Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(64)

“Oh, my husband, he seems to be giving advice on how to woo.” Rosalind winked and pulled Stefan close to her. He went because he couldn’t very well deny his beautiful wife anything, even when she was laughing at his expense.

Suddenly, Alfred seemed to tense. He began to wring his hands in front of him like a nervous school boy. A grin spread across Stefan’s face; he had quite an idea as to whom his valet held affection for.

“Alfred? Do you have anything you wish to say?” Stefan asked.

Alfred was pale and fidgety Devil take it, he couldn’t back down now! It was the perfect set up. He gave Alfred a curt nod of encouragement. The valet swallowed and turned to Mary taking her hand within his.

“We shall marry at once.”

“Oh, Good Lord above,” Rosalind said next to him. “Have you been taking lessons from my husband? Alfred, that is not how one proposes. That is—”

“Oh yes, yes, yes!” Mary squealed with delight and kissed Alfred soundly on the mouth, much to Stefan’s horrified dismay.

He cleared his throat.

The kiss continued.

“For the love of—”

“—Sorry, Your Grace.” Alfred pulled away, his cheeks slightly pink.

Rosalind snorted behind him, giving the clear message that he of all people shouldn’t be the one to talk, after he so blatantly kissed her at last night’s ball. Much to Lord Rawlings’ and the Duke of Tempest’s amusement, for they also had the occasional difficulty trying to keep their hands off their wives in public.

“If Your Graces will excuse us?” Alfred asked tactfully.

“You are dismissed,” Stefan said firmly. The two bounded away from the stables hand in hand.

Rosalind reached around him hugging his body from behind. He smiled and turned around to kiss her firmly on the mouth, then led his wife away from the dirty stables to the comfort of his study. Once they reached his destination he pulled Rosalind into his arms. Pure contentment caused his muscles to relax as he breathed in her scent.

“Any word of my sisters?” she asked once they had enjoyed the silence of each other’s presence for a while.

Stefan sighed, leaning into his wife’s embrace. “Not just yet, but they are safe, I know it in my heart.”

Rosalind sighed and pulled away. She walked to the door and Stefan had to fight his irritation that she would leave him while he so desperately wanted to have her on his very desk.

She turned the lock.

“Thank the saints.” He swept her into his arms pushing her back against the door, savagely stripping her of her afternoon dress.

“Ah, tsk-tsk! Remember, you said you would woo me even after we were married, you brute. Now, give me the words, give me the sonnets and the flowers.”

Stefan whispered naughty words into his wife’s ear.

With a giggle, she answered, “That will do nicely for now.”





Whispered Music


The true story of how Beauty tamed the savage Beast

London Fairy Tales

Book 2



Prologue



“Hands at this angle young master,” Mr. Field was always careful in his scolding's, and for that young Dominique was grateful. He had heard whisperings that not all music teachers were as kind as Mr. Field.

A prodigy—the name hovering over him like a blazing sign. At eleven, even his boyish mind knew that life would never be simple. When other little boys were outside running and playing in the streams, Dominique was in the great practice room tapping away at the ivory keys.

Music was to Dominique what breathing was to everyone else. He wasn’t able to quit the melodies pounding through his head—through his dreams. Often, he would sneak down to the practice room in the middle of the night because his fingers itched so heavily to touch the keys of his favorite instrument. If the music was not played, sleep would not come.

The crescendos, the notes—everything had always existed in his mind. The major scale of beautiful music descended upon him in times of great happiness, the minor scales-the scales of sharps and flats, often during times of danger. His teacher, Mr. Field said it was a gift, that all prodigies had a sixth sense.

Dominique, however, felt different, too different, to play with others his own age. So he poured himself into music as much as he could. To his mother’s utter delight, she was always doting on him, telling him that one day he would be a great master, that people from all over the world would pay to hear his gift.

His father, the Royal Prince Maksylov thought music was only for the weak minded, and often told young Dominique that unless he grew strong in physical build and learned how to play with others, that nobody would ever follow him. That he, as a musician could never lead.

And so Dominique led the life of being pulled by two parents. One in the direction of the piano room, and the other to the outside light. Both directions held certain feelings of excitement and fear, for Dominique hated to fail at anything and often found it frustrating to have to concentrate on more than one task at a time.

A certain evening, after his parents had gotten in another fight over his musical education, Dominique had snuck into bed, careful not to let any of the servants see the pooling of tears around his eyes. He cried, not for himself, but for the love lost, for it seemed both parents never saw him for who he was, but for what they wanted him to be.