Swan's Grace (31 page)

He collapsed on top of her. She bore his weight, the heaviness comforting, until he rolled to his side, bringing her with him. She could feel the beat of his heart, strong and rapid. They lay that way, wrapped together, silence all around them. She wanted to stay that way forever.

But then he spoke.

"I don't understand you. You are an odd mix of bravado and vulnerability, confidence and shyness. Boldness and inexperience. You act worldly, but when I stroke you, slip my fingers inside you, you shudder, then come like you have never experienced an orgasm before."

Embarrassed, she turned her head away. But he gently grasped her chin and turned her back. She looked into his eyes and thought she had never seen such desolation.

"Whoever you really are," he whispered, "I do need you. You are my weakness, Sophie. And I can't let you go."

With his words, her heart stilled, because she understood that this strong, aching man believed he couldn't afford any weaknesses.

The question was, Why?

Saturday, the day of Sophie's concert, the note arrived. Emmaline stared at the missive.

Please see me. Quincy House hotel. Room 3A.

No name. But she understood.

Sinking lower in a hot, deep, fragrant bath, Emmaline thought of Richard. Her world seemed as soft and muted as the images in the steam-covered mirrors. The note had drifted from her fingers to the small Oriental rug on the floor.

She ran her hands slowly through the water. Just holding the note had made her heart leap. Seeing his bold writing, knowing that he had held the page, made her body tingle and yearn.

Exhaling sharply, she pushed out of the water, her decision made.

An hour later, after dressing carefully, Emmaline came down the stairs, knowing she would go to him.

Good God, what was she doing? Sneaking out of the house like an unmanageable schoolgirl. Again. But she had found the outings impossible to resist. She anticipated a simple brush of hands in the park. Longed for a gentle smile. A promised story. Each of which happened. But never a kiss.

Though not for much longer. Richard had said before he wouldn't wait, but he had, barely, his lips coming so close to hers that she could feel his heat.

Was it really so wrong, considering her relationship with Bradford?

The question circled more and more through her head when Richard was near.

It was a beautiful day, the late-morning sun filling the house. Luncheon was already planned and she wouldn't be needed until this evening, for the concert that all of Boston was talking about.

Grayson had sent word that he would bring by the tickets for the event later that day.

Her brow furrowed at the thought that something was wrong between Grayson and Sophie. Neither was happy, though Emmaline had no idea why.

When she had inquired about the cause earlier in the week, Grayson had stiffly kissed her forehead, telling her not to worry.

As if she were a sweet young thing who needn't bother her little head.

She wanted to reprimand him. She was his mother. She was older, wiser. But somehow her son had lost sight of that fact.

Why did children have to grow up into adults who thought they knew more than their parents?

Lost in thought, her hair pulled up loosely, secured beneath a beautiful spring hat, she wasn't paying attention when she reached for the knob on the front door.

"You're going out?"

Emmaline froze, her hand extended, her reticule swinging on her wrist. "Bradford, I didn't see you there."

"I noticed."

He stood in the doorway of his study, the pocket doors slid back on either side. A book lay forgotten in his hand as he studied her. He was so handsome, standing in this home they had built together. Her heart raced, and she could feel guilt stinging her cheeks.

"Where are you going?" Bradford asked.

Emmaline stared wordlessly before she quickly dropped her gaze. Searching for calm, she smoothed her gown. "Out. Just for a bit." Her hand stilled, and she quickly looked up. "Unless you have a better idea. I don't have to go, not really. I could stay here, with you."

Bradford's gray brows came together. "A better idea? What are you talking about, Mother?"

She strode forward, her steps determined, her long day skirt rustling gently in the high-ceilinged foyer. When she stopped in front of him, she didn't think. She took his hand and pressed it between her own. "I don't know. Let's go for a ride through the park. Just you and me."

"The other day it was a picnic; now it's a ride in the park. What has gotten into you, Emmaline? You've been acting very peculiar recently."

Her hands dropped to her side, sudden, futile anger flashing through her. "I hardly call wanting to spend time with my husband peculiar," she stated with more force than she had used in some thirty-odd years.

Bradford's countenance grew ominous. "Mrs. Hawthorne, remember who you are speaking to."

"Remember? How could I forget! How could I forget for one second that I am the unwanted wife of a man who is too cold to understand that he is loved!"

Not waiting for a reply, she raced for the door. But his voice stopped her. No contrition. No softness.

"I asked you before, Emmaline, where are you going?"

She whirled to face him, recognized the implacable look. "I'm going out, Mr. Hawthorne. Whether you like it or not."

Then she walked out the door with the dignity of a queen, knowing what she was going to do.

