Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(33)

“Isabelle!” Dominique’s voice shattered the moment between her and Hunter. Isabelle looked back toward the door. What the devil did he want? It was nearly time for luncheon and…

“Have you forgotten your lesson?” Dominique stood in the doorway, hands behind his back; whatever scowl he must have worn while shouting minutes ago was gone and in place of it, a demure smile that made her slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps he was drinking and redecorating as Hunter put it.

“Apologies, I hadn’t realized you wished to commence lessons so soon before luncheon.”

“You will join me in the music room for luncheon,” Dominique said in a clipped voice then glared at Hunter. “Don’t you have some place to be?”

Hunter jumped from his seat. “Yes, well, any place where I’m welcome. Perhaps the local tavern has some wenches I can pay to talk to. After all, I’m merely a man starved for conversation. Besides, I’ve already had my kiss for the day.” He winked at Isabelle. Wide-eyed she could only shake her head. The fool truly didn’t know when to stop talking.

Dominique rolled his eyes and pushed the door open as Hunter walked briskly out before returning his attention to Isabelle. “You have five minutes to change out of your riding habit and into an afternoon dress. I’ll be waiting.”

Clenching her fists at her sides, Isabelle wanted nothing more than to yell at him. She knew why he did it. Why he was so hot and cold. He only gave her glimpses of the man he could be. Instead he hid behind all of his anger, his bitterness. It was easier to push others away when one shielded oneself against emotions. And he had spent the better part of his morning bleeding for her. In all honesty, he was most likely spent for the day and exhausted.

Managing a small smile, she curtsied to her husband and walked toward the stairway. If he wanted to be in lessons the rest of the day, she would be in lessons. Anything to discover his secrets to help him heal.





Chapter Sixteen


I always hated it when my parents would raise their voices. Often times I was told I spoke too softly. But I felt the need to balance out the loudness, to blot out the anger. Yet, I am my father’s son, as much as I loath to admit it. For the anger that destroyed him I see in my own reflection. It scares me more than I care to admit, for I hate giving into fear. But I reek of it. The stench of fear is what I bathe in. For every moment of every day I wonder when I will turn out just like him.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



Dominique was actually quite patient. He just didn’t want anyone to know about it. He would be happy, sitting at the piano and drinking tea all day with Isabelle. But he noticed that the minute he began to sit and think was also the precise moment he was tempted to give into every single feeling he had. Silence made him want to speak, and when he was in her presence he wanted to speak of it.

But she would hate him again if she knew.

She would recoil in disgust, not just because of his physical scars but because of the sins he committed in honor of them. Isabelle wanted to know, she wanted to fix him, she had said as much hadn’t she? Music was the common ground. He needed it to be able to think clearly. If the music surrounded their time together then perhaps he wouldn’t be tempted to open himself up too much.

“Dominique?” Isabelle’s sweet voice called to him. Sometimes he wondered if she understood how completely beautiful and clear she sounded to him. If he was in a crowded street in London and she spoke his name, he would still know it was her. The inflection of her voice sounded like a bell; unclouded, strong, unwavering, and every time she said his name, she lingered at the end as if she didn’t want the word to finish pouring forth from her mouth.

Obviously, he was mad to think so, but he imagined she liked the way his name sounded on her lips. Not that he cared, for any time she spoke he wanted to close his eyes and listen. Her singing voice was in desperate need of help, but he was thankful for it. What would he have done had she had a beautiful singing voice? Along with all the rest of her gifts? He shuddered thinking of it.

“Are you well?” Isabelle was leaning over him, her eyes a mask of worry. Blast, it felt good to have someone other than his servants concerned for his well-being.

He cleared his throat. “Fine, just fine. Now, why don’t we have a little to eat while we discuss your lesson for the day?”

Nodding, she took a seat across from him. “Shall I pour the tea?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked and watched as she began to pour the hot liquid. Such a perfect little English wife. Posture rigid, face emotionless, and body amply hidden by a prudish-looking afternoon dress. One that hid every curve of her body.

Pity.

“Take off your dress.” He heard himself speak, a little shocked that he was being so rakish.

“Pardon?” Isabelle paused mid-pour. “Did you just tell me to take off my dress?”

“So you can breathe better,” Dominique half-lied. Naturally it would help her breathing, but part of him, the part that yearned to see the curves of her body, demanded she take off the one piece of fabric that kept his eyes from feasting on her form.

“I can breathe just fine, thank you.”

“No, you can’t, it is why you have trouble singing, but if you want to continue to sound like a dying dog, by all means keep your dress on—”

“Fine!” Silverware clattered as she dropped the teapot onto the tray and began hurriedly undoing her dress. After several minutes in which he watched her wiggle this way and that, she asked, “Can you help me?”