Swan's Grace (25 page)

A surge of hope washed through her that left her weak and yearning as much for what might be as she yearned for his kiss. She hadn't thought a life with Grayson was possible since she fled Boston five years ago. But Grayson was here, at this less than perfect place, his brother the owner. Was he different than she thought? Was it possible that he wouldn't cage her? Was the passion he felt for her enough to overcome the past?

Suddenly he stopped and took her hand.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To do what I should have done long ago."

He swept her up and carried her to a private room, kicking the door shut with a resounding bang. Instantly he set her down as his mouth hungrily covered hers. His hands framed her face, his lips slanting over hers.

He kissed her, his hands sweeping beneath the cape to her hair, down her back to her hips, cupping her round bottom, pressing her against his manhood as he groaned.

Sophie gasped, but the sound was lost when he nipped her lower lip, sucking it in.

"God, I want you," he said, his voice hoarse.

The words made her heart still. His lips trailed to her neck, her head falling back. Clinging to him, she felt his lips move lower, his hand coming up to cup her breast, the sensation making her quiver and burn.

Gently he leaned her back against the wall, his knee nudging her legs apart.

He kissed her, his tongue plunging within her mouth in a rhythm as old as time; then he groaned, pulling back.

He pressed his lips against the hood of her cape. "I knew it would be like this between us." His words were more accusation than statement.

Then he ravaged her mouth with an exquisite torture. Hot. Insatiable.

Joy swept through her and she nearly cried. Instead she held on and returned his desire.

The mask made her bold, her hands exploring as she had never dared to explore before. His breath grew ragged. He caressed her in ways that brought her body to life, making her yearn for his touch.

When he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the chaise, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He set her down and followed in her wake, coming to rest above her, his weight supported on his elbows.

His hand caressed her side, sliding up until he worked the fastenings of her gown. With expert ease, he slipped each fastening from its mooring, then pushed her chemise aside until she felt the kiss of air against her skin.

She gasped when his strong hand grazed the skin of her breast, brushing delicately before he cupped the swell, his thumb circling over the nipple.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered against her.

His kisses trailed over her forehead and cheeks. Kisses that she had longed for, wanted, couldn't live without.

And in that moment it hit her.

She
couldn't
live without him—despite the fact that she had been mad at him since she found him with another woman. And she
had
been mad at him, she realized with a dizzying sense of understanding. Mad and angry and hurt that he hadn't been there for her when she needed him most.

But suddenly she knew what she wanted from life—the very thing she had fought so hard against. Him.

She had thought she knew what she wanted from the world, but she really hadn't. And now she could only hope that it wasn't too late—not too late to show him that she wanted to laugh with him, to be with him—to show him that she loved him.

She realized then, her breath swept away, that she was still in love with Grayson Hawthorne—and that she wanted him for more than this night alone.

How was it possible? her mind raged. How could she fall for a man who would expect perfection from her?

But that was just it. The hope that had been building burgeoned, full-blown and stunning.

Grayson wasn't like that.

He proved he didn't expect perfection just by being in this room in a house of ill repute. Grayson could be wild— he could be outrageous. And as much as she hated to think about it, wasn't that what he had proven when he had been with a woman not his wife?

The realizations tumbled in on her. She wanted to sing and dance, to shout her joy. Because she could marry this man after all.

Sophie wrapped her arms around Grayson's shoulders, hardly aware of where she was or what she was doing. Her body was alive with love for this man as much as with the sensations he was bringing to life in her body.

But at the sound of the voices coming down the hall, emotion ceased and she froze.

"I'm just sure it was her. With Grayson Hawthorne," she heard a familiar voice mutter.

Grayson stilled.

"I'd believe it of Grayson—his brother owns the place— but Sophie Wentworth?" a man asked.

"Don't be fooled. It was her, and they came this way. I have every intention of finding her."

There was no mistaking the sound of Megan Robertson's voice, overloud and echoing against the tile floor.

"Even if it is her," the man asked, "what does it matter?"

"It matters to me. She waltzes back into town and acts like she owns the place. If people find out she came to Nightingale's Gate, then they won't be so blindly enamored."

Grayson felt Sophie flinch. He wanted to step into the hallway and put a halt to the conversation, but didn't know how without revealing Sophie's presence.

