley. It is best if she rests for a while. I don’t want her to have a swollen ankle for her court presentation.” Miss Beaumont's voice was silvery and clear, the barest hint of her French accent coloring her vowels.

Lady Thornley seemed about to argue, but then her gaze rested on her daughter. “Very well. Miss Beaumont, then, would you give us the pleasure of partnering with His Grace? At least Maggy can learn by proxy.”

Miss Beaumont inclined her head regally, and with cold condescension, she walked to the center of the ballroom. No, she didn’t walk. She glided to the center, floated, or allowed herself to soar and land there. All he knew was that her steps had a grace and gracefulness that made him feel at once in heaven and hell.

When she curtsied before him, it lacked the defiance of the night before—today it felt more like a way to avoid his eyes. Was she nervous? Did she believe her rebuff had been effective? How little she knew him—William Harcourt never gave up.

He caught her hand and lifted her. When she still didn’t raise her eyes to him, he caressed her palm under the cover of their gloves, in a room with the most prominent Tory Hostess. Her gaze met his at last.

“So you will deign to dance with an anti-French, anti-reform, pro-establishment duke? Won’t Rousseau shake in his grave?”

She shrugged. “It’s just a dance.”

Placing his left hand over her waist, he brought her closer and reveled in her little gasp. “A dance is never just a dance, Miss Beaumont.”

The thrill of touching her again, even with the veiling of clothes, flooded him with warmth. She was finally within the cage of his arms. Instead of a phantom tingling, he experienced the supple muscles of her back. It was a conscious effort not to tighten his hold.

“What do you know of dancing, Your Grace?”

“The same knowledge you possess of politics, Miss Beaumont.”

“Then I expect greatness from this waltz, Your Grace. Pray don’t disappoint me.” She wrinkled her nose as if she would not bet a shilling on it.

William grinned. “I plan to. As soon as the music starts.”

Her gaze flicked to the pianist, who was frantically leafing through her sheets. “Poor Cleo, you’re making her nervous.”

He had that effect on people. “Did you receive my flowers?”

“Yes. The grandiose bouquet. I must warn you, though. I only accept flowers during the curtain call.”

A defiant, reckless pride spiced her voice. William mentally cursed himself for misreading her. If he showed her the contract now, she would throw it in his face.

“You shouldn’t try to look down on me, Miss Beaumont.”

Her eyes flashed, and she straightened her spine. “Are you afraid I might challenge your beliefs of superiority?”

“I’m afraid it might give you neck pains.”

Her cheeks reddened, and she stiffened in his arms. “Are you implying I’m short?”

William grinned. “Not at all. I think you are just the right size, Little One.”

The perfect size for him.

She muttered some insult in French that he pretended not to hear. And how could he? Her touch was warm, her hand firm yet delicate in his. The rosemary of her hair filled his senses. “You were beautiful. Dancing.”

She licked her lip. Then she peered at her feet and up at him from between sooty lashes. “And in person?”

Was she insecure? Didn’t she know she was fascinating? “In person…” He glanced past her shoulder, feigning seriousness. “I’ll reserve judgment for later.”

“That’s kinder than my opinion of you, your Grace.”

Chuckling, he brought her an inch closer. “How implacable you are, Little One.”

She mouthed the French insults again, but then the music swelled, and she transformed. Her lower back muscles gathered, her posture lifted, as if drawn upward by an invisible string.

He had waltzed with England’s finest beauties, women who followed steps out of memory or fear of faltering. But Helene didn’t follow—she glided, reading his intent before he gave it form, her grace so fluid it felt choreographed by fate.

Dancing with her was like cradling a bird mid-flight. He anchored her lightness, and she, with every step, lifted him higher. He wasn’t leading. He was soaring.

The ballroom dissolved—chandeliers melting into starlight, mirrors fading into mist. Her skirts whispered against his trousers, no longer coarse wool but white tulle, gossamer and floating, like the fabric from his dreams.

They were no longer in Mayfair. They were in the sprite's meadow.

