Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  ****

  Dominique kept his face impassive as he watched the whirlwind of emotions cross the beautiful Isabelle’s features. The minx was bluffing, but he hadn’t the heart to be so cruel to her in such short time. Granted, he wasn’t sure he had a heart to begin with, but for some reason she tugged at him, which truthfully irritated him all the more.

  And the blasted music rolling off of her was the most soothing sound he had heard in years. The chit would probably think him unhinged if she knew that every time she smiled he heard the trickling melody played in the key of G.

  Swallowing, he slowly scanned her face, taking in every plane of her soft features. One such as he should not be rewarded with the perfection sitting across from him. Not after doing what he did.

  “We, of course, need to cross the channel, then it is only a days’ ride to my estate. I imagine we have at least a few days worth of travel with one another.”

  “You ignored my other question.”

  “What other question?” He lifted his eyebrow trying not to be amused at her bravery, stupid as it was.

  “About the marriage bed.” Her blush was becoming and he found a smile trying to crack through his stony features. Blast, it had been years since he felt a genuine smile.

  All it took was reminding himself of women’s deceit, folly, and finally, of his mother and the worst betrayal of all. It was as if a bucket of cold seawater had been thrown over his head. With a grimace he answered, “Ah yes, the marriage bed. I’ve half a mind to show you rather than tell, after all, you will soon be my wife, and if anyone needs a lesson in silence, it is you, my dear.”

  “I dare you.”

  “Pardon?” Was the woman mad? Did she not know who he was? What he could do to her? The absolute power he had over her tiny, insignificant life? “You dare me?” At that, he did laugh, good and hard.

  Isabelle’s chin tilted up, her eyes challenging his.

  He must be cursed, or mad, or dreaming, for he had never met a woman who would willingly dare him to do anything, especially when it included ruining her so thoroughly.

  Before she could change her mind, he slipped his hands behind her head, jerking her closer. Warm, innocent lips met his with confusion, and then fear as they trembled under his touch. And he meant to make it worse, to make her loathe him, for it was the only way to keep himself safe.

  He plundered her hair, wildly pulling the lush golden-brown strands as his mouth accosted hers. However, when she gasped against his lips, his blood roared, and he found that he couldn’t stop the challenge even if he wanted to. With what felt much like a grunt or beastly roar, he drove his tongue into the ecstasy of her mouth. Desire shot through him at alarming speed when her tongue met his, carefully at first and then as wrapped up in passion as he. Her hands went to cup his face, softly rubbing his beard, his jaw, not once repaying his savagery with scorn of her own, but tenderness.

  Enough to shatter the walls around his heart.

  Her taste was sweet, but the need to protect himself was survival, so with great force he pushed her back against her seat and left her.

  Her cherry-red lips stood out in contrast to her bright blue eyes as she stared back at him. Her hair was undone to her waist, wavy and thick, glistening in the carriage as if it was merely reflecting off her glowing face.

  “I imagine that was your first kiss,” he said.

  “You imagine correctly.” Her voice was slightly shaky. Dominique refused to feel guilty.

  With a mocking laugh he tilted his head, trying to appear patronizing and cruel. “I could tell that it was your first kiss and I no longer feel guilty.”

  “Guilty? I’m surprised a man of your reputation even understands the word.” Isabelle’s scowl deepened.

  “And to think, this whole time I was feeling guilty that I had stolen a London treasure and was being beastly in coveting you for myself, but now I see the truth. You’re just like every other debutante—a cold English fish with no ability to drive a man wild with lust. Take your form...” He lifted a gloved hand with a flick of his wrist and shook his head. “You’ve no beautiful curves to speak of, plain brown hair, and frankly, the skill of the worst of courtesans. So, you see, I don’t feel guilty. If anything I should be commended for taking you off their hands.”

  Chapter Two

  Music feeds the soul much like food feeds the body; starve your body of food and it will surely die. Starve your soul of music and I fear the ending would be catastrophic.

  — The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

  His ridiculous speech was met with a slap so hard he could do nothing save curse for several minutes as the stinging continued to throb across his face. The chit had attacked him! Surprisingly, he hadn’t seen it coming, though he deserved it and more.

  When he opened his eyes, the look on Isabelle’s face haunted him, for it was the exact look he’d seen daily on his own mother’s face after she’d fought with his father.

  Memories came flooding back though he fought to keep them tucked away and, in that instant, he wanted nothing more than to be shot.

  He deserved worse.

  Perhaps to be trampled by the horses drawing his carriage.

  Or poisoned by the woman sitting across from him.

  But apologies were foreign words on Dominique’s lips; they sounded gruff and awkward and, well, if he were being honest with himself, it would only be half-hearted. Yes, he had hurt her feelings, perhaps crossed a line. He grimaced as her face flushed a deeper hue of red. Perhaps he crossed several lines, but the truth of the matter was, by hurting her, he was doing her a favor. By causing her a short amount of pain he was keeping her from a lifetime of agony, for no woman would ever desire to be given false hope.

  He could not love.

  Would not love.

  Had nothing to offer save his title and wealth and even that came at a great cost.

