Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales)

by Rachel Van Dyken

“Impressive, tell me, do you know Finnish?” a male voice asked.

  “Stefan, this is none of your concern.”

  “Oh, when a man shouts in that many languages you can believe it is my concern. My poor ears will never be the same. I also have it on good authority that your wife is ruining what would have been a nice sensual moment with my own wife upstairs in our bedroom. In short, I have been ousted.” He cursed, though not as loud or fluently as Dominique had.

  “So yes, when a man gets kicked out of his own room, it’s his concern. Now, what the devil did you do this time?”

  “She’s carrying my child.” There, he'd said it.

  “Ah, congratulations are in order then.”

  “I don’t know how it happened... I don’t...” Dominique ran his fingers through his hair, cursing again.

  “Blast. Didn’t think I’d have to give a biology lesson. All right…” Stefan took a seat and propped his feet up on the sofa. “When a man and woman find each other attractive, or in some cases, available, they begin a mating ritual I like to call—”

  “Please, no further. I don’t imagine I’ll ever recover if you explain to me your sordid view on sex.”

  “Yes well, there was once a time when an innkeeper felt the need to have the talk with me. In a room full of patrons, no less. Imagine that, and you’ll know just part of the traumatizing moments I’ve been exposed to.”

  A smile cracked through Dominique’s tough exterior, though he made great pains to hide it from Stefan. “I know how it happened. I just… I took precautions so it wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t all young men?” Stefan said indifferently. “But, you are married, are you not? Why, with your own wife?”

  “I cannot have children.”

  “Evidence proves otherwise—”

  “I know,” Dominique interrupted. “What evidence proves and such. I should word this differently. I am able to have children, I do not wish to bring any into the world, not into my world, not of my seed.”

  “Is your seed particularly bad? Does it not do the job?” Stefan asked.

  Dominique poured whiskey into two cups and handed one to Stefan. “I cannot be my father.”

  Stefan threw back the contents and grimaced. “Of course you cannot, because you are not your father. Just because you are his son does not mean you must be his copy.”

  “What if…” Dominique could not even bring himself to say it.

  Stefan leaned forward, hands folded. “Go on.”

  “What if I cannot help it?”

  Stefan laughed.

  Dominique wasn’t sure if he should feel insulted or just stupid.

  “Everyone has a choice. By saying you cannot help it, you are saying that you are choosing not to fight against it. I cannot help but have my hair color. I was born with it. But when it comes to actions and behavior, you can always help it, you can always choose to do good despite your upbringing.”

  Dominique wanted to believe him, truly wished that he didn’t feel so helpless and cynical about what Stefan was saying. “I wish I could believe that. But my past proves...”

  “What? That of the weak line of men in your family? Did any of them possess backbone enough to go against their father? Did they have the strength you have? Did they even try?”

  “No.”

  “Did you defy your father?”

  Dominique gave a hollow laugh and shook his head. “At every turn. I even pushed him to his death.”

  “Yes, well…” Stefan reached for the whiskey, obviously in need of more to steel himself against this particular conversation. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

  Was it so terribly wrong to agree with him? To say out loud that his father was a monster? That he would do anything not to become him?

  And then a thought occurred. So brilliant, so clear and truthful in his mind that he had no choice but to believe it. To test the theory by speaking it aloud.

  “I will not be him.”

  “By Jove, I think you’ve got it,” Stefan muttered. “Of course, you will not be him. It isn’t possible to be the same person he was, because you were made differently. You have been given the same type of choices that every human being has been given. Yes, we cannot help who or what we are born to, but you can help how you respond to your environment.”

  “I can.”

  “Yes.” Stefan moved away from the sofa and put a hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “You truly can. Dominique, you’re a good man. I’ve no doubt in my mind you can make Isabelle happy. But you must let it go, everything. Just like this room.”

  Stefan sighed and looked around. “Do you see the mess around you? It has been kept this way, as a trophy in honor of the violence of your upbringing. But, it is time, don’t you think? To sweep the floors?”

  “How do you even know of my pain? My past?”

  Montmouth shrugged. “That Hunter fellow told me quite a lot. He thought I should at least know why you were so disagreeable.”

  Dominique smiled then looked around. A weight lifted from Dominique’s shoulders as he looked down at the glass beneath his boots. The blood stains, just to the left of the piano, the tattered curtains and finally the dust particles amidst the furniture. Why had he left it this way? Truly, he had used it as a reminder of what he was capable of.

  Everyone was capable of darkness, but why glorify it? Why preserve it as he had? Revenge was never truly his to bestow, and justification for his actions was merely another poor excuse to live in solitude, to keep himself protected.

  Truthfully, he had lived as the most selfish of men. Keeping his heart safe from the world, his mind safe from the hauntings of his music, and in return a part of him had died.

  Until her.

  “I need to speak with her.” Dominique hastily walked to the door.

  “Wait,” Stefan called out. “I may not have the best expertise with the fairer sex. After all, I do believe it took me at least twelve times before I got my proposal right, but perhaps you should wait until the morning. Allow her the comfort of her sisters, and speak to her when she has slept. Nothing good comes of two people discussing their feelings in the wee hours of the night.”

