Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (21 page)

Only cowards made admissions and refused to look into the person's eyes when doing so, but he found his old insecurities crawl back full force. The weight of rejection heavy on his chest yet again. Would he never be rid of it?

Isabelle sighed, then pulled the drapes across the windows. In an instant she was straddling him. Lifting her skirts over his form it was truly something he would remember for his entire existence. Especially the way her legs braced either side of him. How pieces of hair fell out of her hat. The smell of berries from her breakfast warm on her breath. She bit her lip and cocked her head to one side.

His pulse pounded in his neck; no doubt she could see it. The whole blasted world would be able to view it. But he could not stop the blood roaring in his ears, or the distinct arousal emblazing his body. He wanted to stay there, in between her thighs forever. Even if she was clothed the entire time. Her warmth, her body, embraced his in such an intimate way that he wondered if he ever truly knew passion until this day.

Yet her lips hadn’t touched his mouth.

Her hands hadn’t reached for his breeches.

And he wasn’t driving into her like a lust-filled madman.

They were merely sitting, staring, gazing. Like besotted fools.

He loved it. He loved
her
.

“I am the liar. For I have fought, very hard, not to show you how much I care, how much I feel, how I would die for another taste of your lips.” Isabelle brushed her lips across his as she whispered, “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

Isabelle settled comfortably across his lap, her lips brushing his as she spoke, “When I lie, I hold my breath. I think it's because I am fearful.”

“Are you holding your breath now?” he asked.

“No. Why would I? When all I want is to taste your skin.” Her kiss both alarmed and invigorated him. Her tongue dipped out to trace the hollow of his neck. He didn’t deserve such a perfect, bold female. But he was going to take her, and pleasure her and—

The carriage jolted to a stop.

Isabelle held her bottom lip captive between her teeth and grinned mischievously. “It seems our trip is finished. Shall we shop?”

Dominique closed his eyes. It really was the only way he could think to blast out her image without ravishing her completely and fully in view of the entire village.

“Right,” he ground out, his voice raspy and thick. “Let us just shop.” He cursed shopping the rest of the day, for it was the obstacle that kept him from doing the thing he wanted more than anything.

Making love to his wife.

Chapter Twenty-seven

I remember my first performance. It was for the Czar of Russia. I was terrified, but so excited. My palms perspired as I touched the keys of the piano and set out to impress my father’s friend. It was the most terrifying time of my life. Yet, when I gaze into the eyes of my wife, a new terror takes hold, gripping my heart until it hurts to breathe. To lose her would be to lose myself. I cannot grasp, nor fathom the depths of my sorrow, if I were to no longer have her by my side. I would give up my music, my life, my very soul, to keep her.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

By the time Isabelle returned to the carriage with Dominique, the sun was going down. It had been a dreadfully long day, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so fun. Dominique was showing a completely different side of himself. At one point she thought he was foxed. He was too carefree, he laughed often, and his smile was so beautiful it took her breath away. Surely there was some sort of explanation for his behavior? She wasn’t naive enough to believe it had to do with being in her presence, though she ached for it to be true. Men despised shopping as well as socializing, at least men like Dominique, but he seemed to enjoy walking into the village, talking with the local butcher and even the modiste as he explained exactly what type of dress he needed to be made for Isabelle, stating that she was to never wear the colors of a debutante again.

The ladies of the village noticed his charisma as well. The women shared their smiles too freely and found any number of excuses to reach out and touch Dominique. One of the ladies at the shop had the audacity to even claim she was concerned there was a rip in his jacket. Jealousy poured out of Isabelle until, in one final act of a day of poor choices—for she had shamelessly attached herself to his person publically all day—she even went as far as to kiss him in the middle of the village square.

“Feeling possessive?” Dominique asked, his lips forming a mischievous grin.

“No.” Isabelle brushed his hair out of his face. “Feeling happy.” And it was true, she was happy, though it was entirely possible that her happiness was being overshadowed by a sort of jealous rage she had never before experienced.

