Impossible. Here, under the watchful eyes of Verón, she played her part. Outside, she would be totally vulnerable to this attraction that threatened her every dream.
She lifted her chin, forcing a smile. "Where ballerinas go, dukes cannot follow."
"That sounds suspiciously like an autocratic rule, Miss Beaumont. I thought only dukes were entitled to create those." He drew something on the skin of her arm. It felt like branding "Where do you go to practice your meager waltzing skills?"
"Meager, Your Grace?"
He didn't deign to look at her, his brow furrowed in concentration as he navigated her buttons. "I'm thankful I kept my two feet."
"Your two left feet." The last time she checked, they were still attached to his overly long legs. "I don't dance outside of the theater."
"Never say you have another autocratic rule I should be aware of—"
"Your Grace, perhaps curbing civil liberties is your leisure occupation, but I take ballet seriously."
He dipped his head, brushing his nose against her neck. "What if, for a night, you could be anyone you desired? A place where no one would know you."
Was he still talking about her? She had no other identity beyond that of the ballerina. "Funny, Your Grace, I work at the theater, and you are the one fabricating illusions."
"Your wit knows no bounds, Miss Beaumont." He chuckled, and she felt his tension leaving like the last note of a song. "I wonder what it would take to leave you wordless."
His laughter rumbled low, and it slipped over her skin like a velvet promise. And just like that, she became wordless. It was unfair—that a man who could unravel her with silence could do so even more with mirth.
He gave his full attention to her corset. The bodice loosened, no longer pressing but clinging, trembling on the verge of surrender. And, with a final flick, the fabric peeled away from her skin.
He traced the line of her spine, so slowly, and warmth invaded her being. Helene should leave... But she didn't. While she awaited, her arms useless appendages pending by her sides, she uncovered a hidden secret about herself—a breathless ballerina was a witless one.
What if he propositioned her again? Like last time. She had to remember Lady Thornley's words. This reckless attraction could not weaken her.
She should step away.
She should breathe.
The air shifted behind her, and then her coat covered her shoulders.
"I will think of a place where ballerinas and dukes can practice their waltzing skills."
Before she could retort, he kissed her cheek. "Good night, Little One."
And then he was gone.
Helene closed her eyes, her body undone. Her fingers curled into fists, pressing against the loosened fabric of her bodice. She had held on. But barely. And for the first time, she was terrified—not of him, but of herself.
Because for a moment, she had wanted to follow.
And next time… she might.
“Comeon,mypets!Don’t be shy.” Verón’s voice bubbled with excitement as he motioned for the company to follow him through the theater’s darkened corridors.
Helene lagged a few steps behind. What did the director want? Her toes were sore, and her instep was a mass of angry muscles.
Sophie drifted to Helene’s side, slipping an arm through hers—a smooth gesture, like a cat brushing against the leg of a chair it had ignored for years.
Helene stiffened. It had been so long since Sophie had shown an interest in her.
Louise’s brows lifted. “Tired of fawning over the principals?”
Sophie smiled, unbothered by the barb. “Oh, don’t be cruel, Louise. I’ve simply been busy.” Her fingers brushed a loose tendril of Helene’s hair. “I forgot how lovely your curls are… Do you remember when I used to braid them? I loved seeing you dance on pointe. Would you teach me?”
