Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(39)

Isabelle wasn’t prepared for his question, nor was her heart ready to answer. She had always been one to bring all kinds of stray animals to the manor. Not that he was a stray animal by any means. She looked up at his ruggedly handsome face. Perhaps he was a type of animal, and maybe a little lost.

She shrugged. Dare she say what she’d been feeling this whole time? That when he touched her, it was like experiencing life for the first time? Everything seemed brighter, but with his touch came his scorn and oftentimes his anger. And she was left wondering at night, if the benefits outweighed the costs, for she wanted nothing more than to love what he deemed unlovable. To save what he said could not be rescued, to redeem what was once damned.

She tried to think of a simpler answer. "I am your wife.”

“So you stay because we had a ceremony aboard a ship, performed by a captain?” He brushed her hair away from her face, his touch searing her skin where his fingers had lingered. “We have not yet consummated the marriage, there is nothing keeping you here.” His eyes were hopeful, rimmed with tears and pain.

“You keep me here. If I left today, my body would be in England, but my heart would be with you.”

“I’ve done nothing to earn your affection, your compassion, nor even your kindness, yet you are loyal to an absolute fault.”

“Love does not always make sense, Dominique. Sometimes it asks great tasks of us, asks us to sacrifice everything in hope of finding the one true thing in this life. Love makes us bleed; it makes us fight, for if we did none of those things, how would it ever be worth it? And how would we ever deserve its rewards?”

“A philosopher as well as a poet.” Dominique brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I cannot give you love. You must know that.”

Isabelle’s heavy heart sank even further, not that she expected him to be capable of such a choice, such an emotion. “I only ask that you respect me, that you cease from talking down to me, that you try to control your temper instead of making snap judgments. I ask that you do as you promised.”

“As I promised?” Dominique’s eyes flickered with confusion.

“To honor and cherish…in sickness and in health…for as long as we both shall live. But your punishment will be that I haunt you even if I die first, for you will honor and cherish me until your soul leaves the earth.”

“I imagine I can do that.” He looked down at his hands and sighed. “Tell me, has every man been as difficult as me?”

“There have been no other men.”

His head snapped up.

Isabelle felt herself flush and was suddenly grateful that the gallery was shadowed in darkness.

“Not even one stolen kiss at a ball?” Dominique murmured into her hair.

“Not one.”

“Perhaps a secret embrace?”

“Never.”

“And any offers of marriage?”

“You were my first, that I know of.”

Dominique’s smile lit up the dark room, his white teeth against olive skin. Black hair fell over his blue eyes. “Good.”

His mouth came crushing down across hers. A guttural moan erupted from deep within his chest, and the room began to spin as Isabelle felt herself being lifted into the air by strong arms.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to show you. I may not be able to give you what you need in every capacity, but I’m going to give you everything I know I have.”

“Why?” She choked out as she told herself not to cry again.

“Because despite obvious reasons why you should leave…you don’t.”





Chapter Nineteen


At times I hate my gift. If I had been born normal, then my life would not be as such. It seems with great gifts comes great opposition. A better man should have possessed the music, for a better man would have known what to do with the life he was given.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



Dominique had always waited until Isabelle was asleep, for if she was awake he would have to look into her eyes, and if he looked he was afraid he would see his own desire reflected back, and he hadn’t the strength to be a gentleman.

Thinking back on the night's festivities, he had to laugh. Isabelle had been so distraught and tired, she fell asleep in his arms the minute he reached their bedroom. A maid had helped her ready for bed, only waking her when she needed to get Isabelle out of her dress.

Dominique had waited in the study. His control was at the point of snapping. Every kiss, every touch, made him crave her more and more. Until he could do nothing but think about what it would be like to be her first lover, the man who made her scream with pleasure, the man she looked at with passion-filled eyes.

He had nearly ruined everything. She gave and gave, until nothing was left, and he took, yet was never satisfied or content in his taking.

The quill on his desk seemed to be staring at him. He knew what he had to do. Somehow during the past few weeks in Isabelle’s presence, he had found a semblance of honor as well as a conscience, which was quite inconvenient, all things considered.

With a curse, he grabbed a piece of fresh paper and addressed it: “To his Grace, The Duke of Montmouth.”

Hours later, he was utterly exhausted; he pulled off his boots and shrugged out of his dinner jacket once he reached the bedroom. Going to bed late meant he had no use for his valet, not that he found much use for one in the first place. Trying to tip toe around the room, he finally found the softness of the bed and reached down to pull the blankets back.