“Even better.” He winked.

As they sat across from one another and made their way home, Isabelle could not help the feeling of foreboding that took over. What if it was all a lie? Was Dominique truly reformed or would she put her heart even further out only to see it snatched away the minute he allowed the darkness that haunted him to seep back into his soul?

Dresses, gloves, hats—he did not even stop to ask if she wanted any of these things, rather he insisted that she add to her wardrobe. His way of repaying her, no doubt, for her kindness during his illness. But what she wanted, what she needed, was the very thing he hadn’t once offered since his recovery.

His heart.

Dominique had made it clear that he desired her, but that he too feared rejection. How was she to continue on in the same fashion, knowing that fear kept both of them from proclaiming what needed to be said? If she took the first step, if she were to be bold and confess her love, then she put her heart and what felt like her soul out into the open. Oh she had said it before, but after he was shot, she wasn’t even sure if he still remembered, or if he thought it was merely her emotions running high. If he did so, then he feared she would reject him and if her answer was less than perfect or if she paused in any way, would he begin to shout and act beastly, thinking she felt differently.

It was all too much. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She chewed her lip in thought, keeping her eyes downcast the entire way home. Clearly, Dominique was distracted, for he said nothing to her once they pulled up to the large estate. Instead, he jumped out of the carriage, offered his hand, and made some ridiculous excuse about seeing that Hunter hadn’t jumped headfirst from the balcony.

Bewildered and quite tired from spending the last of her energy arguing with herself the entire way home, Isabelle walked blindly into the castle, not bothering to look any direction but at the stairs as she slowly ascended to her bedroom.

Perhaps a nap would set her to rights? She stifled a yawn. Yes, a nap would be just the thing. Maybe her imagination would be at rest and she could wake up refreshed, ready to find out why her husband was in such a hurry to find Hunter.

****

Dominique watched his wife slowly walk up the stairs. Always the lady, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand to hide her yawn. She must be utterly exhausted, for she hadn’t said a word the entire ride home. Not that he could blame her, for the past few days had been anything but restful for the girl and he had gone and overwhelmed her with a shopping excursion. But it was necessary, for not only did he need her away from the estate, but he required her exact measurements to put final touches on the ball gown he had ordered for her.

Now, he just had to locate Hunter to make sure everything was set for that evening. Everything had to be perfect.

As expected, Hunter was indeed leaning over one of the balconies above the stairs; he was not, however, planning his own demise. Rather, he was helping one of the servants string up a slew of lanterns filled with candles.

“There you are.” Dominique took a deep breath and looked around the transformed entry leading into the ballroom at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you think you can manage to hurry?”

Hunter glared, his eyes burning with indignation. “Why yes, why don’t I just snap my fingers? Perhaps magical fairies will appear and decorate the entire house to your liking, considering what I’m doing isn’t enough.”

At that precise moment, one of the candles hit the corner of Hunter's jacket lighting him on fire. The outburst caused quite a commotion as the man turned in circles and cursed before a nearby maid finally doused him with a bucket of water.

Dominique desperately tried to hold in his laughter; truly he wasn’t prone to laughing so much in one day. But the sight of his friend, drenched after a day of women's work and decorating was too much.

A chuckle broke free and then another, before Dominique bent over in pure merriment as his laughter echoed off the walls. Hunter joined in. The maids, however, looked shocked for Dominique knew better than any that it had been years since such laughter had danced through the house.

Surely it hadn’t been as bad as all that, had it? His mind played tricks with him. Surely he had at least smiled! But as his gaze quickly darted to the shocked maids, he realized that yes, it had been that bad. If anything it had been worse. And he was to blame for all of it.

Perhaps if he would have visited this particular home, the country estate once in the last ten years, his smile wouldn’t shock them so. But all they had to go on was rumors of the murders and Dominique’s eccentric reputation. He hadn’t been to this estate in years. And his staff still wasn’t sure how to respond to him.