  In an epic battle of right and wrong, he decided to change the subject. “We should be arriving at the ship within the hour. You should rest.”

  Isabelle glared, but did as she was told.

  Dominique thanked God, for if the woman found this particular time to fight him at every turn, he would be half-tempted to give in to her. And that would prove dangerous for everyone, especially her. She had no idea the monster she was riding with, the sins he had committed, nor the blood that stained his hands.

  Stains that refused to wash away.

  Because they were scarred onto his very person.

  With a scowl, he turned to look out the window, all the while convincing himself he’d done the right thing. His soul was still as black as ever, but at least he’d saved one woman. One innocent creature from certain Hell. Though one good deed was hardly enough to cover the darkness that consumed him.

  ****

  Isabelle lurched awake as the carriage came to a stop.

  “Out you go,” Dominique, said as the door opened. The nighttime air was crisp and damp. Would winter never end? Perhaps it was the cold that made her shiver, surely it wasn’t the fact that Dominique’s touch still lingered on the small of her back as he helped her out of the carriage.

  Abruptly, he removed his hand, and her body gave another involuntary shiver. Mortified, she looked away from his piercing gaze.

  “Are you chilled?” he asked, though it would be a stretch to say any hint of concern laced his deep timbre. Icy blue eyes studied her boldly.

  “No, merely repulsed,” she answered, sweetly refusing to give into the treacherous feelings his touch gave her. Her once-innocent lips burned with the memory of his scorching kiss. Again, she turned away and began walking.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, behind her.

  “To the—” Isabelle looked around her. Where the devil was she?

  Dominique chuckled. “I believe, my lady, that the ocean is in the opposite direction. That is, unless you plan on walking all the way back to London? I know I may be beastly, but believe me when I say there are wolves about. I da
resay I’m not the most dangerous creature here.”

  Another shudder overtook her. “Wolves?”

  “Oh yes.” Dominique’s white teeth glowed in the night. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the tale of the wretched wolf that hunts innocent women with his charm and manages to lull them into a deep sleep before killing them?”

  “Ah, so the wolf is you? Self-fulfilling prophecy, my lord?” She stomped by him, hating that he was bringing out the worst in her with every turn. Isabelle had never spoken in such a way to any person and it broke her to do so, but how else was she to keep her wits about her?

  “Self-fulfilling prophecy?” Dominique fell into step beside her. An amused smile broke across his face.

  Heavens, he was beautiful when he smiled.

  “No, my little Belle, it is merely an old tale told by fishermen’s wives and those who are too ignorant to know the truth. The Wolf is, after all, a close companion to the Beast, didn’t you know? Of course you didn’t,” he mocked. “At any rate, I’ll protect you as much as I’m able.”

  “What are you going to do, growl at him?”

  Dominique stopped in his tracks and with the ease and skill of the most cunning of predators, pulled her flush against his body. “If I have to. Though it seems my growl doesn’t even scare you, does it, my lady?”

  “I believe the growl you’re referring to, and the purr that escaped your lips earlier when kissing me are one and the same.” She pushed at his chest and stumbled over her own feet as she made her way toward the boat.

  “I assure you it was a purr of disgust.” Dominique sneered as he caught her arm before she truly did topple over, head first.

  “So you say.” With a jerk she pulled her arm away and continued to march toward the boat.

  “Your Highness.” A tall broad man with a Russian accent saluted Dominique and ordered the rest of the deckhands to grab their luggage.

  Well, that was odd. He was an earl, not a prince. The idea that this man, this beast standing next to her was anything related to royalty was almost laughable.

  Unfortunately, she choked on her laugh the minute she stepped onto the most beautiful ship she had ever seen, one of ten that her new husband owned. The Lullaby boasted of beautiful intricately carved wood that took her breath away. She barely had time to register her surroundings before Dominique roughly grabbed her arm and escorted her below deck, pushing her into the first room they came to.

  “You will join me for dinner,” he said, slamming the door in her face and leaving her no option in the matter.

  Isabelle wasn’t sure if she wanted to stick out her tongue or have a good cry. Wouldn’t her sisters be worried about her? And her own mother? What had happened to everyone? Before Dominique had taken her, the family had been in an absolute uproar. Her mother had said that if her sister, Rosalind, didn’t marry the Duke of Montmouth, people would begin dying in both of their families. It was believed that a gypsy had cursed them, making it impossible to marry outside the boundaries of both powerful families. The night she met Dominique for the first time, he had been arriving to take his rightful place as the only heir to the Hariss Earldom. Little did she know that the same night she met the beast, would also decide her fate for eternity. For the following morning she found herself in his carriage being escorted out of London, away from her home, her family, and everything she had ever known.

  She only hoped that whatever hazards had befallen her two sisters and her mother—that Montmouth had still married Rosalind, and things were as they should be. One of them deserved the fairy tale ending, and since she knew it would never be her, Rosalind was the only logical choice.

  Would Dominique even let her contact her family? Isabelle may have been a dreamer, but she wasn’t stupid. There was no way this man could have taken her without her family’s knowledge. Perhaps that was what hurt the most.

  That she’d been sold off to the highest bidder.

