Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Manners? They escape my notice, for what good are manners when one lives in solitude? Now, rules, I understand. I exist on the bread of notes and the water of my piano; to practice manners for the very society that failed me seems fruitless. After all, when would I need them?

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Dominique paced in front of the fireplace, no doubt ruining the rug he had placed there for Isabelle’s enjoyment. “She’s late,” he roared when Miss Ward presented herself to him.

“She is getting dressed, my lord, try to have some patience.”

He lifted an eyebrow. So now his staff was arguing with him. He opened his mouth to speak just as someone cleared their throat. He turned to see Isabelle entering. A gold dress draped off her shoulders, his mother's diamond necklace plunging between the curves of her breasts.

Mouth completely dry, he struggled for any sort of reaction but all he could muster was an awkward hand gesture for her to take a seat. Blushing, she curtsied and went to the far side of the table.

“My, my, what have we here? Hmm?” Hunter floated into the room, took one look at Isabelle and fell to his knees in front of her. “Oh, thy beauty is so great, it pains my eyes to look upon—”

“Hunter, if you value your life, you will refrain from finishing that sentiment.” Dominique glared.

Isabelle tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Does that mean you will compliment me, since you’ve taken away Hunter’s privilege to do so?”

Hunter grinned cheerfully.

Miss Ward crossed her arms.

Isabelle leaned forward in expectation.

“You, um.” Curse Hunter for setting him up! “You look…agreeable.”

Miss Ward rolled her eyes and left the room. Hunter shook his head. “Perhaps while this young bird practices singing, I’ll give you a lesson in the art of seduction. Or perhaps compliments. Women do so love them. Shall I show you how it is done?”

Hunter opened his mouth. In a fit of rage, Dominique charged him but was stopped suddenly when Isabelle stood in front of him with an icy glare. “You may fight like a beast after I’ve had my dinner. Now, mind your manners, take a seat, and we are going to have a nice meal.” She turned on Hunter. “And you! Stop provoking him! It’s like living with children!”

Hunter hung his head and walked to his seat, playfully defeated.

****

Honestly! Never had she been in the presence of such immature gentleman. They actually enjoyed provoking one another. And it was driving her to Bedlam! This was the first meal she had agreed to. Looking across the table, she couldn’t quite figure out why she had been so against it in the first place.

Dominique was still cross and more often in a bad mood than a good one, but tonight he seemed different, changed in a way. And that’s when it dawned on her.

“You shaved!”

Dominique dropped his spoon; it splashed soup onto his neatly tied cravat. Hunter’s laughter echoed through the room.

“And your, that is, your hair, it’s, it’s…”

“Quite glossy, don’t you think?” Hunter interjected. “Apparently all of the Russian princes can boast of such a thick mane. I used to be envious, that is until I discovered I had the larger—”

“Fortune!” Dominique yelled as he turned bright red. “And that has yet to be proven, friend.”

Something in their tone told Isabelle it was not fortune they spoke of, but she was too focused on her husband’s beautiful face to form a question. Perfectly sculpted lips so full they looked painted. His hair, now with tighter curls, hung loosely around his eyes, dark shadows of his cheekbones poked out, drawing a perfectly symmetrical line. If she were an artist and in need of the perfect male specimen, she would have chosen Dominique, for he didn’t seem real. Her eyes must have betrayed her interest, for it wasn’t until Hunter cleared his throat the third time that she managed to look away, a burning blush heating her cheeks.

“It is agreeable,” she mumbled, dipping her spoon into the soup.

Silence met her declaration. She looked up to see Dominique’s hungry gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body, tingling her until she thought she would go mad.

“Perfect, now I’m surrounded by people who know nothing of how to give a compliment,” Hunter interrupted, looking between the two of them. The air was thick with tension. Hunter cleared his throat once more. “Great soup. I always say soup is the best course to start with, it warms the soul when the bed is empty.”

