Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(54)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Stefan marched right over to the doors and threw them open revealing a pale-looking Hunter and irritated Dominique.

She was unable to meet his gaze, ashamed for believing the worst of him, but most of all, still doubtful of his affection. Isabelle was so used to his rejection, to his excuses, his justifications that no matter how much attention he paid her these past few weeks, she still feared the worst.

Dominique began his speech, defending himself. She didn’t want to listen, wanted to stay in her miserable state. That is, until she heard him say that he sent the letter before the accident.

Before he was bed-ridden.

Before he reached for her.

And before he promised to hold and keep her heart forever.

She meant to put a stop to all the nonsense. Stefan truly should have made a go of it with the theater. He was yelling and threatening as if he was truly intent on causing physical harm, and just when she thought Dominique would hang his head and allow her to go with them, he rallied.

And in that moment, stole her heart all over again.

He loved her.

She smiled at the memory and touched her hand to her chest, surely she was dreaming! She hadn’t realized she had an audience until she looked up at both her sisters. Each of them had their heads tilted, merriment twinkling in her eyes.

Isabelle cleared her throat. Drat, they looked at her again, and again she gave back a blank stare. Had they asked her a question?

“My, my, it is worse than I expected,” Gwen mused. “Our dear sister has fallen so hard she has forgotten her own name.”

“That isn’t true.” Isabelle cheeks heated.

“Sure it is.” Gwen winked. “I’ve been repeating your name trying to gain your attention for the past five minutes. And all I received was a sigh.”

“Don’t forget the fluttering of her eyelashes, too,” Rosalind interjected helpfully.

Isabelle glared. “I assure you, I remember my name, I was merely…” Drat, why couldn’t she think of a better excuse than daydreaming about her husband’s hands on her body?

“Lusting.”

“Sinning.” Gwen coughed.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at her two sisters and promptly changed the subject. “So, how is mother?”

Apparently that was the one thing that would cause both of her sisters to lose their merriment immediately. Rosalind was the first to answer. “Quite mad. Tried to kill me. It was all very exciting, but that’s another story, dear. All that matters is Stefan and I are enormously happy, and so thankful to have found both of you again.”

“And Gwen, why ever would you run after me alone!”

“Adventure?” she offered.

“Go to the park to find your adventure. Read a book. You do not go gallivanting around Belgium while we are at war!” Isabelle grabbed her sister’s hand and kissed it. “What if something would have happened to you?”

Her sister looked up, her clear blue eyes boring through Isabelle. “And who’s to say something didn’t?”

“Gwen…” Isabelle said in warning.

A blank stare washed over Gwen’s face; she shrugged and gave a tight smile. “I assure you, I am just fine!”

But Isabelle knew her sister better than she knew herself. Something was amiss, but Gwen was never one to offer information freely. Isabelle would just have to bide her time until her sister was ready to talk about whatever transpired over the past few months.

A few months? Had it only been that long? Truthfully, Isabelle felt as if she had been in this castle for years! So much had happened, and so much more was in store. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over her stomach. Truthfully, it hadn’t been a white lie on Dominique’s part when he was confronted by Montmouth. It was, in fact, the truth. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Tonight. She would tell him tonight.

Chapter Thirty-three

Can a man be more than he was born to be? Or will he be constantly haunted by the past? By what he was born into? Are we simply copies of those who bore us? Or can we live past that, can we exceed expectations. Can I exceed the consequences of my birth?

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Dominique slowly trudged up the stairs to his rooms. Dinner had been quite the fiasco, what with all three women chattering at once. It was impossible to get a word in edgewise. Stefan, which was how he was now to address the duke, simply watched and drank his wine in large gulps, clearly using the alcohol as a way to numb the pounding in his ears at the volume of talking around the table.

Hunter, however, crossed his arms and scowled the entire time, as if the wine was too sour, the food cold, and the company lacking. Never before had he seen his friend in such a foul mood, and that included the time Dominique set his coat tails on fire.

He smiled at the memory.

Whatever the issue, Hunter would never come out and say it. No, Dominique needed to bide his time until his friend was ready to discuss what was plaguing him. And Dominique had a sneaking suspicion that it had everything to do with the raven-haired beauty who sent equally murderous glares toward Hunter the entire meal.

Life had certainly taken a drastic change over the past twenty-four hours, and he was eternally grateful that he still had a wife to hold tonight, or in his case, make love to until the wee hours of the morning.

He knocked quietly, alerting her of his presence, and swiftly let himself in the bedroom.

Isabelle stood facing the fire, her brown hair trickling down her back like a blanket of dark honey. He wanted her so badly it hurt.

Slowly, he joined her and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the warmth of his body.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Isabelle said nothing.

“I should have told you that I wrote the letter, but after I was ill, I had forgotten doing so and then when I heard back, I panicked. I should have gone straight to you, explained to you that I would die before letting you go.” He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest, surely she could hear it. “I love you.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then finally Isabelle whispered, “Say it again.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” He ran his fingers through her hair; a shiver of delight slammed into his chest as she turned and kissed him hard across the mouth.

“Oh, Isabelle.” His hands reached around to grab her waist, thrusting her against himself as his tongue plummeted into her mouth, searching, grasping, tirelessly winding with hers.

“Stop.” Flushed, Isabelle pulled away. “Before we…” She motioned to the bed, little did she know that the activity he had in mind was much more adventurous.