“Do you like them?” he asked once he was close enough to talk to her without shouting. Her eyes twinkled with delight as she held her hands out in front of her and squealed, “They do not even look real!”
Pleased, Dominique grinned and brought her hand to his face. “They are made of the softest silk. It was near impossible to sew the gloves together for the fabric had the tendency to tear.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Magic,” he whispered against her lips. And he believed it. For the first time in his life, he truly believed in the fairy tales. That a man's job was to chase after the princess, rescue her from the horrid beast, even if the person he was rescuing her from was himself.
Perhaps his mother was right. Hadn’t she said that one day he would storm a castle in hopes to secure his own love? At the time the vision had been of him galloping into a large estate on his horse.
Now, older and hopefully wiser, he realized what his mother meant. Sometimes, it takes no great feat of physical strength, but that of emotions and will, for the walls one has to break, the ones that hold the greatest threat, are the ones around a person's heart.
He would secure her heart, once and for all, tonight.
Pulling away, he bent low before his wife, and kissed both of her hands before offering his arm. “After dinner, we will dance.”
“I cannot believe you would throw a ball for two people.”
Dominique grinned. “Love, who ever told you there would only be two?”
Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Dominique’s clap. With a jerk and a gasp, she looked around the dining room table. Blanketed in a pool of light, the area looked like something that when future generations asked him how he had won the heart of the beauty, he would have trouble explaining just how breath-taking it had been.
Sconces lined the walls of the room, all lit, and blazing light into the otherwise dark, cold, dining area. The long table held candles of every shape and size, and in the middle, an ice sculpture of two people dancing.
Dominique and Isabelle.
Cuppins had outdone himself, if the smirk on his face was any indication as he sat in the corner of the room.
Dominique was slightly worried the sculpture would melt with all the candles near it, but it seemed to be holding its own. Thankful, he led Isabelle to the table and pulled out her chair, shaking his head to the servant who had stepped forward to do so.
If anyone was going to touch his wife, it would be him.
Not a servant.
Certainly not Hunter.
And tonight, not even her lady's maid.
The thought brought a smile to his lips as he pushed her chair in and took a seat opposite.
“Dinner is served.” Cook walked in, proud as a peacock. Dominique had requested that the servants involve themselves in the explaining of the dishes; it seemed Isabelle was always asking questions. To satisfy her curiosity about the local dishes, he asked Cook to explain each and every one of the foods that graced her plate.
****
Isabelle wasn’t sure she could eat another bite. Not used to such rich food, she felt positively ready to burst. But ladies never said such things aloud, so she bit the inside of her cheek and declined Cook's invitation to have a bite of dessert.
Never had she seen Dominique look so carefree. The candlelight danced on his sculpted features, making his face appear like a live painting. She found herself shamelessly staring at him more often than her own food. The planes of his face were smooth with sharp angles. His full lips would part as he smiled seductively at her. More than once she felt herself overheat, and then tremble just by the mere sight of his smile! Merciful heavens, he was beautiful, and she could not gather the strength to look away. Her eyes, it seemed, had a mind of their own, as they stayed focused on the most beautiful man. Surely it did not go unnoticed by the staff, as well as Hunter, who every few minutes entered the dining room to pour himself more brandy and found the need to continuously roll his eyes at them in exaggeration.
His bad attitude gained him two swift kicks in the shin until finally he mumbled an apology and glared into his glass of brandy, looking as if he wished it to turn into a beautiful woman. Truly, the man needed to get a hold of his lust before Dominique did it for him. It wasn’t natural for a man to look so interested in spirits or food as if gorging himself of those simple things would sate his desires.
She looked back to where Dominique was sitting and noticed he no longer occupied the seat. Glancing around the room, he was nowhere to be found. Panic seized her. What if he had seen her glance at Hunter? Truly it wasn’t that she held a secret tender for him. If anything, she was concerned for his welfare. Bile rose in her throat, the last time she had talked with Hunter, Dominique had thrown a fit.
Rising quickly, she was just about ready to make her apologies, when a beautiful masterpiece reached her ears.
It was painfully obvious Dominique was gracing the piano with his presence, but the music, the song pouring forth, was magical. It reminded her of fairies dancing in the forest. Of sea nymphs swirling in the ocean. It held no hatred, no anger, no darkness.
Without excusing herself, she made her way into the large ballroom, where she was certain the music was coming from. It reached high into the ceilings, begging to be released into the night sky. The notes swirled and danced around her and she almost lifted her hands above her head in worship—for music had never truly been this beautiful.
As she entered the large ballroom, her eyes fixed on her husband's back, she could think of nothing except caressing those scarred hands, which brought forth so much beauty. Hands that played through haunting pain.
“Beautiful.” She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and sighed as she felt the muscles flex beneath his dinner jacket. His head tilted back. Eyes closed, he continued to play with his head rested against her body, inky black hair falling over one eye.
A thrill shot through her at the intimate notion, as if her body was inspiring him, her love, her touch. Spellbound, she watched as his beautifully marked hands flew effortlessly over the keys of the piano, as if man and instrument were one and the same.
Without thinking, she placed both hands on either side of his face, and leaned forward, gasping at the feel of his lips against hers.
Desire made her lips quiver at the touch of his tongue as it parted her lips. Obviously more talented than she realized, he continued to play as his mouth sent delicious shivers down her spine. As his tongue flicked across hers and then withdrew, the music stopped. With a groan he turned around and pulled her across his lap.