“Your bed better stay empty while you’re in residence, Wolf.” Dominique turned his eyes toward his friend and glowered.

Hunter didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “Excuse his hidden meaning, Isabelle. He’s merely trying to warn me to stay away from you, lest I find my head removed from my body in a most painful manner.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Dominique smiled.

Isabelle gasped.

Both men turned to look at her, humor dancing behind their eyes. “Something amiss, my lady?” Dominique asked, the candlelight beaming off of his erotic mouth.

“I, was just, um... Frightened!”

“Of?” he prodded.

“The…” Isabelle looked around for anything to excuse her behavior. But saints alive, without the wild hair covering his face, he looked like a fallen angel. “The dark.” She winced. “I thought I saw a shadow…”

Isabelle inwardly rolled her eyes.

Dominique narrowed his gaze, making her shift uncomfortably. And it was that same gaze that held her attention throughout the entire meal. Finally, he relented, but only when Hunter retired for the night.

“Would you like to share a glass of sherry?” Dominique’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

They adjourned to one of the practice rooms; the same one Dominique had assaulted her in, earlier that day.

The lit candles cast a haunting glow upon the piano. She wondered silently what secrets the piano held, for it seemed every time she tried to figure him out, she ended up more confused than when she started.

“Tell me, Isabelle…” Dominique came up behind her his breath a soft whisper across her ear, “Why is it that you love music so much?”

What she wouldn’t have given to have been blessed with musical talent. “I love something that does not love me back, it seems.” Her intake of breath made her nearly fall backward into his chest. He wouldn’t think it a double meaning, would he?

“And you love music?”

“Desperately.”

“Do you feel music? Did you feel it this afternoon when I was teaching you?”

“I tried.” Her shoulders slumped. “I admit to being distracted.”

“By?”

“My own thoughts, your nearness, the room and dazzling view out the windows. It is so hard to concentrate when life goes on around you.” Never had she realized how much she was driven to distraction until she said the words aloud.

“Don’t move,” he breathed.

Terrified, she stayed immobile. Dominique withdrew a black piece of fabric and grinned. “Now, close your eyes.”

Not quite sure why she trusted the man, she closed her eyes as he wrapped the blindfold around her eyes. “Now… I begin your second lesson of the day.”

She nodded. His presence left, and she was immediately cold. Where did he go? She wrung her hands and finally clasped them behind her back as her ears listened for any sort of movement.

“Feel.” It was one word, one single word from Dominique’s lips. She couldn’t see his lips but knew the way the word would look as he formed it. No doubt they pressed together just slightly before he exhaled. Her breathing became ragged.

He pulled her body firmly against him, he held her from behind, his strong arms wrapped around her.

“Feel,” he said again, this time lifting her hand to his lips. Swaying, she managed to stay standing, but it was not without effort.

His skin was warm beneath her touch, his lips slightly wet as if his tongue had just licked the bottom half of their plumpness. Slowly, he grasped her hand and drew it down his neck until it stopped at his pulse. A healthy rhythm pulsed beneath her fingers, and again he moved her hand lower repeating the same word as her hand went to his hard lined stomach. “Feel.” His voice came out hoarsely as she felt his inhale and exhale of breath.

“Your body—” He wrapped his hands around her waist bringing her closer, “is the instrument, much like the piano is mine. You desperately want to sing, but have no idea how to control the one tool you have to your advantage. Much like a child who wants to play the piano but hasn’t a clue what the notes sound like, that is how you sing. Now, I want you to feel.”

“I did, I just felt…”

“Not me, I was merely demonstrating what you were to do to yourself. I want you to understand your body, understand your femininity so you may finally take ownership of what God has given you.” He grasped her hands within his own and laid them across her own lips. “Now, feel.”

Breathing heavily, she listened, the silent torture nearly killing her as his hands helped move hers over her own body.

