Swan's Grace (11 page)

The words made her feel touched, like a brush of fingers against her spine.

Megan's chin went up. "Yesterday? You've already seen Sophie since her return?" She shook her head, then she laughed. "Though I shouldn't be surprised. What did she do? Lurk outside your house waiting for you, like she always did?"

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did Sophie felt childish embarrassment burn hot and fast through her cheeks. Slowly Grayson turned his exacting gaze on the shorter woman.

"As it happened
, I
was waiting for Miss Wentworth when she returned," he said, his voice taking on a sharp edge.

Megan looked between Grayson and Sophie. "Really," she replied, all the more intrigued.

Sophie cringed and groaned silently. The last thing she needed was for Megan to think there was something going on between them. Her nemesis would no doubt latch on to that and find a way to embarrass her.

But before anything else could be said, a group of men circled around.

"Miss Wentworth!"

"Sophie!"

"You're a vision!"

"A dream!"

Sophie felt the welcome balm of familiar words, and her pique drifted away. She forgot about Megan. She started to smile, then smiled even more when she saw Grayson's jaw muscles starting to tic. He looked at each man as if wondering which of their bones it would be easiest to snap.

But when he noticed her smile, he raised a brow, then leaned back against a Doric column as if to say,
Two can play at this game
.

She nearly scoffed at the thought. Grayson Hawthorne might play for a second or two, but in three he'd be ready to throttle someone. Namely, her.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," she said, slipping into the familiar role like slipping on a velvet cape. "Is that you, Dickie Webster? And Devon Bly. Goodness, it's Wade Richmond. Such handsome men you've grown up to be."

They tugged on their lapels importantly and smoothed their hair like preening peacocks. Grayson crossed his arms on his chest and looked grimly amused.

Megan, however, didn't look amused at all.

"Of course you all remember one another," the woman said, her smile tight. "How could any of us forget Sophie? Especially after that memorable day when we all heard her voice on the gramophone. A silly child's toy, really, playing a silly child's game. But it was fun."

Dick Webster and Devon Bly laughed appreciatively. Grayson stood away from the column, suddenly tense as his gaze met Sophie's. Megan looked between them all yet again, her eyes glittering like jewels beneath the chandelier.

"You remember that day, don't you, Sophie, dear?" she asked, her voice creamy with barely hidden delight.

Sophie's heart pounded. Remember? How could she forget? A child's prank, but one that had mortified a young girl who had never quite learned how to navigate the precarious waters of childhood and making friends. Music she had always understood. Music had made sense. But childish games and practical jokes left her stunned and hurting.

She knew it shouldn't affect her. As an adult she should look back and laugh. But all she remembered was Megan tricking her into talking into the brass speaking tube, uttering words that had been so important to her. Then Megan had taken that machine and played it aloud for a group of laughing peers—and Grayson. Sophie especially cared that Grayson had heard.

But the worst part was that he had done nothing. Only watched. Only stared. His young eyes had narrowed in the harsh gaslight that had painted all his friends in gold, as if he were furious.

Why had he stood there? Why hadn't he said anything?

Sophie shook the questions away, the glittering crystal lights coming into focus. She stared at Grayson, and cursed herself for a fool that such a childish prank still had the power to hurt her.

She tore her gaze away from Grayson, fighting back the red that wanted to resurface in her cheeks. "I can't say that I do remember, Megan." She laughed an especially practiced laugh, the sound like silken honey.

"Really?" Megan responded, her brow raised. "If only I could find that talking machine I could play it again to remind you. I'm sure it would make you laugh at how silly we all were back then. I wonder what happened to it? I don't think I saw it again after that day."

Sophie hoped like Hades it was never seen again.

Patrice chose that moment to join them with the conductor in tow. He was still a tall, elegant man. She thought of her mother, and it was all she could do not to squeeze her eyes closed.

Her stepmother. Niles. Megan, and even Grayson. Suddenly she felt like the ugly duckling she had always been, awkward, and underneath paddling frantically just to keep afloat.