"She certainly has taken Boston by storm," the man mused. "Actually, based on that article, I'd say she has taken the world by storm."

"Doing what?" Megan demanded. "Did it escape your notice that there is not a single mention of what pieces she plays?"

"Hmmm, now that I think about it, you're right."

"Of course I am. The fact of the matter is, I know the music world, and I have never read about a concert without being told what works were performed. There is not one mention of what Sophie Wentworth plays… or doesn't play. She's a fraud, I tell you. She always has been. I remember well all the speculation that she would solo at the Grand Debut. But who did Niles award the concert to? Who did he ask to perform?"

Grayson felt the coiled tightness of Sophie's body, as if she wanted to spring out and defend herself, but couldn't— or didn't know how.

"He asked me," Megan finished with a flourish.

"Didn't that happen right after Sophie's mother died? Wasn't that when he invited you to give the concert?"

Megan sniffed. "Yes. And what does that tell you?"

The man was silent, and Grayson felt Sophie press her forehead to his chest, hard.

"Think about it, Peter. Think about how much time Niles Prescott spent with Genevieve Wentworth. They had an affair, I tell you."

"No!" Peter breathed, scandalized.

"Don't be naive. I can't believe you didn't hear the rumors. And the minute she died, he no longer had to pretend Sophie was any good."

"I can't believe it!"

"Well, believe it. And do you want to know why Sophie ran off to Europe? Because of sheer embarrassment. The supposed prodigy had been taken down to the place where she belonged. A distant second peg to me."

The pair had stopped outside the door. Grayson cursed when he realized that in his haste he hadn't secured the lock.

Sophie lay there as if waiting for the inevitable. But with the same expertise with which he had moved them about on the dance floor, Grayson whisked them up from the chaise and behind a thick velvet curtain just as the handle turned.

"I just know she is here somewhere," Megan said, her voice no longer muffled by the walls.

Heels clicked into the room, a closet was thrown open. Footsteps came closer, and Grayson held Sophie tight when Megan came to the window and looked out into the night.

"I am just sure I saw her."

So close.

"Well, she's not in here."

"Hmmm," Megan said speculatively, and Grayson was sure they were caught.

But then she and her friend started away, and their voices faded in the distance. Silence returned, the quiet broken by nothing more than the sound of rain hitting the windows.

Sophie didn't move long after they heard the click of the door. At length, Grayson glanced down at her, expecting her to be upset. For a second he thought she was, but then she spoke.

"Well, she certainly has a way with words."

He heard the flip tone and knew the walls were once again erected.

"Sophie, don't do this," he said. "I've heard you play," he added gently. "I know you are talented."

Her cheeks flashed red and her brow furrowed. Then she laughed, but the sound was forced and hollow.

"That's the thing, Grayson. You haven't heard me play."

Her gaze grew fierce. But her lips began to tremble. Suddenly, as if a dam had given way, her eyes blurred with tears, and she drew a tiny, shuddering breath before she jerked away from him. She fumbled with the curtain, then her dress, finally pulling her cape closed.

"Sophie, tell me what you're talking about."

But she wasn't listening. She threw open the door, then fled to a back exit and pushed out into the cold, biting rain.

"Sophie!" he called out.

But she didn't stop; she held her skirts and ran out into the alley, no coat, no shawl, protected by nothing more than the thin black cape and the gossamer-sheer silk of her gown.

Grayson started after her, but a voice stopped him.

"My, my, look who we have here."

He turned sharply, and found Megan sauntering back down the hall.

"I told Peter that if I waited long enough I was bound to find you. He went upstairs, but he'll be back." She peered past him. "I know you're back there, Sophie. You might as well come out. By this time tomorrow all of Boston will know that you were here, dancing like a harlot."

"You are wasting your breath. Sophie isn't here, Megan. As to telling Boston anything, one, you have no proof. And two, how do you mention anyone's presence here without revealing your own?"

Her shoulders went back defiantly. "I'll find a way!"

"You will not." His voice was cold and unrelenting with menace. "You've done enough to Sophie. It's time you left her alone."