Never had she felt so alive or so in desperate want of the man holding her so close to his warmth. “Touch, just here.” He cupped her hand and pressed it against her neck. “Listen to your pulse, listen to the rhythm.” Sliding her hand downward, he pressed it against her heart. “Your breath, it is shallow, is it not?”

She could only nod as he slid her hand further down to her abdomen. “Breathe from here, not here.” His hand left hers as he pressed it against her ribs. It was enormous and warm almost taking up the expanse of her chest as he pushed against it with each breath.

Now, his hands skimmed the tips of her breasts as he met hers across her stomach. "When you sing, I want you to remember to feel, to have confidence in that feeling you have. Do not make noise for the sake of making noise, make noise for the sake of making music.”

With little effort, he lifted her into his arms and set her across a bench. He began to play a soft, haunting melody. The blindfold was still on, but it seemed with her eyes blackened she could finally hear the music the way it was supposed to be heard. Dominique’s gift was evident as he continued playing, almost as if he was telling her a story with his hands. Something he dare not communicate with his words.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded when the music ended.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He played a new song, one that brought pain into her lungs. Tears formed in her eyes, without thought she reached out to touch his hands as they played, the minute she came into contact with them she knew something was horribly wrong.

He jerked away; the music came to a crushing stop. His hands were without gloves. Not knowing what else to do, she waited. Finally, after a few minutes he removed her blindfold. A sad smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I believe this is where I bid you good night.” He lifted her hand into his gloves and bestowed a gentle kiss on the tip of each finger.

“Goodnight.” She gulped and wandered out of the room all the while keeping her eyes trained on his form as he too exited without another word. So close, she was so close to knowing him she could feel it, even see it at times in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. The problem, it seemed, was he didn’t trust anyone, not even himself.

Chapter Thirteen

I can no longer write music. For every time my hand stretches across the parchment to give life to the note, my mind thinks of her, and when my mind replays her image, all I see is blood. My compositions are my blood oath, to avenge her one way or another. To push forward when all I want to do is relinquish music’s hold upon me.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Isabelle awoke exhausted the morning after her first music lessons. The feel of Dominique’s hands across her stomach, and her neck, made her body tingle with awareness. His touch did things to her, funny things, that she never knew possible. For how was a woman to feel this, this feeling when the man touching her was so harsh?

Perhaps she would never figure out her own fickle emotions. She hastened through her morning toilette and went down to the dining room to break her fast.

Hurrying down the marble staircase, she didn’t notice that the room, usually empty when she ate in the morning, held not just Dominique but Hunter as well.

“So the princess is awake?” Hunter looked up from his plate. “We were beginning to worry about you.”

Isabelle lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes.” Hunter wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, to be quite honest, I knew you were just fine, most likely exhausted from beating off the swine and his snoring through the night. But, I am glad you are here.” He chuckled when Dominique rolled his eyes. “It seems Dominique has discovered close to twenty ways you could have injured yourself this morning, all of them most likely a figment of his own imaginings. But alas, I see you are in one piece.”

Isabelle snapped her attention to Dominique. With his face clean-shaven it was apparent that he was fighting not to blush, as his neck turned a light pink color.

“See, old friend? I told you it was impossible for someone to fall from her bed and break her neck, or take a tumble down the stairs, or for a bird to jump through the window and peck her to death. Truly, does your own imagination never frighten you?”

Still, Dominique said nothing. Peculiar. It wasn’t often that he didn’t yell back at his friend when provoked, or at least growl.

Isabelle walked closer to where he sat and leaned in toward his face. Perhaps he was foxed? At her inspection Dominique leaned back, which of course just made her lean forward even more until she was only a few inches away from his face, her eyes squinted.

“Saints alive, I think she’s inspecting me,” Dominique said cheekily.

Hunter’s laughter brought Isabelle back to the present. Embarrassed, she jerked back and went to the sideboard to obtain some toast.

“Are you ill, my lord?” she asked, her back turned to both of the men.

“Ill?” Dominique repeated. “No, I believe I’m quite healthy.”