Whispered Music

by Rachel Van Dyken

  After three days of this she finally came to the conclusion that he was either mad, or truly heard music where others could not. For every time she spoke, it seemed to calm him, to make him smile. So she read, even though it mortified her all the way down to her toes to speak about such things aloud.

  Just yesterday he had asked her if she would be so kind as to demonstrate what the book was discussing.

  It was from India.

  And had more pictures than it did words.

  She threw it at his head.

  He laughed, a hearty laugh rich with amusement and full of his baritone timbre, but he never apologized.

  She imagined he would come up with another way to embarrass her, or flirt with her, today. A small smile danced across her lips as she pushed open the door.

  Only to find Hunter and Dominique in each other’s arms, dancing.

  Wonders never cease.

  Quietly, she lifted an eyebrow as she set the tray down on the nearest table and crossed her arms. They paused in their dancing, jerking away from one another. “Oh please.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Do not stop on my account.”

  Hunter cleared his throat. “We were…” Words died as he squinted and closed his mouth.

  “Making sure Hunter could dance at the masquerade in a few months. His leg hasn’t yet fully healed. He was concerned he would clobber someone with his boot. Isn’t that right, Hunter?” Dominique patted him on the back. “He’s a dreadful dancer in the first place. Women scurry away in hopes he won't ask for their hand, tends to step on their new slippers and all that. Not to mention the fact that he cannot count… well.”

  “Cannot count.” Hunter repeated through clenched teeth. “Right. I’m dumb as an ox. Been spending too much time with this one.” He pointed at Dominique. “Say,” he walked toward the table. “Dominique was just speaking to me about how lovely this certain concoction was! He is so diligent about taking his medication, aren’t you, my friend?”

  Dominique’s glare turned murderous as his nostrils flared in response. “Yes, well. I seem to be quite full of…” His eyes greedily searched the room.

  Hunter grinned. “Brilliant, seems you haven’t yet had your tea, this should slide down quite easily. We don’t want Isabelle to be disappointed, now do we?”

  “No,” Isabelle joined in. “We don’t.”

  “I miss my seclusion.” Dominique cursed and took the concoction. Isabelle’s eyes trained on his grimace as he drank the medicine in a few gulps. “Delightful.” He coughed and hit his chest. “Lovely how it burns there at the end, what is that again?”

  “It's best I keep it a surprise.” Isabelle reached for the biscuits and tea. “Now, shall I pour?”

  “Please,” both men said in unison.

  “Care to explain the real reason I interrupted such a delightful lover's embrace?” Isabelle fought to keep a straight face as Hunter kicked Dominique in the shin.

  To his credit Dominique didn’t wince, just smiled as if the world was exactly as it should be. “In due time, love. Now, for now, I beg that you accompany me to the village. It will be a short visit. Hunter has inquired and discovered that many of the French soldiers are no longer in this certain territory.”

  Isabelle nodded. “When are we to leave?”

  “As soon as you are ready, love.”

  Smiling, she rose from her chair. “Well then, I better see to it. Gentleman...” She curtsied and turned toward the door, pausing before she left. “And, Hunter?”

  His head snapped up.

  “While dancing, it is important that you hold your partner closer. I trust you’ll work hard to remember those difficult numbers while dancing at the masquerade?”

  “Yes, well, one, two, three, and four, are all such a mouthful. I have my doubts.” He seethed.

  “Try.” Isabelle winked. “After all, we wouldn’t want people thinking you were stupid, would we?”

  Dominique choked on his tea, but otherwise kept an impassive face.

  “Right.” Hunter took a deep breath and leaned lazily back into his chair. “We wouldn’t want any of those women getting the wrong impression.”

  Isabelle waved and made her exit, laughing all the way down the hall. Whatever those two boys— not men— were up to, it was amusing.

  Try as she might, she could not push down the excitement that jumped her pulse when Dominique asked to take her into the village. She hadn’t yet visited, but imagined it would be ideal.