  One only had to look around to see the obvious wealth of the man, regardless of the money and title he inherited from her father’s estate. The Russian beast had no need for an alliance of any kind. Besides, she had no dowry, nothing to offer the man save herself, and he had made it perfectly clear what he thought of her.

  A cold English fish.

  And although his music was quite famous, she had no idea it could bring the obvious profit she was seeing around her.

  Sighing, she took a seat on the bed and looked around the dimly lit cabin. Gold casing covered the wardrobe in the corner. A small writing desk was nailed to the middle of the floor but it was adorned with gold plating on the front. A beast was carved out of the gold and would have normally given her a fright to look at it, but she had just spent hours in the carriage with one.

  A mere portrait of one did nothing to her nerves.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Obviously it wasn’t the brute coming back to order her around.

  “Who is it?”

  “Miss Ward.” The reply was soft.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m to help you ready yourself after such a long journey. Would you prefer me to come back later, my lady?”

  Isabelle looked down at her wrinkled dress. It probably would be best for her to be more presentable, not that she was entertaining the thought of dining with that horrible man. But still.

  “You may enter.” She rose from the bed to greet the lady. Her eyes nearly fell out of her head when a short, plump woman of at least sixty and five bounced into the room.

  “Thank you ever so much, my lady. I despise being out near all those scoundrels. To think! Having me travel this whole way by myself, without a chaperone!” The elderly lady patted her coiffure. “I could have been accosted! Or ruined! They stare at me with heat in their eyes. And I do not care for it at all! I cannot stand it!”

  “Right.” Isabelle tried not to smile, failing miserably. The woman was old enough to be a grandmother. To think that a man would willingly ruin her was the most amusing thing she had heard all day.

  “What are you smiling about?” Miss Ward put her hands on generous hips and tilted her head. “Has the master put that lovely smile on your face then?”

  Isabelle scowled. “The master, as you so lovingly call him, has locked me in my room and demanded I join him for dinner.”

  “He’s used to people following his orders, my lady.” Miss Ward made quick work as she lit candles, making the room immediately feel warmer and more inviting.

  Isabelle snorted. “I’m sure he’s used to a lot of things. But I am not one of his servants to be ordered about.”

  Miss Ward smiled. “No, my dear, you’re to be his wife, and as his wife you are to mind him regardless of how beastly he can be.”

  Isabelle exhaled and punched the pillow next to her.

  “There, there.” Miss Ward took a seat on the bed. “Why don’t I help you dress into a new gown, and we’ll see about joining the master for dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Isabelle argued, though her stomach chose that exact moment to growl. What was wrong with her? Never had she acted the part of a spoiled child, but the man had to understand. She had no idea how her family was faring and no way of communicating with them. And to make it worse, she was traveling with strangers to some unknown land.

  Miss Ward raised a plump hand to Isabelle’s face. “Things always seem easier to handle when you have a warm meal inside you.”

  Shoulders slumped in defeat, Isabelle nodded.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve agreed! I have the perfect dress! I sewed it myself, I’ve just been in absolute rapture these past few weeks, in hopes that a lady as beautiful as you would be the one to wear it!”

  “I would be honored.” Isabelle gave Miss Ward a hug and began peeling off her gloves.

  Chapter Three

  In my darkest times, music has been my lover, and for that I owe music all of my devotion, for when it counted, music lifted me up, whereas women let me down.

  —The Diary
of Dominique Maksylov

  “Where is she?” Dominique paced the creaky floorboards of the captain’s room for the hundredth time. Didn’t she know that punctuality was next to godliness? To keep him, of all people, waiting? Did she think she was the Queen?

  A throat cleared.

  He turned, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  “Oh…it’s you.” Cursing, he merely waved his friend off to the nearest seat and continued his pacing.

  “Apologies. By the look on your face, I can only imagine you hoped I’d be wearing a skirt that you could later lift with those gloved hands.” Hunter Wolfbane, Royal Duke of Haverstone, smiled and took a seat, plopping his Hessians onto the chair in front of him. “I have to admit I’m used to more swooning when I enter a room.”

  “Yes, but the rooms you often enter are filled with women.”

  “Can’t you at least pretend to swoon?”

  “No.”

  “Mayhap you’ll stumble a bit? It’s so dreadfully hard on my ego when I’m not given the praise due to my infamous name.”

  Dominique let out a hearty laugh. His friend was as mad as ever. “You’re nicknamed ‘the wolf’ for more than just your ability to sniff around women’s skirts at court.”

  Hunter smiled. “Yes, that’s true.”

  Dominique rolled his eyes. To think that the man sitting across from him was none other than the most feared spy in all of England. The smile on Hunter’s face seemed careless and simple, yet Dominique knew the horrors that his good friend had seen over the years.

  It irked Dominique that the man could be at such ease when seeing pain and death all around him. But he was the best money could afford. A more trustworthy man Dominique had never come across, which is why he needed him here, now.

  “By your scowl, I take it I’m not here for a social visit?” Hunter asked, dropping his feet on the planked floor and leaning forward, all traces of a smile gone. His dark features gave him the obvious look of danger when he wasn’t smiling. He stared at Dominique with his amber-colored eyes.