Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(53)

Yet her lips hadn’t touched his mouth.

Her hands hadn’t reached for his breeches.

And he wasn’t driving into her like a lust-filled madman.

They were merely sitting, staring, gazing. Like besotted fools.

He loved it. He loved her.

“I am the liar. For I have fought, very hard, not to show you how much I care, how much I feel, how I would die for another taste of your lips.” Isabelle brushed her lips across his as she whispered, “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

Isabelle settled comfortably across his lap, her lips brushing his as she spoke, “When I lie, I hold my breath. I think it's because I am fearful.”

“Are you holding your breath now?” he asked.

“No. Why would I? When all I want is to taste your skin.” Her kiss both alarmed and invigorated him. Her tongue dipped out to trace the hollow of his neck. He didn’t deserve such a perfect, bold female. But he was going to take her, and pleasure her and—

The carriage jolted to a stop.

Isabelle held her bottom lip captive between her teeth and grinned mischievously. “It seems our trip is finished. Shall we shop?”

Dominique closed his eyes. It really was the only way he could think to blast out her image without ravishing her completely and fully in view of the entire village.

“Right,” he ground out, his voice raspy and thick. “Let us just shop.” He cursed shopping the rest of the day, for it was the obstacle that kept him from doing the thing he wanted more than anything.

Making love to his wife.





Chapter Twenty-seven


I remember my first performance. It was for the Czar of Russia. I was terrified, but so excited. My palms perspired as I touched the keys of the piano and set out to impress my father’s friend. It was the most terrifying time of my life. Yet, when I gaze into the eyes of my wife, a new terror takes hold, gripping my heart until it hurts to breathe. To lose her would be to lose myself. I cannot grasp, nor fathom the depths of my sorrow, if I were to no longer have her by my side. I would give up my music, my life, my very soul, to keep her.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



By the time Isabelle returned to the carriage with Dominique, the sun was going down. It had been a dreadfully long day, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so fun. Dominique was showing a completely different side of himself. At one point she thought he was foxed. He was too carefree, he laughed often, and his smile was so beautiful it took her breath away. Surely there was some sort of explanation for his behavior? She wasn’t naive enough to believe it had to do with being in her presence, though she ached for it to be true. Men despised shopping as well as socializing, at least men like Dominique, but he seemed to enjoy walking into the village, talking with the local butcher and even the modiste as he explained exactly what type of dress he needed to be made for Isabelle, stating that she was to never wear the colors of a debutante again.

The ladies of the village noticed his charisma as well. The women shared their smiles too freely and found any number of excuses to reach out and touch Dominique. One of the ladies at the shop had the audacity to even claim she was concerned there was a rip in his jacket. Jealousy poured out of Isabelle until, in one final act of a day of poor choices—for she had shamelessly attached herself to his person publically all day—she even went as far as to kiss him in the middle of the village square.

“Feeling possessive?” Dominique asked, his lips forming a mischievous grin.

“No.” Isabelle brushed his hair out of his face. “Feeling happy.” And it was true, she was happy, though it was entirely possible that her happiness was being overshadowed by a sort of jealous rage she had never before experienced.

“Even better.” He winked.

As they sat across from one another and made their way home, Isabelle could not help the feeling of foreboding that took over. What if it was all a lie? Was Dominique truly reformed or would she put her heart even further out only to see it snatched away the minute he allowed the darkness that haunted him to seep back into his soul?

Dresses, gloves, hats—he did not even stop to ask if she wanted any of these things, rather he insisted that she add to her wardrobe. His way of repaying her, no doubt, for her kindness during his illness. But what she wanted, what she needed, was the very thing he hadn’t once offered since his recovery.

His heart.

Dominique had made it clear that he desired her, but that he too feared rejection. How was she to continue on in the same fashion, knowing that fear kept both of them from proclaiming what needed to be said? If she took the first step, if she were to be bold and confess her love, then she put her heart and what felt like her soul out into the open. Oh she had said it before, but after he was shot, she wasn’t even sure if he still remembered, or if he thought it was merely her emotions running high. If he did so, then he feared she would reject him and if her answer was less than perfect or if she paused in any way, would he begin to shout and act beastly, thinking she felt differently.

It was all too much. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She chewed her lip in thought, keeping her eyes downcast the entire way home. Clearly, Dominique was distracted, for he said nothing to her once they pulled up to the large estate. Instead, he jumped out of the carriage, offered his hand, and made some ridiculous excuse about seeing that Hunter hadn’t jumped headfirst from the balcony.