Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(59)

After two dances in a row, they mingled with guests and made toasts to the families who had visited. Room abuzz with excitement, it felt that the night would go on forever.

****

Hours later, as Dominique gazed into her eyes, the true merriment expressed as they danced in front of the servants and their families, Dominique knew.

He had to tell her.

It was time to kill the beast.

To show her the man within.

And pray to God that she would accept him as he was.

For if she couldn’t…. If the beauty smiling at him with trusting eyes and a light-hearted laugh, if she rejected him, he wasn’t sure he would ever be the same.

“Come,” he whispered in her ear.

“But the guests?” Isabelle’s voice was hushed. “What are we to say to them?”

“Believe me, love, they rejoice in our scandal. After all, it isn’t at all improper for a husband to take his wife to bed when she is so utterly exhausted.”

“I am nothing of the sort!” Isabelle exclaimed.

“Sure you are.” Dominique put out his foot just as Isabelle walked over it, sending her sailing into his arms. “Apologies!” he said loud enough for a few guests nearby to hear. “It seems we’ve had enough excitement for one night. Please, stay as long as the music plays, drink and be merry. I have a wife to see to.”

Cheers erupted in the ballroom. Dominique chuckled as he carried his irritated wife up the stairs.

“I cannot believe you did that!”

He looked down. With her cheeks flushed and lips in a firm line, Isabelle looked more likely to hit him than make love to him.

He sighed. Perhaps it was better this way. Better that she remained agitated while he spoke to her about his past, for if she was more amiable he may not get the words out. And he desperately needed to, for their marriage, and their future, truly depended on it.





Chapter Twenty-nine


There comes a time in a man's life when he has to question his own motives. Are they selfish? Purely self-seeking in their desire to gain without giving back? To take without asking questions? And to covet without any care for the person’s feelings? I feel I have done this very thing. I have taken what was not mine hoping to keep it for myself, and as I watch my life unfold and experience what it truly is to love someone, I find that the only option is to let it go.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



Dominique opened the door to his bedroom and placed Isabelle lightly onto her feet before walking over to the fire and sighing.

Not sure what was bothering him after such a night, Isabelle immediately felt ill at ease. Was this when the beast was to return? Was he going to reject her as she suspected he might? And why was it, after such a wonderful night, that she still felt fear every time he was quiet? Why was she holding her breath? Hands shaking, she smoothed out her dress and waited. Silence enveloped the room for minutes before Dominique shifted on his feet and sighed.

He was facing the fire, his ungloved hands stretched out in front of the flames.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked, his voice raspy. He did not turn around but continued to stare into the fire; his hands did not move.

“Yes, quite. Thank you.” Isabelle slowly approached him, curious as to what he was accomplishing. After such an eventful night, he should be resting, not attempting to burn his hands by standing so close to the orange flames. And surely not allowing himself to feel depressed over such a successful evening.

“I shouldn’t feel anything,” Dominique whispered. “For days I cried out for my mother. She was dead, but it didn’t stop me from weeping her name.”

Isabelle reached where he stood, her eyes falling on the pinkish white scars on his hands.

“He killed her.” Dominique stated it so matter of factly that Isabelle had to shake her head to make sure she heard him right.

“Your father?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes.” Dominique walked over to his chair and took a seat. He poured himself a brandy and then poured another for her. Isabelle put up her hand—she was never one for strong spirits. “Believe me.” Dominique took a large swallow. “You will need this by the time I am done.”

Hands shaking, she reached for the amber-filled glass and took a seat opposite him, waiting for the dark tale to commence.

“I heard a commotion, and then the most haunting music of my life began to play in my mind. I thought I was either going mad, or I was finally dying. I had always been such a paranoid little boy. At any rate, it brought me down to the practice room. It wasn’t at all odd for me to play into the early morning. It seemed to be the only time I could clear my mind.” Dominique closed his eyes. “I found her.” His voice was haunting as if he was reliving the moment again.

“Your mother?” Isabelle whispered.

“Yes, she had been shot in the head by my father. She was lying with her eyes open in a pool of her own blood. And my teacher, the one who had taught me how to use my gift, was dead on top of her. Both of their eyes were open as if their souls were screaming for vengeance for me to right the wrong that had been done them, but all I could do was stand there, in absolute horror.” Voice raspy and thick with emotion, he cursed and took another swallow of brandy.

“And your father?” Isabelle found it hard to speak, for her voice felt shaky. She took a long sip of the brandy and barely kept herself from choking.