"Sophie," Patrice chimed. "You remember Mr. Niles Prescott, don't you?" She smiled up at the man. "I am told he is quite renowned in the music world."

"Miss Wentworth," the man said formally, bowing low, as if he hardly knew her.

How many times had he come to Swan's Grace for tea? How many times had he regaled her mother with wonderful stories of his years in Europe as a musician? His years conducting Bach? Sophie had hung on every word, enamored of the exciting life he had led.

If her mother hadn't spent so much time with the man, would her father not have become so enamored of Patrice?

When he straightened and met her gaze, his light eyes bored into her. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I read the article in
The Century
and was as intrigued as the rest of the world."

"Thank you, Mr. Prescott. I see you've done well for yourself." She couldn't quite keep the bitterness from her voice. "I hope to attend a performance at the Music Hall before I return to Europe in May."

She felt more than saw Grayson's sudden tension. The sensation confused her, since no doubt he would be thrilled to death at the thought of her moving out of Swan's Grace.

But her thoughts were interrupted when the conductor said, "Actually, I had hoped you might honor us with a performance of your own. It is time that Boston's very own, much-talented daughter played an official concert in our city."

Her heart leaped, beating in that low, all-encompassing way, filling her, surrounding her. To play in Boston. To stand onstage in the Music Hall, the lights trained on her. How often had she dreamed of just that?

But that wouldn't happen. It was too late. She wouldn't play for the denizens of Boston because, as Deandra had not so subtly pointed out, she would curl their hair. She had returned to forge a relationship with her father, not ruin it for good.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," she said.

The man stiffened, Patrice gasped her outrage. Grayson looked on with considering appraisal.

Anxious to get away, Sophie grasped at the first exit she could take. "Oh, look," she said. "I believe dinner is being served."

Patrice instantly glanced around. Indeed, a footman was announcing the meal. Without a word, she gathered her skirts and quickly made her way to the dining room.

The conductor regained his composure. "Perhaps I can change your mind." He extended his arm. "Will you allow me to escort you in to dinner?"

But
Grayson stepped forward, taking her arm possessively. "I'll be escorting Miss Wentworth this evening."

Niles stammered until Megan stepped forward. "Niles, darling, will you be good enough to escort me into the dining room?" she asked. "My husband is nowhere to be seen."

The conductor shrugged and nodded his head, then proto dinner with Megan at his side.

As soon as they were well away, Sophie pulled her arm free. "Thank you for that," she said sincerely. "The last thing I need is to be hounded by Niles Prescott all night."

She started for the dining room, but was stopped when Grayson gently took her arm once again.

"I was serious when I told Prescott that I am escorting you this evening."

"Whatever for?"

"To keep the long line of suitors at bay."

Sophie laughed, growing relieved, curling her hand through the crook of his arm without thinking. "There has been a long line this evening, hasn't there?"

Grayson scowled. "Hasn't anyone taught you the fine art of being modest?"

"Of course." Her eyes sparked with amusement. "But it seems an unnecessary waste of time. At least around you."

With a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, he pulled her close. Her eyes widened, then drifted to his lips.

"Are you going to kiss me again, right here in front of Boston's most proper society?" She was amazed at how steady the words sounded, even in her own ears.

"No," he said, his voice gruff. "Not here." His hands ran up her arms—strong, capable hands, his thumbs coming up to graze her mouth like a promise. "But soon."

Despite herself, a shiver of anticipation raced through her at the words. And when he took her elbow, she let him, understanding in that moment as he led her in to dinner that regardless of her best intentions, the long-fought-for wall she had built around her emotions had slipped lower by a notch.

The massive room was filled with twenty round tables, ten guests at each. Nearly as many footmen streamed in, bringing silver dishes piled high with extravagant fare.

Both Sophie and Grayson were seated at the head table with her father and Patrice. Emmaline and Bradford were there as well. The two older men sat in deep conversation, though it was clear that Emmaline was straining to make conversation with Patrice. At least in some arenas, Sophie thought with childish satisfaction, Patrice hadn't been able to take Genevieve Wentworth's place.