She gasped at the words. "Me?" she demanded, a sudden, intense anger flashing through her eyes. Without warning, her proper patina melted away as if it had been little more than a pretense. "She's the one who did everything! She's the one who everyone paid attention to. It didn't matter that she was awkward and gawky. Everyone might have thought she was odd and troublesome, but they also believed she should have had that solo debut instead of me. I deserved that concert," she hissed, as if trying to convince herself. "And now with that wretched article in
The Century
magazine, all anyone can talk about is Sophie this, Sophie that! Proving that they had been right about the solo all along. I will not have it. Do you hear me? I will not have it! And I will not sit by while she gets this new concert." Her chin rose. "Or you."

Grayson went still, and suddenly Megan's face crumpled.

"Oh, Grayson—"

"Sophie isn't upstairs." Peter Marshall stopped abruptly, and Megan turned her face away to hide her sudden tears. Peter seemed confused, before he gave Grayson a knowing look. "Hello, Hawthorne. Fancy meeting you here. Have to admit, Megan, I'm surprised you were right. Where's Sophie?"

"She isn't right," Grayson bit out. "Sophie isn't here. And if I hear that either of you have said one word about her, you will answer to me."

Then he raced out the back door and into the rainy night.

He didn't think about anything but finding Sophie. But once outside, there was no sign of her.

After looking left, then right, he chose the direction that led to the Back Bay. Surely she would head home. He caught a hansom cab to follow her, but when he arrived he found Swan's Grace empty.

He tried The Fens, to no avail, and had to make up some excuse as to why he thought she might be there and why he was soaking wet. Next he went to Hawthorne House; thankfully he found only the butler, who informed him that Miss Wentworth had not been there.

He searched the Public Gardens and Boston Commons. He hailed another cab, ignoring the frigid cold and rain that seeped to his bones as he rode up and down each of the orderly grids of streets in the Back Bay, only to come up empty-handed.

The moon was well hidden in the heavy night sky when the hired hack pulled up in front of Swan's Grace once again. Frustration mixed with growing despair as he stepped down onto the walkway. And there he saw her.

She sat on the top step, huddled against one of the granite swans, nothing to shield her from the rain and cold.

"Sophie," he whispered, not wanting to think about the way she made him feel.

Slowly she looked up, and he couldn't deny the relief that flashed through her eyes when she saw him.

He stopped in front of her and they stared at each other, he on the walk, she at eye level on the top step, her clothes soaked through, the loose tendrils of her hair dripping with rain.

But a smile trembled on her lips. "You fixed the lock."

His throat tightened with emotion. "Someone had to."

She chuckled, though oddly, before her face crumpled. Only then did he realize that her body shivered with cold, and her skin was much too white.

He didn't like the blue tinge in her lips. He had seen it once before when he was young and Matthew had gotten caught in a storm much like this. Wet and cold made a deadly combination. Fortunately his father had acted quickly, putting Matthew in a hot bath before his body shut down.

"We've got to get you inside."

He took the steps, but when he helped her stand, she collapsed against him. In seconds he swept her up into his arms, then had to fumble with the keys and the lock.

"Damn!"

"It was easier before you fixed it," she mumbled like a drunkard.

His worry grew. He needed to get her warm, and fast.

"Where is that blasted Deandra or Margaret when you need them?" he demanded as he strode into the marble entry, kicked the door shut, then tossed the keys on the foyer table with a clatter.

"Away for the weekend. Having fun," she murmured.

"Damn," he repeated.

Sophie focused on his face, though barely, a muddled smile lurking. "We're alone. Are you going to have your way with me?"

Grayson's eyes narrowed. "Funny."

"I thought so." She giggled, her head falling against his chest.

"Hell."

"Aren't you a plethora of curse words this evening?" Then suddenly she shook her head, as if clearing her mind. "And put me down." She drew her body up, her eyes opening wide. "I'm fine. I don't need you to carry me."

He studied her, and she looked him directly in the eye.

"I really am fine."

Grayson growled, but in the heat of the house she did seem better.

"I just sat out there for too long, is all," she added.

After a moment's hesitation, he finally set her on her feet.

Sophie took a few steps, her long gown dripping water on the foyer floor. "See, I've never been better."

She started toward the stairs, then stopped. "I hope you don't mind that I don't see you out. I'll just run along and get changed."

But Grayson didn't move, and when she came to the stairs she wavered for a second before she sank down on the bottom step, her head slumping on her arms, long, convulsive shivers racing through her body.