  “Hmm…” Dominique let out a laugh.

  “You think my advice amusing?”

  “No.” Dominique turned and purposefully walked to the sofa where Stefan still stood. “I just cannot believe I went through an entire conversation being scolded by an Englishman without drawing my pistols.”

  Stefan smirked.

  “You’re right, you know, I should wait.” Though he hated to do so, he saw wisdom in allowing Isabelle her rest. After all, if she was correct, then she needed to take care of their baby. At the thought his heart leapt with joy.

  “And you’re smiling like an idiot because…?” Stefan asked.

  “I’m going to be a father.”

  Stefan hit him across the back. “A toast! To the best father my little nephew could have.”

  Scales fell from Dominique’s eyes. The walls around his heart all but crumbled, and for the first time in fifteen years, he was able to celebrate in what he had always thought of as his mother’s grave. Where life was taken, life was now restored.

  So they raised their cups, drank of the fine whiskey and toasted, to life, to family, but most of all, to true love.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When you have lost your way, when the world appears as if it is crumbling around you, perhaps, just maybe, you should close your eyes. By looking outward we forget the strength that is given inward. We can only see part of the picture with our eyes open. But, when they are closed, we see as a whole. We concentrate not on what we can see, but on the faith of what we know to be true.

  —The Diary of Beauty and her Beast Prince

  Isabelle wasn’t one to pout or cry, yet she sat in her room for the remainder of the night doing exactly that. Either she truly was increasing or she was mad. Eyes puffy and tired, she wanted nothing more than to throw a hairbrush at the mirror fo
r reminding her why her heart felt like breaking all over again..

  In all fairness, he hadn’t rejected her. But, his behavior had been less than thrilled. All because she carried his heir, and yet, she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry or even guilty.

  Instead she felt a fierce protectiveness, and a need to fight until she was the victor. So she sat in her chair as the sun rose over the horizon, and when the pink light began to shimmer into her room, she still did not move.

  When the pink turned into a yellow, a knock came on her door. Again, she did not move, but waited as it opened a crack and then fully revealed her husband.

  Would it be too much to ask for him to look at least partially as frightened as she was? His hair was perfect, his skin refreshed and rejuvenated as if he had the best night’s sleep and was a different man.

  And then, she saw it.

  The light behind his eyes.

  The glow in his skin.

  The absolute joy in his smile as he slowly walked toward her.

  But truly, she was never the patient type.

  So, in true Isabelle fashion, she met him halfway, stumbling into his arms until he caught her and fell with her gently to the floor, both of them on their knees, embracing one another.

  “I—” Dominique’s voice trembled. Merciful heavens, she hardly recognized the man in front of her, it was as if he had been reborn.

  His scarred hands tenderly caressed hers as he continued to struggle for words. His clear blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  He bit his lip and closed his eyes as if needing to regain his strength, and when he opened them, he stopped trying to talk.

  But then again, Dominique was the type of man who didn’t need words. Actions meant so much more to him.

  Isabelle watched in unspeakable joy as his hands slowly dropped to her flat stomach. His head soon followed, and then his lips pressed against her belly as he whispered, “I love you.”

  Naturally, she thought he meant her, but his eyes, his focus, his artist's gaze was not on her, but the gift they had been given.

  “I love you,” he repeated again. “I hope you have your mother's heart.”

  “And your father's talent,” Isabelle added, pressing a kiss against the top of his head as he held her.

  “What if I’m wrong?” she said, suddenly frightened. After all, it was quite early.

  Dominique slowly lifted them both to their feet. “Then we will just have to keep trying. In fact—” His eyes turned predatory. “To be sure, we should probably engage in some illicit activities now, don’t you think? I for one, want to be certain that my child is growing within you.”

  Isabelle giggled. “And are you fearful that you were not doing a good job the first few times?”

  “I wasn’t,” he said bluntly. “I was making love to you, but I wasn’t possessing you. I wasn’t drinking you in while simultaneously opening myself up. I wasn’t giving you what you deserve, but with God as my witness, I’m going to do that now.”

  With a rip, her dress fell to the floor.

  “Are you entirely sure you should mention God's name in the same sentence you are using to explain how you plan to ravish your wife?”

  Dominique chuckled as his lips met hers with a hot blaze of fire. “I don’t think he’ll mind, love…”

  His wicked hands cupped her bottom and thrust her across the bed as he lay out on top of her and plunged his hands into her bodice and continued ruining all the clothing she had so carefully put on earlier that morning when she had nothing more to do then carefully choose her dress and wait.

  “No.” Dominique growled when Isabelle grasped the tattered clothing in her hands. “I’ll buy you more. But for now, I’m going to lose myself in you. I’m going to ravish you. Lay claim to you, and most likely cause great scandal in this house.”

  “Scandal?” Oh heavens! How was she to concentrate when his hands were doing such wicked things?

  “Yes.” His hands moved higher, his kiss was deeper. And then he pulled back to look into her eyes. “For when you scream my name, over and over again—when you tell me how to please you, what feels good and what makes you go insane—it will be music to my ears. But I believe our guests may be utterly scandalized.”

