Whispered Music by Rachel Van Dyken
Book 2 in the London Fairy Tales series
$2.99
Blurb: He wasn’t looking for a savior…
Scarred at a young age, Dominique Maksylov, Royal Prince of Russia, has lived a reclusive life. As a musical prodigy, his music has wide reach into the world, but few ever see his face. He never ventures into polite society, but when he discovers he is the only heir to the Earldom of Harriss, he goes to one ball. And that one ball, was enough to change the direction of his life forever.
But how could he possibly have known that other person— the other half of his whole—would not only need his help but threaten his very existence?
She didn’t know how hard it would be to love the broken.
Isabelle Hartwell’s mother just sold her to the Beast of Russia. He’s mean, temperamental, and the most virile, handsome man she has ever encountered. But he has a secret, one he’s willing to die for and he refuses to let anyone in. Will she be able to reach his heart before it’s too late?
Find out if love prevails in this regency retelling of how Beauty tamed the savage Beast…
Prologue
“Hands
at this angle young master.” Mr. Field was always careful in his scoldings, and
for that young Dominique was grateful. He had heard whisperings that not all
music teachers were as kind as Mr. Field.
A
prodigy—the name hovered over him like a blazing sign. At eleven, even his
boyish mind knew that life would never be simple. When other little boys were
outside running and playing in the streams, Dominique was in the great practice
room tapping away at the ivory.
Music
was to Dominique what breathing was to everyone else. He wasn’t able to quit
the melodies pounding through his head—through his dreams. Often, he would
sneak down to the practice room in the middle of the night because his fingers
itched so heavily to touch the keys of his favorite instrument. If the music
was not played, sleep would not come.
The
crescendos, the notes—everything had always existed in his mind. The major
scale of beautiful notes descended upon him in times of great happiness, the
minor scales—the scales of sharps and flats—often during times of danger. His
teacher, Mr. Field, said it was a gift, that all prodigies had a sixth sense.
Dominique, however, felt different, too different to play with others his own
age. So he poured himself into music as much as he could to his mother’s utter
delight, for she was always doting on him, telling him that one day he would be
a great master and that people from all over the world would pay to hear his
gift.
His
father, the Royal Prince Maksylov, thought music was only for the weak-minded,
and often told young Dominique that unless he grew strong in physical build and
learned how to play with others, nobody would ever follow him. That he, as a
musician, could never lead.
And so
Dominique led the life of being pulled by two parents: one in the direction of
the piano room, and the other to the outside light. Both directions held
certain feelings of excitement and fear, for Dominique hated to fail at
anything and often found it frustrating to have to concentrate on more than one
task at a time.
A
certain evening, after his parents had gotten in another fight over his musical
education, Dominique had snuck into bed careful not to let any of the servants
see the pooling of tears around his eyes. He cried, not for himself, but the
love lost, for it seemed both parents never saw him as the boy he was, only
what they wanted him to be.
After
the servants had gone to bed, a slow haunting melody began burning in the back
of Dominique’s mind. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of music, he put
the pillow over his head. But the music would not quit. Minor chords filled
with dread and pain drifted in and out of his mind until he thought he would go
mad. Finally, unable to keep his body from moving, his fingers carefully
started playing the melody in the air, imagining the pianos keys underneath his
finger tips as he played the song that would not leave him.
The
song progressed; it became more and more angry. The hair on Dominique’s arms
stood on end. Surely he would die this way! The music was finally coming for
him! There was no other option in his mind. He had always thought about how he
would die. There was nothing simple about dying for any prodigy. For a
musician, there was always music. Always a benediction telling the sad tale of
a person’s life which had gone unlived.
With a
squeal, Dominique ran downstairs to the practice room. If he was to die, he
needed to be next to the music; the only hope, it seemed, was to play that song
and pray it never return to his head.
He
threw open the doors to the practice room just in time to see his father pull
back the trigger of a pistol and his mother fall to the ground in a bloody
heap. Then, his father turned hate-filled eyes toward Dominique. With sickening
fear, he noticed his teacher, Mr. Field, also lying on the floor, dead, just
behind the couch. His soulless stare went right past him and his coloring was a
grayish white.
“What
are you about, boy?”
“Papa!”
Dominique froze in place. “Papa, you hurt Mama! What have you done? You—you
beast!”
“Beast?”
His father laughed, madness etched across his face. He took a stumble to the
side-board and poured himself more brandy, not sure at all on his feet as he took
a seat on the sofa, his booted foot only inches from Mr. Field’s outstretched
hand. “I give your mother everything! I give you everything and she repays me
with betrayal!”
His
voice shook the walls in the room and suddenly Dominique knew where the music
had come from. Just as his teacher had said, it had come from within. He had
sensed the danger, and the music once silent as he entered the room came back
full force as his father trained his eyes on him.
Blood
still dripped from the prince’s hands as he smiled and threw the glass of
brandy on the floor, shattering it into pieces.
“So you
think me a beast, boy?”