  With a squeal, she went to her room and called for her maid.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lost... I am so hopelessly, joyfully, incomparably… Lost.

  —The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

  “Sometimes,” Hunter growled once Isabelle had left, “I wish I could wring your neck and throw you out the window. Perhaps you’ll allow me to use you for target practice while you zigzag through the forest, hmm?”

  “Of course, anything you say.” Dominique had only partially heard what his friend nattered about. His focus, his only focus, was for his wife. The quirk of her lips, the lightness of her steps, her delicate hands. Blood surged to all the wrong places, making him uncomfortable. He wanted to possess her, to ravish her, but most of all, and he would never admit it aloud, he wanted to just touch her, breathe next to her in hopes that her air would mingle with his and he could savor her scent, taste her skin…

  “And then I shall smite thee with my fist!” Hunter finished.

  “What the devil?” Dominique turned to his friend who was now wielding a pretend sword in the air.

  “Caught my performance did you? I nearly stopped once I had been acting out scene one for an ungodly amount of time, then got quite caught up. Done wool gathering, are you? Run along, it seems I’ve a ball to prepare tonight!” Hunter clapped his hands. “Now, do you remember the steps from the dance?”

  “I believe so.” Dominique nodded his head. “I don’t remember it being that difficult.”

  “It’s a waltz,” Hunter replied. “Not meant to be difficult, but sensual; it is the only dance you may dance in public where you can fully embrace a woman, feel her soft supple body against your—”

  “Your eyes are closed. Tell me you’re imagining that doxy who took advantage of you and not my wife.”

  “I wish it were anything but the doxy, but alas, she is the freshest in my mind. Blasted meat.”

  Dominique bit his lip to keep from smiling and slapped his friend on the back. “Thank you, I owe you so very much...”

  Hunter grinned wolfishly. “Yes well, there will be a time when you will pay me back in full. Now off you go, it seems I am to discuss food with your kitchen help, amongst other things.”

  Dominique made his way toward the door. “Try not to scare the wits out of my staff, Hunter.”

  “The wolf will not bare his teeth, beast, now go!” Hunter laughed.

  Dominique was happy to find his wife at the bottom of the stairs, covered in a tightly-fitted pelisse that brought his eye to the trim feminine figure. Lined with fur, it seemed to be worn for two purposes.

  Warmth and seduction.

  At the moment he was imagining both, which was why, when his foot slipped on the last stair, he went flying to the ground at alarming speed, almost not catching his face before it slapped against the cold marble floor.

  “Dominique!” Isabelle gasped, kneeling next to him on the floor. “Is it the fever? Is it back? Are you ill?” She pulled his head against her chest and kissed him on the hair; his cheek brushed against something soft, supple, distinctly feminine.

  He moaned.

  “Oh no!” Isabelle then cursed quite soundly for a female. “I just knew an outing was a tragic idea.”

  Dominique nodded, allowing his cheek to rub against her chest. Bliss. Complete and utter bliss. If only she would move slightly to the right so he could…

  Chuckling, because he truly could not help the mirth escaping through his mouth, he bent his head into the opening of her pelisse an
d kissed her exposed skin just below the neck.

  “You cad!” With a thud she whacked him with her reticule and pushed away from the floor. “And to think I felt sorry for you!” A smile curved at her lips, but she looked to be desperately trying to keep it from showing.

  “I was injured, truly out of my mind. No idea what came over me.” As the lie tumbled out, he chuckled and rose to his feet. “Now that I’ve not only embarrassed myself beyond all reason by first falling and then being so uncomfortably aroused I fear I won’t walk straight again, should we go to the village?”

  Isabelle flushed and he could tell she was trying very hard not to peek at his afflicted area.

  “Perhaps,” conquering a grin he walked over to her and lifted a hand to rub the side of her neck with his thumb, “when we return we can read some more?”

