Cavendish’s forehead gleamed in the bluish light coming from the stage.
The music surged into the coda, brass blaring in William’s ears.
William’s grip on the balustrade tightened. “What exactly will Verón do?”
Cavendish ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you knew. He will open the dressing room to patrons.”
Verón would do what? Understanding blasted over William with the last notes of the music.
William shot to his feet. “The hell he will.”
***
William strode outside, brushing the box’s curtains out of his way. His boots struck the marble floor, echoing over the corridors of Covent Garden. Around him, the crowd ebbed, a sea of faces turning in recognition as he passed. Murmurs rose, the crescendo of hushed speculations weaving through the air, punctuated by utterances of his title.
He ignored them. The image of the males from Cavendish’s set converging upon girls dressed in white assailed his mind—a glen of nymphs being invaded by a gang of satyrs. Fisting his hands, he increased the pace.
As William descended into the dimly lit backstage corridors, the air grew thick with mold and sweat. A French tradition? Of course. Leave it to a Parisian to turn a place of art into a showcase of indecency. No wonder French society had imploded.
The sounds of the theater’s inner workings grew louder—the clatter of props, the hurried whispers of stagehands, the rustle of dresses. This was a working place, not a brothel.
Midway through a gallery, he asked a messenger for directions.
Breathing heavily, he opened the appointed door. Light from the warming room spilled into the dark corridor, the air thick with the aroma of rosin and makeup. William’s gaze swept over the clusters of dancers. Some stretched, others conversed in groups.
And then he saw her. How could he ever not see her? She was there, holding the barre, two younger girls behind her. She still wore the indecent dress of her performance, her hair a mahogany cloud around her shoulders. Rosy cheeks, dewy skin, shallow breathing.
William halted, his heart speeding out of control. Dream and reality intertwined. Like moonlight blending with the ocean, making it impossible to discern where light ended and water began, William could not separate the ballerina from the sprite.
This was his first step over thin ice and he had just heard the first crack. Utter stillness descended upon him.
A hand on his shoulder made him start.
“Ah, so His Grace decided to attend the opening night of the Green Room.” Verón’s eyes darted from him to the ballerina. “Would you like to meet her?”
William’s gaze met the girl’s. One look at her startled, gazelle eyes, and the ice beneath his feet collapsed.
His mouth went dry, and a rush of desire coursed through him, so strong it felt like a thunderbolt.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes. Introduce us.”
***
Helene held onto the barre’s fading red velvet and stretched her back, hoping to wind down after her performance. Dancing had not made her problems go away. Her brother’s letter and Katherina’s secrets pressed down on her, stiffening her muscles.
Louise came closer, her arm around Celeste’s waist.
“Celeste, breathe. You will faint.” Louise’s voice sounded shrill.
Celeste fanned herself, her smile as artificial as the flowers she wore in her ruby hair. “They are coming. What would Imogen do? Is there time for us to change our identities and flee?”
What could Celeste be fretting about now? Whatever it was, Helene couldn’t deal with it.
“Still quoting Shakespeare? You three are pathetic.” Sophie, their former friend, passed by them to the front of the room, loosening her corset.
“Better the bard than Harry’s book.” Louise hissed, making an obscene gesture. “Ignore that viper. Soon, she will be there. Blonde, with deadened eyes and pouting lips, started at the life when seduced by a hairy aristocrat. Now lives in Soho and charges eighteen pennies an hour.”