Too soon, the final note fell. The mist melted. And he was back on the ballroom floor, but his chest still rose as if his feet had never touched the ground.

If not for the eyes watching, he’d have pulled her closer, held on until the heavens crumbled.

Lady Thornley clapped her hands. “Miss Beaumont is absolutely stunning. You will be the star of Covent Garden, my dear. And His Grace is so tall and gentlemanly.”

Smiling, he raised his eyebrows. He knew he danced flawlessly—any dance master would attest to that. Still, his heart raced, craving to hear it from her lips.

Helene lifted a perfect shoulder. “She is right. If ever oppressing the masses fails, you could always take up dancing.”

William laughed. The sound of his mirth rose over the ornate ceiling. He didn’t remember laughing so hard in all his adult life. His chest felt light, weightless, as if an enormous boulder had been removed from his shoulders.

She gazed at him quizzically, her pert nose lifted, and a little smile reached the corner of her eyes. He wanted to taste that enchanting little smile and savor the softness of a thousand whispered words.

“Are you quite done laughing? I thought you were going to swallow me whole.”

“I will, Little One,” he murmured. “But not yet.”

The prospect of courting this sprite turned into a lively ballerina seemed as vital as expelling Napoleon from Spain or keeping the Whigs away from power. Cavendish had been right, after all. Wooing Helene was the logical thing to do.

***

Lady Margaret’s morning room was adorned with maps and battle drawings. Helene stared at a faded sketch, hoping to find guidance in the pencil markings. Why had the duke intruded on her lesson? At the theater, she was prepared to fend off unwanted advances, but in respectable company? It left her vulnerable and at his mercy. And when they danced? A reactionary should be forbidden to dance like that. It made him seem almost… flexible.

And when he called her Little One?

It was strange and intimate, and worse, she could grow fond of it. The intimacy.

Through her training, she had learned to control every muscle, every expression, her breathing, even her heartbeat. She was the empress of her body, the only sphere of her life over which she had total command. Still, his presence tried to rob her of that. When he was near, parts of her rebelled—her pulse, her temperature, even her skin.

Lady Margaret gazed at her, blue eyes wide. “How did you do it, Helene?”

“Hmm?”

“You faced the most powerful male in Britain. Granted, it was in your field of expertise, but remarkable nonetheless.”

An enormous sigh escaped Helene’s chest. “I danced with him, and only because your mother asked.”

Maggy inspected her willowy reflection in the mirror, shoving her black tresses from her forehead. “How can you be so nonchalant about it? I wish I could be so secure.”

As secure as King Lear handing out his crown… During the waltz, her heart had stampeded. Thank Apollo for her gloves, or His Grace would’ve noticed her clammy palms. Why did he have to appear here?

Helene hugged herself. “It comes with making a pirouette in front of a demanding audience. It’s either be assertive or fall flat on your face.”

“Oh, please! You made him laugh. I never heard him laugh. I would bet my pin money no one in the ton ever heard him laugh.”

Helene smiled, remembering his startled laughter. He should laugh more often. Laughing, he seemed much less imposing. If Celeste were here, she would twirl with glee, congratulating her success in turning the brooding duke into a cheerful one.

“Do you know him personally, then?”

“Know of him? Yes.” Maggy’s blue eyes widened comically. “Speak with him? Lady Margaret Thornley, speaking with The Silent Sovereign? Protector of high society’s golden gates? Unyielding as steel, the man who wields more power than the regent, who is shrewder than Wellington and more handsome than Byron? I would not dare. Why would I risk instant combustion? One of his looks could turn this lithe body into cinders.”

A flush spread across Helene’s cheeks and neck. During the waltz, she had almost done just that. Flared with the heat of him — his hands on her waist, the warmth emanating from his chest, the blaze of his stare traveling from her eyes to her mouth.

He no doubt deserved all the epithets Maggy had concocted about him, but when they had danced… A person couldn’t dance like that and lack passion.

“Lady Margaret, instead of a debut on St. James’s Palace, try for a season on Drury Lane.”

Maggy’s mirth faded, and she slumped back into the chair. “The presentation is in two months. What will I do?”