"Hell," he ground out, a swift stab of fear piercing through him.

Sweeping her up in his arms, he took the stairs two at a time as he carried her the remaining distance to his room.

He set her down on a small upholstered bench in the massive bathroom suite, then ran hot water into the porcelain tub at the same time he peeled off the layers of her clothes as if she were a rag doll.

He disregarded the fact that someone else should be undressing her, since there was no one else to do it. He put from his mind the reality of her delicate skin and her generous curves. He thought only about getting her warm.

"Come on, sweetheart. Help me."

Sophie's eyes fluttered open. She seemed to focus, first on him, then on the fact that she was sitting there with next to nothing on. "My clothes," she squeaked.

"This is hardly the time for modesty."

And yet again he wondered about the contradiction of Sophie Wentworth. Only hours before she had danced provocatively at Nightingale's Gate. Now she acted like an innocent as he tried to save her life. Which was she, an innocent or a provocative woman who knew too much about life? He hated to think that it mattered to him.

But there was no time for thought. Quickly he tested the water before lowering her into the tub, nothing left of her clothes but her chemise and pantaloons.

Her eyelids fluttered but didn't quite open when she touched the water. When he had her settled, he ripped off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, then took her hands and started to rub them vigorously.

"Leave me alone," she mumbled, her tongue stumbling over the meager words.

"I will not leave you alone," he told her, taking her foot and starting to work.

He rubbed her extremities and kept the water almost hot, and soon color started to return to her skin. When she groaned and tried to pull away, this time with some strength, while muttering, "You're hurting me," he started to relax.

"Sorry, love, but I have to get you warm."

He leaned back on his haunches and for the first time looked at her. Her hair had come loose and floated on the surface like strands of spun gold. Her chemise and pantaloons clung to her body, so thin and sheer they might as well not have been there. Rose-tipped breasts were outlined, as well as the golden triangle of hair between her legs.

She was stunning.

"He didn't believe I was good enough."

His head jerked up and he found her staring at her hand—first the palm, then the back, water dripping down her fingers like tears.

Confusion filled him. "What?"

She met his eyes and blinked. The look on her face was of devastation and unbearable pain.

And it all came clear to him. The bravado. The excitement over people's praise. Such a contradiction. She pretended not to care, but in truth, she cared so much that it hurt.

With a weak splash, she lowered her hand. "Nothing."

"Come on, let's get you out of there."

He picked her up with ease and set her on her feet. She wavered for a moment, but she steadied herself before he could catch her.

She appeared tired, but her sadness seemed to drip away along with the water, replaced by a growing defiance and anger.

"Why did you run away tonight, Sophie? Because of what Megan said about your mother? Or because Niles Prescott asked Megan to perform instead of you?"

She snorted, seeming to pull herself up. "I didn't run away. I left. It was a dismal party and I saw no reason to stay." She raised her eyebrow in a moment of meaningful clarity. "Good God, did you taste that champagne?"

"You looked like you were having a perfectly grand time. And that champagne happens to be one of the finest in the world."

"That's right! I was having a grand time in a house of ill repute, dancing decadently. Proof that I'm not proper or perfect! And I never will be, Grayson!"

Her knowing look faded and she turned away sharply. Then, regardless of the fact that he was still in the room, she started tugging at the remainder of her clothes.

The wet chemise clung to her, refusing to give up its hold. She tugged, then jerked, then ripped at the material.

"Here, let me help."

But when he stepped forward, she whirled on him.

"Don't you understand anything? I don't need your help! I don't need anything from you. I don't need anything from anyone! I made it on my own, and I will continue to do so!"

By now tears burned in her eyes, then spilled over down her cheeks, and her hands fell to her sides in defeat. Her teeth had begun to chatter again, but not with life-threatening cold. She just needed to get dry.

Grayson didn't understand what he felt, didn't understand the need in him that had nothing to do with desire. Slowly he reached out to her again, and when she didn't resist, he gently began to free her from the wet muslin.

What stores of strength she had built over the years were spent. He understood that with such sudden clarity that it nearly bowled him over. Crying silently, she watched his fingers as he worked at the fastenings of the chemise. But they were knotted, and finally he tore them loose, until the material lay in a puddle at her feet.