Gathering his wits, he managed to stop laughing as he nudged Hunter, who also stopped grinning like a fool. “Thank you,” Dominique addressed the maid. “For all your hard work, as Hunter has, I’m sure, explained, we are to have a ball in honor of my wife for agreeing to be saddled with me the rest of her days. And, as a surprise, every single staff member is to bring their family and friends to the glorious event tonight.”

At his announcement, the maid’s eyes widened until he was certain they would roll back as she fainted dead away.

“Are you able to notify the staff, Miss…?” Truly, he hadn’t even a clue what her name was. What type of man was he that he could not remember a person’s name! It was as if the darkness he had lived in had destroyed his memory as well.

“Hopkins, Beth Hopkins, your highness.” She curtsied, a flush rising to her cheeks.

“Miss Hopkins.” Dominique said the name. “Do I pay you well?”

Hunter cleared his throat and nudged him. “Dominique, stop scaring the poor girl. I’m sure there is a better time or place to discuss such things. This is not it.”

Dominique ignored him. It wasn’t at all proper to discuss such things publicly in front of anyone, especially a titled guest such as Hunter, but his curiosity was piqued. The fact he had no idea of her name spurred him to think of other notions he hadn’t considered. Had he been a better master than his father? Had he provided for his servants?

He nodded his head and crossed his arms. After a few minutes, in which Miss Hopkins looked to be thinking of a lie, she licked her lips and answered, “You pay me quite well, my lord, for I am able to feed my family and that is all I ask.”

“And clothes, are you able to purchase clothes?”

She was silent.

“And coal for your fire?”

Still no answer. Tears pooled in her eyes.

“Wax for your candles?”

Her lip began to tremble. Hunter’s hand braced Dominique’s arm. Devil take it, he wasn’t going to bite the woman’s head off!

“Allow me to ask you again, Miss Hopkins, and pray do not insult my intelligence by being anything but honest, yes?”

She nodded and closed her eyes.

“Do I pay you well?”

“No, my lord. You do not pay me well.”

“Thank you,” Dominique answered.

Miss Hopkins eyes flashed open, darting from Hunter to Dominique before settling back onto Dominique with a quizzical look.

“I shall double your salary and that of every other staff member as of today. I imagine you can include that piece of information when you invite everyone to the ball tonight, yes?”

“Y-yes, my lord.” A tear ran down her cheek as she curtsied, then reached for his hand, his gloved hand, and bestowed a kiss upon it. “God preserve you, my prince.”

It was the first time any of his staff had ever called him "prince" since his father’s death. In his bitterness, Dominique had always thought it was because of the horrid memories of his father, that they had no desire to remind him of his title, of the title he inherited after murdering his own father.

But now, the way that Miss Hopkins said "my prince", made him believe that perhaps, for the first time in his life he had earned his title. And all because he extended the one thing his father never had.

Mercy.

Chapter Twenty-eight

If I would have known that my music would become my cocoon, that I would turn a blind eye to the darkness of the world, using my own justification for my actions, then it is entirely possible I would have tried to stop what I became. After all, no man wakes up one day hoping to be a beast, praying he can turn into something that people will mock and hate. No, it is a slow fade into the very thing you promised you would never become. How could I have not seen my own father’s reflection when I looked into the mirror? Had I known, I would have fought; I would have tried to be something—anything but him.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Isabelle awoke with a start. The room was cast in evening shadows. With a yawn, she made her way to the window and noticed the bright white moon had begun to rise into depths of the blue sky. How long had she been asleep? Confused, she looked around her room. Was dinner to commence soon?

She walked to the door adjoining her room and Dominique’s, the one where she so often shared his bed. Why was it, that as her hand touched the door, memories of his touch flooded her body until she was shivering with desire? It was ridiculous.