Dominique
slowly backed away toward the door. It seemed his only hope was to somehow
escape the nightmare he had walked into.
“Answer
me!” His father wailed, throwing another glass to the floor. “Answer me now,
boy!”
“No.
No, Papa, you are no b-beast.” Tears fell from Dominique’s eyes of their own
accord, streaking his face with the salty wetness of death.
In a
flash, his father was behind him, locking the doors. The music crescendoed
again. The finale—he could hear it; he could see it in his mind’s eye.
“Well,
boy. Why don’t you go ahead and play. Play for me, play for your dead mother,
and your wicked teacher. Play for us all!” His shout vibrated off Dominique’s
ears like he’d been shot himself. His father thrust his hands into the air as
if directing some invisible choir.
He was
mad! The teacher’s body lay ever so lightly across his mother’s; he needed to
step over them in order to get to the piano. In that moment, Dominique knew he
would die, knew that he would never get to play with other little boys. The
cold stream by his house wouldn’t get any use, for he would be dead, and dead
little boys did not swim in cold streams.
With a
deep breath, Dominique sat at the piano and began to play the melody.
His
funeral march.
His
benediction.
“Ah,
such music is so pleasing. It is so sweet, Dominique, it nearly makes me ache
with want, which is apparently what your witch of a mother was aching with.
Don’t you agree?”
Dominique
continued to play, tears blurring his vision. Perhaps a servant would hear the
music and think it odd? His mind rejected the notion. It was impossible, for he
was often playing music through the night. But this night was unlike any other.
As he
finished the song, his father yelled, “Keep playing!”
So
Dominique continued to play and shook as he did so. He repeated the same song,
for there was no other melody in his head he could find. His father came up
behind him, casting a shadow in the candlelight.
“For
your sins, for the sins of your mother, I will punish you, once and for all!
May you never play again.”
With a
curse, his father snatched the candelabra from its perch on the piano and
poured hot wax and fire onto Dominique’s hands. When Dominique screamed in
anguish and tried to pull away, his father merely held his hands next to
Dominique’s, taking the punishment with him, Dominique’s struggles nothing for
the giant man. His hatred was so deep that he would rather hurt himself and his
son than not give any punishment whatsoever.
With a
curse, his father threw him to the ground and marched over to the fireplace,
taking Dominique’s sheets of music with him.
“No!
Papa, no!” Dominique wailed, for he had worked his entire existence on those
songs. They were his everything. With a sneer his father threw them into the
fire.
“Follow
them into the fires of Perdition for all I care.”
With a
scream, Dominique charged his father, his blistered hands reached into the
flames, grasping at the remnants of the music. It wasn’t until his hands hit
the scorching heat that he noticed his father was holding them there as well.
A
scream would not come, though Dominique tried. The blackness enveloped him, and
he felt once and for all, he had truly died.
****
15 years later
The
carriage dipped, jolting Dominique from his nightmare. Always the same. Always
that cursed song. Why was he never given respite? He looked down at his hands,
covered by his gloves and never to be seen by the outside world. For their
hideous scars were the stuff of legends and dark fairy tales. Surely the girl
sitting across from him would expire on the spot if she saw what gruesome
brutalities lay beneath his tortured gloves.
With a
sigh, he leaned his head back against the leather of the seat. Had he done the
right thing in taking her? Now he wasn’t so sure.
He
looked across the carriage. His gaze rested on the young girl. Isabelle was her
name. Or, in his mind, Belle, for the music surrounding her was true beauty,
nothing he had ever seen in his lifetime.
The
carriage dipped again and the young beauty opened her eyes. “Are we there yet,
my lord?”
“No.”
Dominique despised conversation of any type, especially with a woman. He hadn’t
any experience with the lot of them unless he needed to satisfy his beastly
needs and even then, he never looked at their faces, never kissed them, and
never took off his gloves. Women were good for only one thing. Besides that,
they could not be trusted. They were full of betrayal and lies.
The
young maiden licked her rose-colored lips and pushed her lustrous brown hair
away from her face. “Are we close then?”
“Why?”
he asked, irritated with her questions. Was she to plague him the entire trip?
“I’m
thirsty.” She looked embarrassed; her hands were shaking just slightly. Blast,
the girl was probably cold too. What did she think he was about? Being her
nursemaid?
“We’ll arrive
soon enough.” He cut off the conversation by looking out the window, so
desperate was he to get the girl to stop talking, or at least stop staring at
him the way she was, with such curiosity and contempt.
“Why
did you take me?”
Dominique
took a deep breath then turned his gaze back to the girl. Her piercing blue
eyes made him desperate for her to stop looking at him. If there was one trait
he was always constant on, it was his honesty. So he told her the truth, not
because he was being kind, but because it was the only positive characteristic
he had. After all, his mother had lied, his father had betrayed him and his
music hadn’t saved him at all. Honesty, it seemed, was his only mistress.
With a
deep breath, he answered, “Because the minute I gazed upon you, the music
changed.”
