Upon a Midnight Dream (23 page)

Just then Rosalind happened upon the two of them.

Alfred stared at the ground.

Stefan pulled at his cravat.

“What’s going on?” she asked sweetly, though Stefan knew the look in her eyes was anything but sweet. Mocking? Yes. Sweet? Absolutely not.

“Talking of weather, and horses—”

“I’m in love!” Alfred blurted, even though Stefan was shaking his head in protest.

Rosalind sent Stefan a glare before reaching out and patting Alfred’s hand. “Now, does the lovely lady know where your affections lie?”

“Oh, I’m sure if it! I just do not know how to go about this whole proposal business.”

Rosalind burst out laughing. “And you thought to ask him?” She pointed a shaky hand at Stefan and leaned against Samson all the while wiping tears from her eyes. It wasn’t long before Alfred too joined in the merriment. That left Stefan without an ally, for Samson was caught between the two with that gleaming smile on his face that was always mocking his master.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Stefan said sourly. “I can very well propose. I was nervous! That’s all.”

“Aw, it does these ears proud to hear so much laughter coming from the stables. What seems to be so funny?” Mary entered the stables hands on hips.

“Oh, my husband, he seems to be giving advice on how to woo.” Rosalind winked and pulled Stefan close to her. He went because he couldn’t very well deny his beautiful wife anything, even when she was laughing at his expense.

Suddenly, Alfred seemed to tense. He began to wring his hands in front of him like a nervous school boy. A grin spread across Stefan’s face; he had quite an idea as to whom his valet held affection for.

“Alfred? Do you have anything you wish to say?” Stefan asked.

Alfred was pale and fidgety Devil take it, he couldn’t back down now! It was the perfect set up. He gave Alfred a curt nod of encouragement. The valet swallowed and turned to Mary taking her hand within his.

“We shall marry at once.”

“Oh, Good Lord above,” Rosalind said next to him. “Have you been taking lessons from my husband? Alfred, that is not how one proposes. That is—”

“Oh yes, yes, yes!” Mary squealed with delight and kissed Alfred soundly on the mouth, much to Stefan’s horrified dismay.

He cleared his throat.

The kiss continued.

“For the love of—”

“—Sorry, Your Grace.” Alfred pulled away, his cheeks slightly pink.

Rosalind snorted behind him, giving the clear message that he of all people shouldn’t be the one to talk, after he so blatantly kissed her at last night’s ball. Much to Lord Rawlings’ and the Duke of Tempest’s amusement, for they also had the occasional difficulty trying to keep their hands off their wives in public.

“If Your Graces will excuse us?” Alfred asked tactfully.

“You are dismissed,” Stefan said firmly. The two bounded away from the stables hand in hand.

Rosalind reached around him hugging his body from behind. He smiled and turned around to kiss her firmly on the mouth, then led his wife away from the dirty stables to the comfort of his study. Once they reached his destination he pulled Rosalind into his arms. Pure contentment caused his muscles to relax as he breathed in her scent.

“Any word of my sisters?” she asked once they had enjoyed the silence of each other’s presence for a while.

Stefan sighed, leaning into his wife’s embrace. “Not just yet, but they are safe, I know it in my heart.”

Rosalind sighed and pulled away. She walked to the door and Stefan had to fight his irritation that she would leave him while he so desperately wanted to have her on his very desk.

She turned the lock.

“Thank the saints.” He swept her into his arms pushing her back against the door, savagely stripping her of her afternoon dress.

“Ah,
tsk-tsk
! Remember, you said you would woo me even after we were married, you brute. Now, give me the words, give me the sonnets and the flowers.”

Stefan whispered naughty words into his wife’s ear.

With a giggle, she answered, “That will do nicely for now.”

The true story of how Beauty tamed the savage Beast

London Fairy Tales

Book 2

Prologue

“Hands at this angle young master,” Mr. Field was always careful in his scolding's, 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 hovering 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 keys.

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 music 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, she was always doting on him, telling him that one day he would be a great master, 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, that 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 for the love lost, for it seemed both parents never saw him for who he was, but for 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 piano 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 on how he would die. There was nothing simple about dying for any prodigy. For a musician, there is always music. Always a benediction telling the sad tale of a person’s life that 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 into his head!

He threw open the doors to the practice room just in time to see his father point a pistol at his mother. She dropped limply to the floor. Dominique tried to scream, but his father had loaded and lifted the pistol again. This time, he pointed it at the music teacher. Mr. Field fell across Dominique’s mother in a hump. His father turned hate filled eyes towards Dominique. With sickening fear, he noticed that both bodies were lifeless, unmoving.

“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 sideboard and poured himself more brandy, not sure at all on his feet as he took a seat on the sofa. “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’s eyes trained on him.

Blood still dripped from the prince’s hands as he smiled and threw the glass of brandy on the ground, shattering it into pieces.

“So you think me a beast, boy?”

Dominique slowly backed away towards the door, his only hope it seemed 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. His father thrust his hands into the air as if direction 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 now 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 nervously trembled 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 poured hot wax from nearby candles onto Dominique’s hands. When Dominique screamed and tried to pull away his father merely held his hands next to Dominique’s, taking the punishment with him. 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.