  “Read.” Her lips quivered, a blush stained her cheek. “Is that what you are going to call it from now on?”

  “Call what?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you rake.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Truthfully, I’m in no mood to read, that is unless you plan to read in hopes to advise me the best position for me to—”

  She clamped a hand over his mouth.

  He nipped at it then pulled her roughly across his chest, kissing her lips, stealing the breath straight from her lungs in hopes that she would have no other choice but to inhale all of him. “Don’t bother ringing for your maid when we return, love.”

  Reluctantly, he released her and offered his arm. With a sigh and a dramatic eye roll, she took his arm as he led her outside to the waiting carriage.

  Once they were seated comfortably, mind you, not seductively or sensually as he would have liked, but comfortably apart from one another. He began to put his little plan into action. It had taken not only a generous amount of blunt, but also seamstresses, who agreed to make alterations to one of the pre-made ball gowns in the village. It was supposed to be of the newest style, boasting a rich burgundy and an almost backless dip. Just hearing about it made Dominique think all sorts of improper thoughts.

  “What are we to do in the village?” Isabelle asked, interrupting his vivid fantasy of what a chocolate-dipped female would taste like.

  “Er…” Dominique stuttered then coughed. “I have a few matters to take care of, and you, my dear, need some new gloves, and slippers, and well, sadly, we never purchased your trousseau. I have decided to amend the situation immediately.”

  “For your own pleasure, no doubt.” Isabelle lifted an eyebrow in his direction then used her hands to smooth out her skirts. “Now, what is Hunter to be doing all day? And do not lie to me, I can tell when you are trying to avoid the truth, you always bite the inside of your cheek.”

  “I have never lied to you!” Dominique tried to appear offended while racking his brain for instances of dishonesty.

  “You said you enjoyed your morning tonic.”

  “I do. You bring it.”

  “Lie number one.” Isabelle counted off on her fingers. “You also said you lack the patience to read.”

  “I find large words terribly troublesome.” He feigned boredom and looked out the window.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Isabelle shake her head. “Right, which explains why Cuppins claims you’ve mastered six languages and hold an honorary degree in botany from Oxford.”

  “Can a man help that he enjoys roses?” Dominique countered.

  “Tell me, do you lose often at the tables?” Isabelle leaned forward. Dominique wrenched his gaze from her pert décolletage and struggled to pull his mind away from the vision in front of him.

  “I do not gamble.”

  An amused grin spread across her face. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” He leaned forward to meet her in the middle of the carriage.

  “A man like you wouldn’t gamble money. You do not take chances, or at least you do not enjoy the risk in doing so. Besides, as I said, you bite your cheek when you lie. You’d lose the entire estate in a manner of minutes.”

  Dominique leaned back and grumbled. “Fine, now, let us talk of other things. I find it uncomfortable when you examine me so closely.”

  He had just opened his mouth to steer the subject elsewhere when she asked in her soft voice the question he was hoping to avoid.

  “Why?”

  Time stood still. He looked out the window, noticing the way the snow melted and dripped off the trees. “Because, I fear you will find me lacking.”

  Only cowards made admissions and refused to look into the person's eyes when doing so, but he found his old insecurities crawl back full force. The weight of rejection heavy on his chest yet again. Would he never be rid of it?

  Isabelle sighed, then pulled the drapes across the windows. In an instant she was straddling him. Lifting her skirts over his form it was truly something he would remember for his entire existence. Especially the way her legs braced either side of him. How pieces of hair fell out of her hat. The smell of berries from her breakfast warm on her breath. She bit her lip and cocked her head to one side.

  His pulse pounded in his neck; no doubt she could see it. The whole blasted world would be able to view it. But he could not stop the blood roaring in his ears, or the distinct arousal emblazing his body. He wanted to stay there, in between her thighs forever. Even if she was clothed the entire time. Her warmth, her body, embraced his in such an intimate way that he wondered if he ever truly knew passion until this day.

  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.