Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(62)

It seemed one of England’s own spies was to thank for the feat, though the only spy in the area Dominique knew of was Hunter. And he had a hard time believing Hunter would rescue a beautiful damsel in distress and not boast about it.

The letter was burning a hole in his hand, but when he set it on the desk, his eyes wouldn’t pull away. How was he to handle this? Was he to admit to Isabelle that he had stupidly written the duke to come fetch her?

Was it silly of him to want her to stay on her own accord because she loved him and would do anything for him? Would she stay? he wondered, when faced with returning to her old life, to her family that she loved more than life itself? How was it that even though she told him where her loyalty was, that he still doubted her affection? Was he truly that insecure?

With a growl he pushed the objects on his desk to the floor. A feat he hadn’t done in weeks, ever since the night of the ball when he had spent the dark hours and early morning making love to Isabelle.

Magic.

And now it seemed the magic was crumbling.

He could only hope and pray that when the day came she would not see betrayal on his face, but that of selfless love, for he would never keep her from her true heart's desires. And though he loved her with every part of himself, she had yet to give him the words he so wanted to hear.

The thought struck a chord within him, for if he didn’t own her heart, he had to wonder who did?

****

Isabelle went in search of Dominique. Usually he spent the morning hours in his study replying to invitations and looking over estate matters.

She whistled on her way to his study, enjoying the smell of the castle, the feel of home it brought to her. Once she reached the large mahogany doors, she pushed them open, for he was a changed man and didn’t care that she barged in. Frankly, it seemed to delight him all the more.

Just yesterday he had laid her across his desk and kissed her senseless until the maid came with their morning tea.

She flushed with the memory as she entered the room, fully expecting to see him behind the large desk.

Empty.

But the fire was roaring and steam made a wispy design in the air from the freshly poured cup.

Strange? Had there been an emergency? And then she noticed the floor was littered with all types of papers from his desk. Something surely must be wrong for him to be this agitated. She hadn’t seen one of his dark moods in weeks. It still caused a shiver to run down her spine, but she trusted in the man he had become, in the promise he had made her to control his temper.

Kneeling in front of the scattered pieces of paper, she started to sort through them in order to return them to his desk.

Within minutes she had the papers cleaned up and returned to rights. She moved by the desk and her skirt caught the edge of one of the stacks. Muttering a curse she knelt down to pick up the few pieces that had fluttered off.

“The Duke of Montmouth?” she said aloud. What the devil would he want from Dominique?

Curiosity piqued, she picked up the letter and read it.



To his Royal Highness, Dominique Maksylov, Royal Prince of Russia, Earl of Hariss,

I have received your letter and will come at once. My wife and I are grateful for your kindness in the matter.

Please be advised that we will take Isabelle off your hands, as you so gently put it, and restore her into the bosom of Society. Her sister, Gwendolyn, has also been located and is awaiting us near your estate. She was found by one of England’s own spies. Apparently trying to locate Isabelle, believing her to be in grave danger.

In such a difficult year, you have given us reason to hope that our family will once more be united.

Many thanks,

His Grace, Stefan Hudson, Duke of Montmouth



Isabelle dropped the paper as if it had burned her fingers. Take her off his hands? Like some… some common mistress!

The note would have had to be sent weeks ago, but that changed nothing! He still wanted to be rid of her! He still wrote it, and the pain was more than she could bear. Had everything been a lie to him? The vulnerability too much? And to think, today was the day she was going to tell him she loved him, couldn’t live without him, and he wanted to be rid of her? The monster! The absolute beast!

The—

“My lady?” A knock came at the door.

Isabelle dropped the paper onto the desk and turned around.

“Some guests have arrived, they asked to speak with you.” Brink’s face was grave.

“Why not my husband?” she spat.

“I was unable to locate him, my lady.”

Isabelle’s chest clenched. So this is why he was angry then? Why he threw the contents of his desk to the ground. He was angry that she was still here, not gone as he wished? The pain was unbearable, like a knife slicing her in two.

Numbly, she walked to the door. “Please show them into the East Salon, I will be there momentarily.”

“As you wish.” Brinkss gave a curt bow and walked out of the room.

Isabelle took three deep breaths. She could do this—she could be the perfect hostess to her guests, whoever they were. Drat! Her hands were shaking!

The pain of his rejection, his betrayal made her knees weak. Ill, she barely made it in time to the potted plant before throwing up the contents of her stomach.

Perhaps now would not be the best time to tell her husband that his worst nightmare had come true. For she was carrying his heir. She had decided to hide it from him in hopes that he would learn to accept the truth, that he would never be the man his father was, he would be the best father, always laughing and joyful.