Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(26)

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.”

“Foxed,” she guessed.

“I do not drink in the mornings.”

“Perhaps you are in good humor because Miss Ward snuck some herbs into your morning coffee?”

Suddenly Dominique’s hands were on her shoulders, and she nearly dropped her plate. She stood, rigid, as he whispered in her ear, his voice sounding like music. “Or, perhaps I’m overjoyed at seeing you first thing this morning.”

“Impossible,” she breathed. Never had he taken his breakfast with her. His only demand had been dinner. If anything, he had been avoiding her for the past week. But everything changed last night. She felt it, felt the way his touch sent a shiver down her spine. It seemed he was actually trying to be agreeable.