Swan's Grace (10 page)

The coil of tension began to unknot.

After no more than two swaths across his face, he bowed his head, planted his palms against the sink, and leaned against the porcelain basin, the razor still in his hand.

What was she doing to him?

How was it that his perfectly ordered world suddenly seemed upside down?

But when he looked up, it wasn't his own reflection he saw in the mirror, rather Sophie's, as she stared at him from the doorway.

"I was worried," she whispered, her voice oddly hoarse. "You left so abruptly."

"No need to be."

He gave little thought to his bare chest, and forced himself to look away from her when he knew he wanted to hold her tight, bury his face in her hair. Make her promise she would never leave him again.

Biting back a curse, he resumed shaving, but stopped again when Sophie came up beside him.

"There is something so incredibly intimate about seeing a man shave."

His hand tensed. "I'd say there aren't many unmarried women, at least of a certain kind, who have seen a man shave."

His tone was meant to intimidate.

Sophie only laughed, then reached out and ran her finger through the white lather, leaving a streak on his cheek. "I'm not that
certain kind
, Grayson." She grew serious. "I haven't been in a very long time."

He pivoted on his heel to face her. "You mean to tell me you have been with men in this type of intimacy?"

She shrugged but wouldn't turn to him. "Well, not exactly. Actually I haven't seen anyone shave but you."

His brow furrowed.

"When you were young. Remember?"

Suddenly he did. He saw it so clearly. Sophie unexpectedly standing in the doorway of his room in Hawthorne House, she only eight, he pretending he needed to shave with any regularity. She had worn a dress with too many ruffles, and her knees had been scraped, no doubt from having tried to play stickball with the boys down the lane. Sophie had always wanted to do everything any other kid did. But the other kids hadn't wanted her around.

Had they understood she was different from them? Smarter? Wiser? Or had her mother's ruffled dresses and superior attitude put them off?

"You weren't quite such a prude back then, as I recall," Sophie interjected. "Not so proper."

"I was sixteen."

"You were fun."

His thoughts hardened, but at the same time his pulse began to throb. He glanced at her mouth. Her lips parted and his blood surged when her gaze drifted low. Taking a towel, he wiped the shaving cream from his face, and though he told himself to turn away, he could do little more than toss the linen aside, then reach for her. He touched her mouth, just barely, his fingertips over the fullness.

Her lips moved with half-uttered silent words.

"Was I?" he asked in a whisper.

Confusion creased her brow.

"Was I fun? Ever?" He waited for her answer, needing to hear it.

Her expression softened. "Yes," she whispered. "But you were more than fan. You were strong and kind."

His fingers slid into her hair, cupping her head. He pulled her to him as if he had no will of his own, and pressed her close. He wanted to curse, wanted to scoff in response to her answer. It was weakness that made him care. He knew it. But the words meant too much.

"Sophie," he said softly against her hair.

Her fingers flattened against his chest. He tipped her head and looked into her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, but didn't know how. Words, half-formed in his head, disappeared like smoke before he could grasp them. He only knew that, for better or for worse, he couldn't let her go.

The decision was made. He would marry her.

He kissed her then, slowly, languorously, until she moaned. And that was his undoing. Running his hand down her back, he could feel the tremor that raced through her body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance. When she opened to him, her arms came up and wrapped around his neck. She held on to him as if she, too, didn't know how to let go. The thought filled him with satisfaction. After all these years she wasn't indifferent to him.

He grazed her tongue with his teeth, and he felt her breath. Like oranges in winter. Delicious and sweet, but rarely tasted.

His hands ran up her sides, then he brought one palm up to cup her breast. With that touch, everything changed.

"No," she gasped, flinging herself back, her eyes flashing wildly.

But just as quickly, she calmed herself, as though she had turned a page in a book and become a new character.

"Now, Grayson," she all but purred, though there was a tremor in her voice, "you're the proper one here. I don't think I need to spell out why I shouldn't be standing in a bathroom with you half-naked. I simply wanted to thank you for helping me with the dog. It was kind, and I couldn't have done it without you."

She didn't wait for a response. She left as unexpectedly as she had appeared, leaving him alone to stare at the empty doorway. Who was Sophie Wentworth?

He turned away and found his reflection in the mirror. Who was
he
?

Once, life had been different. Once, he would have tried to save that dog. But life had changed, and he had changed along with it. She had credited him with attributes that he didn't deserve. He hadn't saved anything.

He would have left the dog to die—and never would have known that souls wounded beyond repair could be saved.

Smoothing the voluminous folds of her taffeta skirts, Sophie felt the thrill of anticipation wrap around her as she stood in her father's palatial home. The house brimmed with two hundred of Boston's elite, all of whom were there to see her.

