Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(10)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Isabelle waited in the captain’s quarters. After the ceremony, she was escorted to the room and told in no uncertain terms that it would be shared with Dominique, considering it was their wedding night.

Lovely. A nightmare to accompany everything else that had gone horribly wrong. She wasn’t necessarily afraid he would force himself on his own wife.

No, despite all of his beastly habits, he didn’t seem the sort to harm a woman, regardless of what he had just threatened to do to her. Fear pooled in her belly for an entirely different reason.

Isabelle was afraid he would be kind.

And a kind man would be so much harder to hate. A passionate lover would surely break her heart, and if she wanted to escape the beast without heartache, he must continue to be horrible to her.

His kiss spoke of passion.

His touch ignited fervor within her.

And his smile was wickedly delicious.

Those weapons were much scarier to behold than his silver tongue.

The door slammed. Dominique stormed into the room like a raging lunatic. Nostrils flaring and hands gripped into tight fists, he didn’t even acknowledge her. Instead, he poured himself some brandy and threw back the contents before turning his blue eyes onto her.

So, he was to play the beast tonight, was he?

Isabelle had lived her entire life with her mother, a woman who, in her mind, would scare even Dominique out of his dark humor. She could handle him being threatening.

As long as his warm hands didn’t touch her.

And his lips didn’t caress hers.

“Well.” He poured another glass, sipping it slower than the first. “Let’s get on with it.”

Isabelle felt herself pale. Get on with what? Did he want some sort of performance? “I’m no courtesan, as you so blatantly stated earlier this day. I find myself confused. What are we to get on with, my lord?” she asked, buying herself more time, for the look in his eyes, a look of pure hate, seemed to billow from him in waves.

Perhaps she should throw up her countenance again to gain some sympathy. Then again, sympathy was more dangerous than hate.

“Take off your clothes. It is, after all, what women do, is it not?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes; he truly was dramatic with his moods. “I only undress when it is time for a bath, husband. I know no other type of undressing unless it’s to ready for bed.”

“Which is exactly what you are doing now, my love. I need you to ready for bed.” He loomed over her, gloves still on his hands.

“After you,” she challenged with a tilt of her head. “After all, it is my understanding that a husband and wife are to share the marriage bed.”

“Indeed.” He growled, making quick, awkward movements with his gloved hands as he tried to take off his fitted jacket.

The task would truly be impossible without someone to help him; anyone could see that it was tailored specifically for his large muscular form.

With a sigh, and the last bit of patience Isabelle possessed, she slowly walked toward the man and touched his shoulders, just slightly.

His muscles tensed, but he indeed froze in place as her other hand trembled and moved across his shoulder to help him remove his jacket.

She must be losing her mind, for what woman would willingly help a man disrobe when the result would be her on the receiving end of his savagery? Yet, she moved to help him and noticed that the minute her hands touched his body, Dominique calmed.

So, the beast it seemed had a weakness for touch, which she found quite odd. Once the jacket was removed, her hands lingered, their warmth pressed against the giant expanse of his muscled back. One could see the dark skin underneath and again it reminded her of his heritage. What, she wondered, would this beast of a man look like if he was to take care of his appearance? If he shaved his beastly overgrowth and cut his hair?

Devastation, it was the obvious choice, for his form, everything about him was perfect. Perhaps his one boon to women everywhere was that he kept his perfection hidden beneath a scowl and a devilish amount of hair.

“We shall begin,” he said stepping away from her touch, his body giving an involuntary shake as he did so.

Isabelle lifted her eyebrow. What the devil did he want to commence? Truly, she was ignorant and had no idea what mood Dominique was in other than he was surprisingly sure on his feet after drinking the brandy.

A small gasp escaped her lips as he removed his crisp, white shirt. Turning quickly so she wouldn’t see him in a state of undress, she shook her head and closed her eyes, but the visions of his hard-planed stomach and tanned skin were burned into her memory.

Suddenly, she felt heat behind her, and then Dominique’s gloved hands were on her shoulders, slowly pulling down her traveling dress with the ease and knowledge of a man who had stripped many a woman in his lifetime.

Although his touch sent chills, it was distant and cold, merely because he kept his gloves on. But the heat from his chest began to spread across her back, and then his breath was hot on her face as his tongue reached out and trailed a design on her neck.

Hot desire pulsed through her in the most wanton of places. His grip tightened on her shoulders and then she heard a rip of fabric. Was he ripping her dress from her body? So he truly meant to rape her?

His touch sent a nervous tremble through her body—she refused to believe it was fear of any kind. A sick feeling swirled in her stomach as she felt those same gloved hands move to her corset strings and begin tugging away; almost desperately he pulled until she thought she would topple forward, and then his arm was bracing her, pulling her body against hard masculine flesh. As the corset was finally loosened, his hands, with agonizing slowness, moved it and the dress down to the floor. Warm lips and that silver tongue of his licked and bit trails down her body through her chemise, until the clothing was a heap at her feet. Isabelle stepped out of the dress and corset and immediately covered her body with her hands. She didn’t need to look down to know that her chemise was nearly transparent.

Every girl dreamt of a moment when her husband-to-be gazed upon her, gave her the pretty words she craved to hear, and walked down the aisle with such fervor as to claim his prize. With each strip of clothing removed, her vulnerability increased and the dream became harder to believe in.

But nothing was so horrible as when, Dominique her husband, her protector, and soon to be lover, sneered at her near nakedness. “As I said before, a cold English fish. At least you have curves. I’ll give you that much. Now hop into bed before I change my mind about taking the only valuable thing you possess, your virginity.”