Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(38)

He stopped dead in his tracks.

She made him feel.

He didn’t like it. Too unpredictable and terrifying. At least when he was a recluse he could pour himself into his music and cut himself off from the world. But now, now he found himself wanting things.

Silly things, like more light in the practice room.

A rose garden for Isabelle.

His past continued to pull him into the darkness, but Isabelle, she was his future. Her goodness pushed him into the light, but the light represented vulnerability. He wasn’t so sure he would survive what she represented. For it was hope.

****

Isabelle threw her first vase, much like Dominique had demonstrated over the past few days.

It didn’t help alleviate the pain in her chest, nor did it make her feel any better about her current situation. She felt hot and cold all at once, as if she couldn’t make straight lines with her emotions. One minute she was blissfully happy just being near Dominique, the next she was so angry at him she could kick him in the shin.

Repeatedly.

She tried swearing, but all that did was sound silly on her lips. She never was good at cursing. Finally, she sat in the middle of the gallery and cried.

Quietly at first, and then her sobs grew louder. She missed her sisters, needed her mother even though something told her that her mother would never be the same, considering she had been having continual fits of illness and madness when Isabelle was given to Dominique.

At a total loss, she could only continue to cry and pray for strength. Each time she thought she was making progress with Dominique, he would shut her out, or worse, yell and accuse her of things she never entertained in the first place.

“She was beautiful,” Dominique said behind her.

Isabelle lifted her eyes to the paintings on the wall, the gallery of his ancestors. She just so happened to be sitting near a picture of a woman with striking dark hair and blue eyes.

“Go away.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes you can! Just move your feet back toward the door and close it.”

Dominique sighed. “I do not lack the intelligence, just the will to do so.”

“Then be silent,” Isabelle sniffled.

“As you wish.” Dominique took a seat next to her on the floor.

Tears continued to stream down her face. He handed her a handkerchief, and then pulled her tightly into his arms. Odd, that the same one who had hurt her would be the one to comfort her. The only one who could right the wrong.

“What do you want?” Her voice was muffled by his coat.

Dominique tilted her chin toward his face. “Are we speaking now?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” His eyes held pain and remorse, a hint of a shadow was visible on his cheekbone.

“What you want to speak about.” She shook in his arms, unable to stop herself from the emotional response she felt.

“I cannot bring myself to say everything that needs to be said, but I will say this…” He paused.

She waited, anxiety pricking her neck.

“I am sorry. For my temper, for my behavior, truly there is no excuse for it. I cannot even blame the circumstances of my upbringing, though I try to use it as a crutch. I imagine it is because it is much easier to justify one's actions when they are wrong than it is to be responsible for them.”

Isabelle sniffled. “And…”

“And I apologize, for my own actions, for not taking the necessary steps to make you feel safe and secure, and finally for my race.”

“Your race?” Isabelle blinked.

“Men in general. We are loathsome creatures. Those of us who embrace emotions are considered dandified fops. Those who refuse to acknowledge the presence of heart and soul are labeled rakes and cads of the first order. It’s confusing, for I don’t wish to be either.”

At that, she felt herself smile even though she didn’t want to give in. The pain was so fresh, still too deep.

“How do you plan on making amends for your sex?” Isabelle braved a glance into his piercing eyes.

“In every possible way. Starting with telling you how beautiful you are. From the tips of your fingers—” he held her hand lightly within his palm and drew circles in her wrist, “To your delicate arms—” he traced a line all the way to her elbow and continued upwards toward her shoulder. “To your collarbone...”

“My collarbone?”

“It’s alluring, the first thing a man sees before looking lower, the vast expanse of a woman’s gown is open, revealing just a tease of what treasures lay beneath. But I would be quite happy just to touch here.” He traced her collar bone with his index finger. “And I would be delighted to ravish you just there.” His fingers moved to hold her neck, his thumbs massaged down the front causing a shiver to run through her body. “And then your lips. Promises drip from your lips. Promises of pleasure, as well as pain.” He tugged her bottom lip with his teeth, then dipped his tongue into her mouth. Pulling away, he whispered across her lips, “On behalf of men everywhere, but especially on behalf of the same cad who’s lucky and selfish enough to keep your kisses, I do apologize.”

“You’re good at that…”

“Kissing?”

“No, apologizing.”

“Funny, that was my first.” He chuckled, then sobered. “Why do you stay?”