  “To be fair…” Isabelle was near panting, she just didn’t want him to stop. “They do know your reputation as a beast… so surely it won’t come as a shock.” His lips moved to her ear as he breathed into her neck and began nibbling on the sensitive part that drove her wild.

  “So really,” he whispered. “I have a reputation to live up to. Now, let us make music.”

  “Music?” Perhaps being married to a musician would be odd, but it would also be magical and… Isabelle never finished her thought. She was too busy screaming her husband’s name.

  Epilogue

  “My ears are actually bleeding,” Hunter said dryly as he sat at the breakfast table wishing for the third time that morning that someone would have done him the favor of an early death. Anything so he wouldn’t have to listen to Dominique’s sexual prowess in the bedroom.

  It wasn’t doing anything for his appetite, and to be quite honest, it was deuced hard not to constantly think of enjoying the same blasted activity, what with her sitting across from him.

  At yet another loud noise from the upstairs, Stefan cleared his throat. “Would someone please pass the sugar?”

  Rosalind burst out laughing. “I believe it’s been passed, and passed, and p—”

  Stefan glared at his wife. “There are unmarried women at the table, cease from your vulgarity and—”

  Rosalind stretched her arms above her head. “Do you know? I feel quite sleepy. I think I shall retire for an early morning nap.”

  “Yes.” Stefan nodded seriously. “Wouldn’t want you getting fatigued. I’ll just, er, join you then. After all, you look much too sleepy to climb those stairs on your own, wouldn’t want you to take a tumble.”

  Tea spewed out of Hunter's mouth. “Apologies.” He wasn’t that sorry. After all, they did just say "tumble" and Stefan looked ready to ravish his wife on the table where Hunter was trying to break his fast. He needed to get away from this place before he challenged himself to a duel.

  Stefan and Rosalind left in quite a hurry for being so tired.

  Hunter yawned, because truly he was fatigued. His eyes honestly just happened to fall on Gwen.

  “Don’t even think about it.” She glared.

  “I have no idea what you mean.” But he kind of did. Was it so wrong to want her writhing beneath him? After all, upon their first meeting they had—

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she all but yelled, interrupting his glorious memory of her pale skin. “Eat your food, and wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.”

  Never one to say no to a lady, Hunter did exactly as he was told, though he did pay special attention to the way he held his goblet in his hand, and how he closed his eyes in ecstasy when he took a bite of eggs.

  Truthfully, he was having a devil of a time not jumping across the table. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this tempted.

  Gwen cleared her throat. He looked up.

  She dropped a piece of jam on her chest. Purposefully. Her eyes, innocent and wide, looked shocked. And then she grinned, took her ungloved hand and wiped the jam with her finger, slowly dipping it into her mouth. A moan escaped her lips as she closed her eyes.

  Lust pounded through Hunter. With a jolt he stood up, with every intention on demanding she stop teasing him, though to be fair, he had deserved it.

  But she beat him to the task, meeting him in the middle of the room. She sidestepped him and left.

  Hunter swore and glared at her empty seat, as well as the jam that sat next to her plate.

  He would never look at jam the same way again. Ever.

  ****

  Dominique exhaled as Isabelle giggled beneath him. Their limbs were tangled.

  “I believe we’ve scandalized the enti
re countryside.” Isabelle sighed.

  “To the devil with them all,” Dominique growled. “I love you, my beauty.”

  “And I you,” she answered.

  They lay in silence for a few minutes before Isabelle asked, “What do you hear now?”

  Dominique chuckled. “The most beautiful music I’ve ever heard in my existence.”

  “Can you sing it to me?”

  Dominique kissed her cheek. “I’ll do better. I’ll show you.”

  They quickly dressed and tiptoed down to the music room.

  Dominique walked to the piano, the instrument that had been a part of him his entire life, took a seat at the ivory keys, and began to play.

  It was a slow melody at first that turned into a ferocious blend of the most beautiful song he had ever played. The music was no longer haunting but life-altering, so beautiful that he knew it had to be a representation of the completeness he felt.

  When he was finished, he turned to his wife.

  Apparently, all he was good for was making people cry when he played. A little defeated, he walked to her side and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry it made you sad.” Could he do nothing right?

  “I’m not sad.” Isabelle sniffled. “I’ve just never heard anything so beautiful! What’s it called?”

  “Isabelle.”

  He didn’t think it possible, but she cried harder.

  He kissed her hair. “It is what I hear with every breath you take, every sigh that escapes your lips, every little moment I share with you.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  He smiled. Yes. It was perfect.

  The Wolf’s Pursuit

  London Fairy Tales Book 3

  His mission was dependent on his obsession.

  Prologue

  1805 London, England

  She loved flowers; the pink frilly ones that made a man roll his eyes in disgust. Yet Hunter could not bring himself to deny her anything. She was his soul mate, his love. And after being married for a year, he could no longer manage being away from her. The life of a spy was unapologetic. Hunter would be gone for weeks at a time, spending many sleepless nights tossing and turning, aching for Lucy, the Royal Duchess of Haverstone.