He was dreaming. There was no other explanation.
She pirouetted once. Then again. Faster. A blur of white and weightlessness. Each spin brought her closer.
His pulse pounded in his throat, and he flexed empty hands.
Any moment now, he would wake. He always did, just before he touched her. She was fickle that way, abandoning him when he craved her the most.
No. This time, he refused to touch her. She would leave, and he would wake in his bed—drenched in sweat, alone.
And yet… his hands lifted of their own volition.
Even knowing she would vanish, even dreading the cold sheets, he reached for her.
It was not in him to let her fall.
She spun again—so close now, her warmth teased his skin. The scent of rosemary invaded his lungs.
William spread his fingers, waiting to touch thin air and empty promises.
She turned one last time, wisps of hair whipping against her face—and collided with him.
Contact. Heat. Flesh. Breath.
Real.
A small, startled inhale—hers, not his. He had stopped breathing.
Her waist fit against his palms, impossibly solid, the layers of silk and muslin doing nothing to dull the heat. Her ribs rose and fell beneath his hands, her breath ghosting against his jaw.
William steadied her, his fingers flexing into the fabric of her gown, anchoring her—or himself.
She did not fade.
She smiled.
Not wide or knowing, but soft—a flicker of warmth that struck him like a blow to the gut. A dream should not smile at him. A dream should not look at him like that.
His breath locked in his chest, his heartbeat hammering. This was against reason, against everything he understood to be true.
Her breathless sigh shook him harder than a gale ever could. Nothing, not war, not politics, not the most cunning adversary, had ever unmade him like this. He was a man who governed his instincts, who dictated the terms of every engagement. And yet, in the space of a single heartbeat, she had unraveled him.
“Dreams do not breathe,” he whispered.
And yet—God help him.
She did.
***
She had been flying—spinning as if her feet had found a tripod on clouds—when a man caught her waist, his hands warm and solid on her hips. Helene's breathing came in short bursts, still reeling, yet the stranger grounded her. His strength seeped into her, and she had the absurd notion that he would never let her fall.
Helene held her position, searching the mirror for their reflection. They were beautiful together: he, a dark-haired Apollo with shoulders broad enough to lift her to the ceiling; she, rendered delicate by his height and patrician features.
If she lifted her leg inattitude derrière, would he know how to shift his hands to just below her ribcage?
"You," he breathed.
Startled by the intensity of his voice, her gaze traveled from the intricate knot of his neckcloth past his imperious chin and finally landed on his eyes.