She would rather have been seated at a table with Deandra, Henry, and Margaret. But her entourage had not been invited, and no amount of begging had changed that fact. She almost hadn't gone. But they had insisted, saying they hadn't come all this way to have her turn her nose up at the very thing she wanted—her father showing that he cared.

Conrad sat between Sophie and Patrice, with Grayson to Sophie's left. She was all too aware of his nearness, the brush of his forearm against hers when he reached for his knife, his long fingers picking up his tall crystal glass. With renewed effort, she attempted to fill in the crack in her wall. It was safer that way, safer not to care. Caring only ended up hurting.

But she would not let him see that she was off center. Leaning close and teasing, she said, "You're impossible to get away from these days."

She expected a laugh, or better yet, a scowl. She didn't get either. Instead he looked at her intently, one bold finger reaching up to crook beneath her chin despite the crowds around them. "Do you really want to get away from me, Sophie?"

Disconcerted by the way he made her feel—one minute like a recalcitrant child, the next like a desirable woman— she wrenched back. "Yes, I do."

This time he smiled. "Liar."

With that he turned his attention to the woman on his left.

Sophie concentrated on the hand-carved candelabra that lit the room, the high-polished silverware reflecting in the light. The cups were filigreed and the plates accented in gold, jeweled, much like the women in the room.

Dinner was served in nine courses. She hardly noticed the meal, too busy was she trying to avoid Grayson. But she nearly knocked the contents of her wineglass across the snowy white tablecloth when he turned to her and offered her a taste of the decadently rich chocolate soufflé with a drip of sugared brandy poured down the middle.

"No, thank you," she managed, turning away abruptly to the sound of his all-too-knowing chuckle.

At the end, huge folding doors were slid back to reveal a stunning ballroom with crystal chandeliers and sheer white draperies pulled back from French doors opened to the black-velvet night. And then music erupted. A stunning Dvorak waltz from a twelve-piece orchestra, inviting the guests to join in.

The crowd gasped in awe at the fairy-tale scene. Patrice looked on with exhilaration at what was clearly a social triumph.

Conrad smiled to the crowd, then said, "I believe I'd like to dance with my girl."

My girl.

The words her father had always said to her as a child. The words that sang in her heart. The words that preceded a glorious dance. He did care. He hadn't forgotten.

With her heart in her eyes, she stood from the table. But she froze half in, half out of her chair when Patrice stood as well, her father taking her stepmother's hand and leading her to the high-polished parquet floor for the dance.

Sophie couldn't seem to move.

Silence fell across the table, tension shimmering through the small circle like waves of heat on the summer-scorched cobbles of Boylston Street.

But before other heads could turn and take in her dismay, Grayson stood up and had her on the dance floor, pulled so close to his chest that she could feel his strength.

She wanted to melt away, melt into the floor.

"I'm sorry things have changed so much since you left," Grayson said, his voice filled with genuine regret. The words wrapped around her much like the music. "Your father hasn't handled your homecoming well."

She hated that he understood her pain, must have seen it in her eyes, and pride forced its way into her voice. "Good heavens, Grayson, I never thought for a moment that my father was going to dance with me. I was on my way to the ladies' retiring room. I'd be there now if you hadn't swept me onto the dance floor."

His look made it clear he didn't believe a word she said.

"Don't flatter yourself," she scoffed. "I didn't need your help."

She calmed herself, then shrugged her shoulders with practiced indifference. "But if your overactive, manly pride needs to think so, who am I to contradict you?"

"Manly?" he asked.

His voice lowered, a vibration of sound that sent a shimmer of feeling through her body.

"Do you think I'm
manly
, Sophie?"

She wasn't sure if he was serious or not, but she didn't like the way he pulled her closer, the way his hand spread across her back with such assurance and strength. Her skin felt tingly and too sensitive as he studied her.