Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(23)

Hunter tilted his head. “Good to know you’ve forgotten my instruction after being in her presence only an hour. I believe my earlier suggestion was hello and sorry. You would do well to remember both of those words considering they will be put to good use with the girl.”

Dominique wanted to tell his friend several things; sorry was not one of them, but he listened to his advice and found himself standing outside Isabelle’s door without a clue as to how to proceed.

He thought of bringing flowers but as it so happened, it was winter, and everything was dead, just like his heart. He hadn’t even kept the orangery up to standard, meaning all he was left with was himself.

He was nothing, no gift suitable for an apology.

Harsh words habitually flew out of his mouth before he was able to stop them, and spending time with Isabelle made it worse than usual. Her happy demeanor, beautiful body and captivating smile threatened his very existence.

The Royal breeding of his ancestors ran thick within him, even though he despised himself for it. His training shaped his actions even when he didn’t want it to: he’d been taught to treat women with courtesy even though he knew from experience they rarely deserved it.

Cursing under his breath, he knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” the sweet voice asked.

“Dominique,” he snapped and then winced at the gruff sound of his own voice.

“Go away!” Her shout was followed by something breaking against the door. Great, not only her voice was causing things to shatter, the girl herself was now destroying his property.

“See here—”

“Ouch!” Isabelle screamed.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Using all his strength he slammed his body against the door. His shoulder throbbed with the impact. The door remained unmoved. He backed away and hit it again, this time bellowing profanity. Finally, it opened.

Isabelle sat in a heap on the floor, holding her hand out in front of her as blood began trickling down her arm onto her dress. Face pale, she looked fit to swoon. Luckily she was already sitting.

Dominique’s heart lurched at the sight. Blood reminded him of his mother, of her death, it was as if the red substance could conjure up memories he’d rather keep trapped in the darkness inside. His mouth went dry as he fought with his conscience; he wanted nothing more than to pull away, to fight the dread that wrapped around his heart, the smell of death as it permeated his nostrils.

But, Isabelle whimpered and he knew he needed to help despite his horrifying reaction.

“Let me see.” He reached out and grabbed her hand within his glove. “Hold still.”

Isabelle swayed toward him. He picked her up off the floor and laid her across the bed. Blood trickled down her finger.

“I-I threw something,” Isabelle mumbled.

“Yes, but that something seems to have bitten you, hmm?” Dominique smiled. “Choose carefully when destroying my property. Might I suggest throwing a chair next time? No shards of glass on the floor. On that note, if Hunter is near you next time you feel the need to take out your anger, please feel free to throw him out the window. It would save me from having to do so, you understand.”

Isabelle giggled through her tears.

Relieved, he felt the weight on his chest lighten, just a little, even though her tears shone brightly.

“Ah, there it is,” Dominique examined her finger. A bit of glass poked out from the top. Carefully, he tried to pull the infuriating piece out, but the blood began to trickle, making his gloves slippery against the piece. Isabelle moaned.

His stomach lurched. How he hated to see her bleeding and all because he couldn’t find the words to be polite. It was his fault, just as everything was always his fault. Would he never learn?

“You must take off your gloves so you can grasp it,” Isabelle urged.

Dominique swore, dropping her bleeding hand. Shaking, he walked a few paces away from her and returned. “I cannot do that.”

“They’re just gloves!” she wailed. “Surely you have more to replace them?”

“It isn’t the gloves. I dare say what’s beneath the gloves would cause you to swoon in earnest. Now, hold still.” He grabbed her hand again and lifted her finger to his lips and into the warm encasing of his mouth. Gently, his teeth nipped the piece of glass out of the wound, spit it in his gloved palm and placed it in his pocket. He continued to suckle, cleaning the wound so he could wrap it in fabric and have Miss Ward take care of it.

At Isabelle’s sharp intake of breath, he stole a glance at her eyes. Wide, innocent blue eyes peered back at him through dark, sooty lashes. His heart began hammering inside his chest as the music surrounding her aura picked up.

A single tear ran down her cheek. Reaching out, he caught it with his fingers. Slowly, he finished suckling the wound. Without thinking, he pulled his shirt loose and ripped off a generous piece of fabric, carefully wrapping it around her finger.

“T-thank you.” She looked down. Her face flamed red.

Not wanting to embarrass her further or impose on her any more than he already had, he nodded. Making a move to leave, he stopped when her hand reached out and caught his arm.

“I’m sorry I broke another vase,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry I yelled.”

Isabelle’s eyes snapped up to his.

All calming thoughts flew out of his mind when her tongue peeked out to wet her lips as her breathing continued to hasten.