Swan's Grace (20 page)

He didn't say a word, he only dipped his head again, and this time the kiss was a demand. He lowered himself with a groan, his arms wrapping her close. And she was lost.

He caught her lower lip between his teeth, gently, barely. Then he slanted his lips over hers. She hated the shiver of feeling that raced down her spine, much less did she understand it. She only knew that she wanted his touch, seemed to need it in some elemental way.

He groaned when her hands slipped up around his neck, and she felt the minute he started wanting her more. She relished the knowledge, though she knew she shouldn't.

Opening his coat, he pulled her inside. She could feel his heat and the strength of him. His hands ran up her sides, his thumbs grazing her breasts beneath the bodice of her gown. The simple touch sent sensation jolting through her. But the jolt mixed with fear, and she stiffened.

Grayson sensed the change and he pulled back to look at her. She saw his eyes, his achingly dear face, mixed with that unfamiliar desperation she had never seen before—as though he needed her more than she understood, in ways she had never guessed.

"What is it?" she asked, reaching up and touching his cheek.

The darkness in his eyes flared, sharp, fierce. Yearning. But then he turned his head and kissed her palm, pulling one finger slowly into his mouth.

Darkness and fear were pushed to the murky edges of her consciousness as he pressed his lips to the tender spot beneath her ear. Everything was swept away then. Only Grayson was left, and the intensity he brought to life in her body. Tumbling in the snow on a winter day, in a town to which she had sworn she would never return.

He started to pull away. But she only held him close. "Don't leave me," she whispered.

He stared at her. "I won't."

He pulled her tightly into his arms, neither of them aware of the cold snow or the world around them as he rolled over, taking her with him until she was on top of him.

"Hey, mister, what are you doing with my sled?"

It took a second for the words to penetrate her senses. When they did, she craned her neck to find a little boy leaning over them, his eyes accusing.

Grayson froze, then pulled them both up from the snow with an athlete's swiftness.

The child's eyes went wide over the sheer size of Grayson and the clearly expensive clothes covered in snow.

"I was just borrowing your sled, young man. I appreciate the loan."

The boy stepped back as he glanced between Sophie and Grayson. "Sure, sure." Then he grabbed the rope and ran across the snow, the sled jerking back and forth as he went.

After a moment, Grayson turned back with a wry smile. "He won't be back for a while."

Sophie had to orient herself, trying to grasp what had happened before the child showed up. "If ever," she managed.

She headed for the street.

Grayson caught her arms and brought her into his embrace. His laughter trailed off to a satisfied smile. "You please me, Sophie Wentworth."

With one strong hand, he tilted her head and kissed her deeply before he set her back, then retrieved the box and headed for Swan's Grace.

Her knees felt weak, and as she watched him go, she wasn't sure if she wanted to chase after him or nail him in the back with another snowball for his arrogance. Please him, indeed.

"Have you set a date yet?"

"Good morning to you, too," Grayson said as he entered his father's study in Hawthorne House the following day, a late-winter storm brewing outside.

His boot heels rang against the hardwood floor before hitting carpet, the sound instantly muffled by thick-piled wool. It was Friday, nearly noon, and Grayson had spent the morning in court. He came by now after receiving word from his father to join him for lunch.

Bradford grumbled. "I don't need sarcasm. I get enough of that from Lucas."

"Have you talked to him then?" Grayson asked, surprised, as he folded his long frame into one of the wing-backed chairs in front of his father's desk.

Bradford finished up with a document in front of him, then looked up. "He just left."

Grayson sat forward. "Lucas was here?"

"He came by looking for you."

Bradford slammed his fist against the desktop, making pens and a letter opener jump. "He had the audacity to stand there and tell me he was having an outstanding year. Hell, with each day that passes, more and more people learn that my son owns a gentleman's club."

"I doubt everyone knows."

"Anyone who matters."

Grayson studied his father. Without warning he thought of Sophie telling him that he expected people to be like him or they were wrong. Was there another way to be in life? Was he turning out to be like his father, a man whom he could barely tolerate?