Helene forgot about the duke and went to her pupil. “If you practiced ballet every day, you too could gain confidence. And think of how happy it would make your mother, knowing the good money she is paying me will not be wasted.”

Helene hated the strict rules forced on these girls. They stifled Maggy whenever she had to appear in public.

“All you need to do is allow society to see the beautiful, funny girl you show me every time I come here.”

Maggy smiled sadly. “If I fail on that, too, I can find a spot for transportation to South Wales. Do you think the kangaroos would mind if I’m terrible at polite conversation? Perhaps they would eat me and put me out of my misery.”

Helene kissed the top of her head. “I would mind. And your mother loves you dearly, Maggy. She only wants what she thinks is best for you.”

Poor Lady Thornley, the grand hostess of society. She had hired Helene after several other dance masters had given up.

Maggy’s gaze drifted to the military tome on her desk. “Oh, well, I suppose she has to put up with me, huh? A shy girl who fancies military strategy? Just imagine, soon the ton will hail Lady Margaret Thornley, the Wallflower Warrior. What a sensation I’ll be, strategizing from behind the potted plants.”

Helene laughed. “Indeed, they won’t know what’s hit them. A lady with both brains and beauty, hiding in plain sight.”

A rasp on the door announced Lady Thornley. “Can I speak with you, Helene?”

Helene followed the imposing matron to her studio. She hoped she would not ask about Lady Maggy’s progress, as that took time. If Maggy were to be successful in coming out, she needed support.

“I’m certain Lady Margaret will be marvelous,” Helene said as she entered the sunny room.

Several unfinished canvases lay about as if waiting for a spark of inspiration to be completed.

Lady Thornley smiled. “I’m glad you are so confident, child. Has she mentioned her passion for military strategy?”

“I think it shows her exuberant intellect and—”

“How unfortunate that this war seems endless. If only Lord Thornley had spoken of anything else while she was growing up, she might have shared my interest in the arts. But... I didn’t call you here to discuss Lady Margaret.”

“No?”

“I wanted to show you a treasure.” Lady Thornley went to a drawer and collected a velvet-lined box. She opened a gold locket, revealing a diamond tiara.

Gasping, Helene covered her mouth. “Is this what I suspect?”

Lady Thornley smiled wistfully. “I saw Anna Heinel in the Paris Opera in 1779 when she danced Echo et Narcisse.”

Helene sighed, imagining the magnificent piece catching the theater’s light as the prima ballerina shone on the stage. She was reputed to have invented the pirouette.

Helene’s hand instinctively reached for Anna Heinel’s trademark, but she stopped herself before touching the priceless jewel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right, child.”

Lady Thornley placed the tiara on Helene’s head and guided her to a Venetian mirror. Helene avoided looking at herself, gazing instead at the pleasure reflected in the other woman’s eyes.

Lady Thornley smiled. “When you dance, you have the same passion and stage presence as Heinel.”

To be compared with the marvelous Anna Heinel, and by Lady Thornley, a renowned connoisseur of art—Helene’s chest swelled with pride. She didn’t know what to do with her face, so happy she was with the praise. “Oh, thank you.”

“Don’t let anything hinder your career.”

Helene was startled. “Why, I don’t—”

“I noticed the Duke of Albemarle’s interest today.” Lady Thornley removed the tiara. “He is handsome and influential, and I understand it might be flattering to catch his attention.”

Hands clasped together, Helene searched the other woman’s face, looking for signs of disapproval, but saw only concern.

Guilt swam in her stomach. She gazed at the jewel, now safely stored in the case. Who was she? A girl who flirted and blushed and quite forgot herself in front of her employer? Or the crowned figure she had seen in the mirror, proud and gleaming, the promise of exceptional talent?

Lady Thornley pressed her hand affectionately. “Love is only a part of a man's world. War, land, politics, sports, other women… They all claim a share of his life. For a woman, love becomes her entire existence. Passion robs her goals and ends up ruining her. Is that what you want, Helene? To exchange all your dreams for a glimpse of love?”