A grand party in her honor.

She searched the faces for Grayson, then scowled when she realized what she was doing. She hoped he didn't come. He had completely unnerved her in the bathroom of Swan's Grace. The kiss. The intimacy.

It had been with great effort that she had managed finally to pull up the sophisticated, unemotional wall she had built around herself. She couldn't let it drop again.

She had taken great care with her appearance. Her gown was stunning, though demure, the collar high, the sleeves long, with proper white gloves covering her hands. It had been ages since she had cared what people thought about her. But tonight she cared. Deeply. Tonight she wanted to make her father proud.

Making her way through the Italian-marbled foyer, she took in the house. Crystal chandeliers glistened. Candles burned in hand-carved bronze candelabra, imported from France. The treasure of a king, Patrice had explained. Nothing but the finest for her father.

Sophie had often thought her father should have been a king. What he lacked in bloodlines he made up for in an extravagant display of wealth. He had made so much money in shipping, her mother had told her as a child, that even the most blue-blooded, puritan-minded Bostonians couldn't turn their noses up at the man.

Sophie continued on, but her attempts to cross the room proved to be no easy task, given that everyone wanted to say hello, inquire after her journey home, or comment on the article in
The Century
magazine.

And the men. Every man there, eligible or not, clamored after her. Men who as boys hadn't given her the time of day. They all wanted a dance, or a minute of her time.

The night was proving to be a wonderful success. She was home, and from all appearances, Boston adored her.

Halfway across the foyer she saw the man her stepmother had pointed out earlier. Niles Prescott, with his gray hair combed back and the lines of his face making him look dashing rather than old, was the longtime conductor for Boston's Music Hall. He had been a close friend of her mother's. Too close, she knew some had whispered. He was also the man who had given the debut concert he had promised her to someone else.

Sophie blinked hard when she remembered the crushing announcement of who would perform the solo at the Grand Debut. The Music Hall's auditorium had been filled with students and their parents. Niles Prescott stood at the podium. Sophie had waited impatiently to hear her name called, to rise from her seat, to walk to the stage with the audience thundering their applause. It was the moment she had lived her whole life for.

Sophie felt heat sting her cheeks when she remembered how she
had
stood, the name announced taking seconds too long to register. Then the sight of her greatest competitor walking to the podium. The triumphant smile. The embarrassment, the devastation.

Later, the conductor had said very little to her. But it was enough.
I didn't think you could play Bach
.

A lie.

Sophie knew it had nothing to do with Bach. She thought of her mother and the man. The promises he had made, promises he no longer had to keep once her mother was gone.

But even knowing that, for the first time in her life, Sophie had begun to doubt herself.
Was
it a lie? she had suddenly begun to wonder, insidious thoughts that became indistinguishable from the truth.

Always before she had simply played, Bach being her most cherished composer. After she lost the long-counted-on debut, she started second-guessing what she did and how she did it.

She had fled to Germany's Leipzig Music Conservatory, where she enrolled in the four-year program. She analyzed and studied, practiced and played, until she had taken every class and learned everything any of the professors could teach her. Then finally she gave a debut recital, but in Amsterdam, not Boston. And it had been a disaster.

She had been nervous and self-conscious. The audience's reception had been cold, and she had cringed at the reviews the next morning describing an uninspiring performance by yet another child prodigy. But all of that changed when she created her new show. Flash and dazzle. Jewels and gowns.

It might not be Bach, but for the first time everyone had loved her.

Earlier in the evening, Patrice had mentioned that Niles wanted to see her. Sophie couldn't imagine what he wanted, and she had no interest in finding out. She wasn't sure what she would do if she came face-to-face with him after so many years.

Somehow she slipped through a knot of guests to escape, and practically ran into Bradford and Emmaline Hawthorne.

"Little Sophie," Bradford said grandly, kissing her hand like a Renaissance courtier.

He was a tall, distinguished man with broad shoulders. He had the ability to be charming, but she remembered too well when he had so callously sent Grayson out on his own. She had hated the man back then, and still couldn't quite bring herself to forgive him.

"Now really, Bradford," Emmaline Hawthorne said, extending her hands to Sophie, "she is no longer a little girl." She pulled her into a loving embrace before setting her at arm's length. "She has grown up to be a beautiful young woman."

Emmaline was soft and dreamy, her age lending her a grace and dignity that youth would never allow. Sophie's own mother had been more practical than beautiful, and Sophie had always marveled at Emmaline's ethereal loveliness.

The older woman's smile softened. "I know your mother would be proud of you. I wish so terribly that she were here to see your success."