He had worked hard to live up to what was expected of him, then worked harder to fit back in to the world of his family until it became habit. Was there a place between wildness and strict propriety?

He cursed silently.

"Mother must have been thrilled to see Lucas," he said, forcibly changing the course of his thoughts.

"I didn't tell her he was here."

Grayson stared at his father incredulously, an incredulity born of frustration. "She'll be furious."

"Your mother does what I say," he replied angrily, tossing the pen into its holder, "and I won't allow her to see him until he straightens out his ways."

"Then she is likely never to see her youngest son again." His fingers curled around the chair arm as he fought the urge to pummel his own father. That wildness within him flared, wildness that had begun to rise back to the surface since Sophie arrived.

"Damn it, what did I do to deserve such a derelict of a son? An owner of a saloon, for God's sake."

"A gentleman's club, I believe it's called."

The older man focused on Grayson. " 'A rose by any other name is but a rose.' "

"Ah, I see you even make changes to Shakespeare. Does anyone please you?"

"What has gotten into you?" his father snapped.

Grayson wanted to know as well. Recently he found himself questioning aspects of life, things that had always been clear. Society. His place in it. What he wanted in a wife. Sophie made him second-guess himself.

His shoulders tensed. He felt restless, disturbed. And it was all because of Sophie. But he was long past the thought of setting the betrothal aside. Because he couldn't.

He could tell himself that she was a challenge; he could tell himself that they shared a past and their families knew each other. But the truth was that she filled him, filled the gaping loneliness that had never eased.

Up until now, he had moved through life with a minimum of disturbance, gliding through the events of each day with mastered cool control. In hindsight, he could hardly believe he had rolled around in the snow in a public place, much less with the woman he was to marry. And the fact of the matter was that his bride-to-be had rolled around with him, her fingers curling into his lapels, pulling him close. His body responded to the memory.

This time his curse was audible.

"What?" Bradford demanded.

"Nothing."

His father muttered. "The last thing I need is yet another ill-mannered son. That was the one thing you always had going for you, you were respectful."

Grayson's jaw went tight.

"The fact of the matter is," Bradford continued, "with Matthew gone, the future of the Hawthorne name is left up to you. Which brings me back to the original question. Have you set a date for the wedding?"

"Not yet."

Bradford's gray eyebrows peaked first, then he exploded. "Damn you! What is taking so long? Word has gotten out, no doubt from that blasted Patrice, that there will be a marriage. Before long, all of Boston will know you are supposed to marry Sophie. Beyond which, her father is my oldest friend and an important man in society. Everyone is expecting an announcement."

"After that messy debacle with Matthew," he continued, "not to mention the continual disgrace of Lucas, if this marriage isn't announced soon, everyone will assume Conrad backed out. And who could blame him?" He shook his head bitterly, then looked at Grayson, his gaze scathing. "Do your duty. Get this wedding over and done with. I won't stand for another scandal tainting the Hawthorne name. And a broken betrothal will give people just what they need to start talking. Again."

Bitter, futile anger swept through Grayson. "I will let you know when a date is set," he stated coolly.

Bradford stared at his son, then grumbled. Muttering, he glanced toward the door. "Luncheon should be ready."

If his mother hadn't promised to join them, Grayson would have left. But he saw so little of her. As a result, Grayson and his father strode into the dining room. But Emmaline was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Mother?" Grayson asked as a footman handed him a large hand-painted china plate from the sideboard, which was covered with an assortment of luncheon fare.

Bradford served himself a heaping portion of mashed potatoes, roast, and gravy, then sat down and took a sip of mint tea from a tall crystal goblet. "She'll be here." He shot him a hard glance. "She wouldn't miss lunch with her precious eldest son."

Just then Emmaline walked into the dining room in a cloud of gossamer silk, her soft gray-white hair pulled up with pearls. Bradford hadn't waited before beginning his meal, and barely acknowledged his wife when she entered.

Grayson kissed her cheek and noticed instantly that something was different about her.

"Hello, dear," she chimed, her voice more like a schoolgirl's than that of the graceful matron he had known his whole life.