His kiss was hot and urgent, reckless, but like his music, unique and beautiful. His lips beckoned her, called out to her, sung to her. She could not stop if her life depended on it.
Abruptly, he slowed the kiss, his lips dancing merrily across her chin as he grinned and then with his teeth tugged at her bottom lip, alternating between sucking and licking before he reached his hands into her hair and jerked her forward against his hard body.
“Ahem,” a male voice said through the haze of passion. “As much as I enjoy watching you two engage in such… hobbies. Especially considering I am a young virile male without companionship, it seems the guests have all but arrived and are ready to enter into the ballroom. I have tried to keep them busy, poured wine, though I find it beneath me, told jokes, though nobody laughed… Alas, my only other option was to interrupt… this.” Hunter’s voice feigned indifference. Truly he would be a fabulous butler. Not that she would ever say as much to his face lest he give her another one of his infamous glares.
“No,” Dominique answered roughly against her mouth. “Send them away.” He reached his hand around to her bum, pulling her roughly against him.
“Blast it all, it’s like watching a naughty play,” Hunter complained. “Dominique, you invited them here. Devil take it! Now show your wife a good time.”
Isabelle giggled. “Oh, I’m having a good—”
>
“Isabelle!” Hunter scolded.
With great effort she pried herself way from Dominique’s arms, and nearly lost her nerve at the look of passion in his eyes, half-lidded with promises of seduction, and secrets of a night full of pleasure, if only she would take him up on the offer. Obviously lacking any sort of proper self-control, she leaned forward again, despite Hunter’s curses, but Dominique stopped her.
“Hunter’s right, love.” He kissed her nose. "Besides, the ball is part of the surprise."
“And our guests?”
“The staff and their family, welcoming you to your home.” He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, dipping it slightly into her mouth and closing his eyes. “And Hunter did go to a lot of work to carry out my instructions with the decorations.”
“Decorations?”
Dominique grinned. “Are you to tell me you haven’t looked at your surroundings?”
Isabelle lifted her head slowly to the ceiling, and then to the walls of the ballroom. Tears welled behind her eyes.
“How did you—”
“Hush.” He kissed her lightly across the lips. “You are deserving of far more.”
Isabelle shook her head as she slowly rose to her wobbly legs. “It looks enchanted.”
“Thanks to Hunter's skill of persuasion, manipulation, and apparently decoration, we have given you just that. An enchanted castle.”
“Heard that,” Hunter muttered as his footsteps echoed across the marble floors. People began filing in as he opened the doors, musicians, families, and servants with goblets of wine. Why there must be at least a hundred or more people!
Isabelle looked at the ceiling, draped in white billowy fabric. Lanterns of every shape and size fell from the tall ceiling, though she wasn’t sure how it was managed for they were ridiculously high. The room was bathed in whites and golds, and the candlelight made things come alive.
Considering how old the castle was, it was no surprise to see the gargoyles that decorated the main ballroom. Bronze and gold plated, they glowed in the candlelight, almost giving them a life-like effect that both thrilled and scared her.
The servants and their families formed a sort of circle around her and Dominique. He winked, and bowed over her hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Breathless, she nodded, and gave a low curtsy.
The entire room erupted into applause as he pulled her into his arms. Floating, she was floating across the room, with the beast turned prince. Her smile hurt, it was so wide. Perhaps it was worth all the pain, to arrive at this exact moment. A moment when a much traumatized little boy finally turned into a man.
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 s
haky. She took a long sip of the brandy and barely kept herself from choking.
Dominique was silent for a few minutes, his eyes closed. “He laughed.”
Isabelle felt her eyes pool with tears. Flames danced on the walls of the room, they cast shadows and light across Dominique’s features. Such a beautiful man, so much talent and promise, utterly ruined as a boy. How could even the best of men come out of a similar situation without bearing scars?
Dominique smiled cynically and poured another glass of spirits. “He forced me to play one last song. It was as if I was playing the piano for my mother, only it was her funeral, not a birthday or a party or even a celebration. I still hear the song; it still haunts me. It has become a habit to write out the notes so I can sleep at night, but I burn what I write as if burning the memory of that night will purge it from me.
“I had no idea the depths of my father’s own perversion. The pain was excruciating when he poured hot wax across my hands. I believe he meant to take away my gift, but hot wax does nothing more than burn you, it does not keep you from playing the same instrument he despised so much.”
Feeling ill, Isabelle leaned forward; the smell of death seemed to permeate their room.
But Dominique continued, his voice hollow. “In the end, he threw my music into the fire, told me to follow it there. I was a silly child. I did not want to see my music, the music I had written for my mother, burn. So like a fool I reached into the flames to retrieve it.”
“No more!” Isabelle sobbed into her hands. “Please.” Her shoulders shook of their own accord as her sobs echoed in the silent room.
“I must, Isabelle. You must know.” Dominique’s hand was on her shoulder and then her neck. He had moved closer to her and was now kneeling in front of her, holding her hands within his own. His voice trembled as he continued. “He held my hands there until I passed out. I have no idea how long they were in the flames, all I know is Cuppins found me hours later. The trauma was enough for them to worry for my life. My father, who bore scars of his own, was never the same after that night.”
Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales) Page 18