Sophie felt a poignant lump swell in her throat, the sudden wish that her mother were with her now hitting her so hard she nearly stumbled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne," she managed. "That means a great deal to me."

They were interrupted when someone called out her name.

"Sophie!" a woman exclaimed, striding up to them in a cloud of shimmering skirts and sparkling jewelry. "Don't you look smashing," she cried, then extravagantly kissed the air beside either cheek.

It took a second for Sophie to realize that the woman was Megan Robertson. Megan was shorter than her, and rounder in a voluptuous sort of way, with dark brown hair done up in a mass of twists and curls, and large brown eyes. As an adult she was lovely in a Rubenesque sort of way. But when she was eighteen she had been called darling—and had been awarded Sophie's solo in the Grand Debut.

"Hello, Megan," Sophie replied evenly, hating the flash of insecurity that surged inside her as if five years hadn't passed. She was successful now, she had to remind herself.

Megan quickly greeted the Hawthornes, who then excused themselves, leaving the two women alone. Megan whirled back to Sophie.

"You must come with me! Everyone is talking of nothing but you, and I am going to show you off."

Megan hooked her arm through Sophie's as though they were still schoolgirls and began leading her from room to room of the Wentworth house. Sophie didn't know what to make of this girl who had always competed with her, always promising that one day she would be the best. After all these years, was she trying to be kind?

Sophie all but scoffed out loud at the surge of gladness that this once most popular girl would befriend her now. They were adults, not children.

"You remember James Willis," Megan said, waving to a man, then pulling her along to his side.

"James, love. You remember our Sophie, don't you?"

"Of course." The man was dressed in expensive but slightly rumpled evening wear, and the pomade he used wasn't completely successful in taming the cowlick on the top of his head. "It has been a long time."

Sophie felt a devilish smile pull at her lips. "Yes, it's been a very long time. I haven't seen you since you put a frog down my dress."

James blushed a bright shade of red, and Megan laughed gaily. She swatted James's coat sleeve with her fan. "You didn't."

"As I recall," Sophie replied, "you helped him, Megan."

"Oh, yes." She laughed and pulled Sophie on. "How could I forget the way you squirmed around and carried on like you'd been shot? You always were such an actress." She raised her hand. "Thomas! Thomas Redding. Look who I have here."

Sophie felt her teeth start to grind. So much for any hope Megan would be kind.

Thomas Redding was a tall, thin man. As a boy he had spent his time reading books, his round spectacles as much a part of him as his nose. Since then, Sophie knew he had become a highly respected councilman.

He bowed formally and took her hand. "Miss Wentworth, it is a pleasure to see you again. And might I add that the photographs in the magazine did not do you justice."

Megan all but jerked her away, leaving Thomas kissing air instead of knuckles. "He has become so grandiose. Of course he's right, though. You are simply gorgeous. Who would have guessed that little Sophie Wentworth would have turned into such a beauty?" She scanned the room. "Oh, look, there's Grayson Hawthorne. Surely you remember him."

Sophie stopped abruptly as her heart stilled. He stood in the receiving room, his dark hair shining beneath the crystal chandelier, his white formal tie crisp, his black evening jacket accentuating broad shoulders. Even though he was surrounded by people, he stood apart from the crowd. He exuded power, a strength that drew people at the same time it made them cautious.

As always, he was stunningly handsome, but he was also the last person she wanted to see after the kiss they had shared. Just remembering sent a shiver through her body, making her want more.

Still, after all these years, he captivated her as no one else ever had. During her concert tour over the last many months, she had been courted by European princes and English diplomats, but only Grayson held her attention. Just her luck to be attracted to a man who was as much fun as a cold splash of water on a cloudy winter day. She shuddered to think about a life together, Grayson in bed by eight, no doubt with a hot-water bottle at his feet and a warming cap on his head.

Wouldn't he?

She thought of his kiss, felt the betraying heat flaring low, and suddenly she wasn't so sure.

But then Patrice was at his side, her hand resting boldly on his arm as she told him something. Sophie felt her stomach clench as her stepmother smiled and stepped even closer. The pair spoke for a moment, but then Grayson looked up as if he sensed her presence, and their eyes met across the room.

He looked at her for what seemed like ages before he disengaged his arm from Patrice. After a second her stepmother seemed to realize where he was going, and her blue eyes hardened before she turned away sharply.

"Grayson!" Megan called out.

Instantly Sophie headed in the opposite direction, but the seemingly delicate Megan had a grip of steel.

"Look who I have here," she cooed. "When was the last time you saw our little Sophie?"

Grayson didn't bother to look at Megan. His dark eyes bore into Sophie's, at once sensual and unnerving as he ran his gaze over her. "Just yesterday."