She felt him smiling against her hair. “Whatever you say, Little One. Just sleep.”
Williamgaspedawake,grippingthe cold sheets. Pulse speeding, his mind clung to fragments—her hands on him, her body beneath him, the mirror catching every flicker of want. Too vivid to be real.
The room was washed in soft morning light, tulle curtains glowing like mist. He exhaled sharply and turned his head—expecting emptiness.
But she was there.
Helene lay curled on her side, not touching him. Her hair fanned across the pillow like a spilled ribbon, one bare shoulder peeking from the sheet. Her back rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
He exhaled slowly. The light of day had not dimmed his feelings.
She was real. And more exquisite than any vision the night could conjure. No tulle, no stage, no sylph's dust—just skin and sleep.
His chest ached with something that felt suspiciously like gratitude.
Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing the curve of her spine. Then, not trusting his luck, he pulled her close, tucking her against his body, needing the anchor of her heartbeat against his.
Her warmth settled into him, grounding every part that had drifted toward fear.
He had touched her. Loved her. And she had not vanished.
The minutes ticked by. Below them, the building stirred—the clink of dishes, muffled footsteps on the stairs, the distant creak of a cart's wheels. Morning was claiming the world.
She had not vanished, but she was not yet his.
He couldn't remain here, wrapped around her, insulated from duty. He had business to attend to, and soon, his staff would notice his disappearance. But he would not—could not—leave before settling their situation.
William brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, letting his fingers linger. Her lashes quivered, and then her eyes opened fully.
He drank her in, memorizing the flecks of light in her irises, the sleepy curve of her mouth. A man could live in her eyes.
How could he speak of contracts when her lips made him fall silent?
He leaned in for a kiss.
Helene's impertinent finger on his mouth checked his advance.
"I have a proposition for you," she said, her voice rusty from sleep.
What? Stunned, William could only watch as she traced shapes in the linen of his shirt, her fingers igniting his skin.
"I like you, and you like me..."
He lifted a brow. "That has been well proved last night."
"Indeed. Quite to my enjoyment, I have to say. So…"
She bit her lip and glanced at him sideways, as if unsure of his cooperation for whatever scheme she had concocted.
Foolish girl. Bar helping Bonny invade their shores, there was very little she could propose that he wouldn't be amenable to accept.
"I want you as myamant de cœur," she said solemnly.
Her lover of the heart? What kind of romantic nonsense was that? Her serious tone contrasted with the absurdity of her words. Before he could respond, she placed the arrogant finger over his mouth again.
The Duke of Albemarle—who had signed treaties, commanded a squadron, and presided over court-martials—had been shushed. Twice. Before breakfast.
"I see you must be overly eager to accept the position," she said. "But you should know first what it entails. You can visit me here, and we will see each other after my performances and—"
