No. Absolutely not. He would have embraced her, might have kissed her. But he wouldn’t have laughed.
As she lightly played the notes, his heart did indeed clench, but not out of fear. Admiration? Lust? Appreciation? Shock? He wasn’t entirely sure. For the song she played was one he had written. An older song, one of the happier ones he could remember.
His throat constricted. It was the song he wrote in his mother’s memory.
Her voice, the same voice he had hours ago compared to a dying dog, began to hum the tune. His eyes closed and he leaned his head back against the sofa.
The music stopped.
Disappointed, he sighed, ready to open his eyes and yet again face the storm.
But delicate feminine hands interrupted him, cupping the sides of his face and moving carefully over his features down to his shoulders. Isabelle’s strong fingers kneaded his muscles. Wafts of lavender danced around her hands. He felt his body relax.
Eyes heavy, he gave into the sleep that beckoned him.
****
Dominique had been sleeping for close to two hours. She had left him in the room once the thunder had stopped, and then readied herself to talk with Cook about the menu this week. She still had so much to do when it came to running Dominique’s giant estate, not to mention hiring more help. It was shocking how few staff he had, but they were all loyal and wonderful in helping her.
“Cuppins?” Isabelle went into the kitchen where she knew the old man would be sitting with his brandy-laced tea. “I know you are living out your best years without working, but would you mind terribly if I had you help me in getting Dominique a present?”
The cook had let it slip that Dominique would be nearing his birthday in a month and Isabelle wanted to do something special. After seeing the fear in his eyes from the thunderstorm, she knew there was more to the story than just his physical scars, though she doubted they were anything but a myth considering she saw no evidence of physical deformities. Something in his past haunted him, and if she could bring even just a tiny amount of joy into his life, she would try.
Cuppins looked into his teacup and sighed. “The master of the house despises gifts of all kind, my lady.”
“Yet that does not keep a certain man from trudging through the snow and making ice sculptures, now, does it?”
Cuppins swore. “Who told you that?”
“Never mind who told me. Will you help me?”
“Don’t know what I can do.” Cuppins took a swig of tea. “You’ll have to make it look like an accident.”
Was she killing him now? What was he talking about?
“The gift, I mean,” Cuppins explained. “He won’t accept it if you wrap it up all nice and present it to him. Sneak attack works best.”
“We aren’t spies, why do we need to sneak?”
Cuppins shifted in his seat. “The master has never received a birthday present before, at least not publicly. His mother bought him his first piano. It was the first and last present he ever received. His father was a cruel man, and thought that gifts would soften the young lad.” Cuppins shook his head. “What are you aiming to do for him? The man’s richer than Croesus. Don’t know what you could possibly give him that he doesn’t already have.”
Isabelle searched her thoughts. There had to be something! They were husband and wife! It was necessary that she give him something. Immediately she thought of a child. Wanting to laugh aloud, she merely smiled and told herself to push that notion away. They hadn’t even consummated their marriage yet. And she often wondered if it would ever happen. Each night, when they went to bed, always in the same bed, he would scoot away from her.
The mornings were an entirely different story. Several times she woke up in his embrace, only to be pushed away the minute his eyes opened. His hands were always gloved. She sighed and looked back at Cuppins. Mouth gaping open and head lying across the table, he let out a large snore.
Knowing he wouldn’t be much help to her in his sleep, she went to ready herself for dinner. Hunter had said it would be one of his last nights with them, and she had decided to make it special for him. Dominique still didn’t know that his friend was leaving, but perhaps it was for the best. It would force them to get even closer than they had over the past week and a half.
Sighing, she left Cuppins to his snoring and went back to her rooms.
Chapter Eighteen
The music was so important; I frequently didn’t see things happening around me. Often times I would forget to eat meals because I was so obsessed. But one cannot be totally blind to everything. I saw the way she looked at him, the way he laughed with her, and it made me sick to think that I could have prevented what happened, had I just confronted her. But in the end, I doubt it would have worked. She was a stubborn woman and she was blinded by love. I refuse to suffer that same fate.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Dominique awoke to laughter. The room was pitch black except for one tiny candle looming across the room on the table.
What happened? He felt sluggish and drugged. Thank goodness the storm was over. A smile crept across his face. Isabelle was full of surprises. Who knew the girl could play the piano? And so beautifully.
He shook the sleepiness from his head and made his way toward the door. Laughter echoed the halls again. Feminine laughter. Smiling to himself and wondering what was making Isabelle so happy, he followed in the direction of the noise, stopping in front of the dining room.
Sitting at the far end of the table were Hunter and Isabelle leaning toward one another. A single candle lit their end of the table. Blind rage poured through him as he stepped farther into the room and crossed his arms.
“Apologies, am I interrupting something?” he said roughly.
“Oh!” Isabelle rose from her chair. “You’re awake! We were just—”
“Flirting? Yes, I know,” he finished for her. “So my dear, it seems you’ve taken Hunter up on his offer. Tell me, how do his kisses compare?”
Isabelle flinched and stepped away from him, her face a mask of hurt and confusion. “We were just eating dinner. I allowed you to sleep, you were so exhausted and—”
“Do not tell me what I was! You—you tricked me into sleeping so that you could have time with him! Do not lie to me!”
“I tricked you!” Isabelle repeated, marching toward him with her finger pointed at his chest. “How the devil do you imagine I did so? Did I have sleeping oils on my hands when I touched you? Did I put you in some sort of trance and speak incantations over you? No. I merely helped!”