He studied her, wondering at the difference. For a brief moment he thought of the day he had been certain he had seen her in a hansom cab. But he disregarded the thought as soon as it entered his mind.

Bradford continued to eat, obscured behind one of the many newspapers that were delivered to him daily.

"You look beautiful, Mother," Grayson said, holding her chair.

"Oh, why, thank you," she said with a shy though pleased smile. But she bypassed the chair.

In a move that amazed Grayson, she walked directly to her husband, then hesitated only a moment before she took a deep breath and rested her delicate hand on the man's shoulders.

Bradford snapped his head up, the ironed sheets of newspaper crumpling when he lowered his meaty hands. "What are you doing, Mother?" he demanded.

Emmaline flinched, but she persevered. "It looks to be a dreary day. Winter can be so long in Boston."

Craning his substantial neck, Bradford peered up at her. "Are you feeling ill?"

"No, no, husband," Emmaline said with a nervous trill of laughter. "I was simply thinking that on a day such as this… perhaps we could have a picnic." Her features softened and she met his eyes. "In the sunroom. Like we used to."

"Like we used to? Good God, woman. When in blazes have we ever gone on a picnic?"

Her fingers tensed on the dark wool fabric covering his shoulders as she glanced furtively at Grayson, red staining her cheeks. "Before we were married, Bradford. Back when you were courting me."

Grumbling, he turned back to his paper. "Bah, we were young and full of nonsense."

"But I still feel young," she said, the words seeming like a whisper of thought.

"What?" he demanded.

"I said I still feel young," she repeated, her hands falling away, her smile forced.

"Well, you aren't, Mrs. Hawthorne," Bradford stated, "and you'd do well to remember that fact."

Grayson felt acutely uncomfortable to have witnessed such a scene.

Finally, when the interminable meal was over, Bradford headed for his study, Emmaline headed for the stairs, and Grayson headed for the door. But all three were deterred when the front bell rang.

Seconds later the butler stepped into the dining room.

"Mrs. Hawthorne," he announced in imperious tones. "A letter for you."

He extended a silver tray with a crisp white envelope on top with handsomely embossed initials in the seal.
R. S
.

His mother stared at the crisp white stationery as though it were lethal. But when Grayson started to take the missive for her, she leaped forward and snatched it away.

She fell back into her chair, fluttering nervously. "I'm sure it's nothing."

No one else said a word, and Bradford didn't appear to notice that his wife was suddenly acting strangely. He simply bade Grayson a tight good-day, then headed for the door.

As soon as his father was gone, his mother abruptly pushed up from her seat.

"I'm not feeling well. I need to lie down. You'll have to excuse me."

Then she strode from the parlor without looking back.

Emmaline hurried down Charles Street. She was half incensed, half trembling like a butterfly as she thought of the note.

Em,

Either you come to me, or I'll come to you. I'll be waiting at the Old Corner Book Store.

Richard

How dare he?

Regardless of her outrage, her heart sputtered at the thought of meeting him at the place where they had met before—so many years ago.

She had seen him several times at the sculpting house. Each time she had been polite, but distant, not allowing him to get close. But she had felt the attraction, the pull, heated and intense, as if she were no more than seventeen.

This morning, she had sought out her husband, hoping to find some way to fight off the feelings she felt returning for this other man. But Bradford had provided no reprieve.

Emmaline hailed a cab and sat impatiently as the carriage fought its way through the dense downtown traffic. She remembered the days as a girl when she had managed to sneak away from her lessons and go to the place where Emerson and Longfellow used to meet. The Old Corner Book Store had been a meeting ground for a considerable circle of authors. The place had also filled her with a need to do something more than sip tea and crochet altar cloths for the rest of her life.

For the first time, she had been exposed to ideas and thoughts so unlike any she had heard from her governess or other young ladies in the polite drawing rooms of Boston Brahmins, or the schoolrooms of the Boston well-to-do. It was at the bookstore that she had first gotten the idea to sculpt—to shape her vision, not with words as the writers did, but with her hands. To create. She had loved those long days of conversation, loved the sense of self she had found for the first time.