Not thirty minutes later, Grayson strode into Hawthorne House. The concert was only hours away, and he still had no idea what to expect.

He had yet to hear from Lucas regarding Niles Prescott or the details of Sophie's earlier performances. And time was running out. He fervently hoped that Sophie's implications about being wild and outrageous were only to make him crazy.

He couldn't make sense of her, and his preconceived ideas about the people in his life were falling apart with each day that passed. An innocent virgin? A respected conductor who would have sexual relations with a girl young enough to be his daughter? And his mother. Slipping from her safe and respectable home, slipping away from her husband, for what Grayson was increasingly sure were assignations with another man.

Fury raced through his veins like ice water. When he got his hands on Niles Prescott he would make him pay. And he would find out what his mother was up to.

His ordered world had been turned upside down until he could make little sense of anything. He hated the lack of control. He had survived by making sense of the incomprehensible. He had made it through being turned out of his home at sixteen by gaining control of his new world.

How was it possible that all these years later the order he had gained could fall apart so completely?

Grayson's day was filled, giving him little time to think. He barely had time to drop off the tickets to the Music Hall for his parents. But when he entered Hawthorne House, his father stood in his study, staring out the window.

"Father?"

Bradford wheeled around to stare at him, and Grayson knew right away that something was wrong.

"What is it?"

"Have you seen your mother?" Bradford asked, his voice odd, somehow disjointed.

"No, but I just got here." He glanced toward the stairs. "I assume she's in her room."

"Then you've assumed incorrectly. Your mother is not at home. Do you know where she might be?"

Grayson stared at his father, remembering the times he had been certain he had seen his mother out. In a hired hack. On the docks.

"I have no idea," he said, protectiveness surging inside him. But he would find her. "She's probably in the garden, or perhaps she ran to an unexpected meeting."

Grayson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the tickets, hardly aware that he did. "These are for the concert."

Bradford took them absentmindedly.

"You'll be next to Conrad and Patrice in the first row. You should get there early."

"Are you expecting a crowd?"

Grayson's brow furrowed. "Every ticket has sold. Standing room only. The auditorium will be packed."

All of Boston would be there to see who knew what kind of show.

But he'd worry about that later. First he needed to find his mother. Before his father did.

Emmaline walked into the Quincy House hotel, pulling her veil close as she bypassed the front desk and went immediately to the narrow set of stairs. The Quincy was a four-story brick building in downtown Boston that catered to bachelors who lived there year-round. A woman slipping in alone would not go unnoticed, though she was thankful it was not the kind of place where she would be questioned either.

Her palms were moist as she came to the third floor. After looking left, then right, she went to the right, not stopping until she came to room 3A. But when she raised her hand to knock, she hesitated, her mouth going dry with uncertainty.

She stared at the door, scarred from wear, but well polished by a caring staff. She could hardly fathom that she was there.

But her path was clear.

She told herself to flee and never look back. But she couldn't leave.

Her knock was sharp and hurried. When the door swung open, Richard stood there, his smiles and laughter gone. He looked at her as if he couldn't believe she had actually arrived, and his heart glowed in his eyes.

"Emmaline," he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

And she understood then that this man truly loved her.

Grayson sat at his desk at Swan's Grace. The place was a shambles—the library torn apart and unfinished. Furniture scattered. Paintings forgotten in the hall.

Disarray reigned. His life felt much the same way.

If Sophie was there, she didn't let on. The house was quiet as a tomb. His finger circled slowly on the rim of a crystal glass. He stared at it without seeing.

He had searched downtown and at the docks. But he had found no trace of his mother.

A knock gained his attention. When he looked up, he found Lucas striding into the room, eyeing the mess with amusement.

"I believe I found what you're looking for," the younger man said, squeezing through the narrow rows Grayson had constructed.

Grayson stood, for a brief moment confused. How did Lucas know about their mother?

"A man I deal with in Vienna just got word to me."

Grayson realized in an instant that Lucas was talking about Sophie.

"Apparently my contact spoke with a man named Herr Wilhelm who saw Sophie play here in Boston when she was young, and in Vienna just before she returned here."

"Tell me she gives a performance that will dazzle Boston."

"Oh, she will dazzle them, all right, but not in the way you would like."

Grayson ran his hand through his dark hair. "Hell."

Lucas glanced at the folder, then back. "I also found information on Niles Prescott."

Grayson's eyes narrowed.

"The night before the announcement was made as to who would win the annual debut recital, Prescott changed the name of the recipient."

"And he changed it from Sophie to Megan Robertson," Grayson surmised.

"Yes. Apparently it wasn't the first time he did that either, changing the name of the winning student at the last minute. But only when it involved a girl."

Both men's faces shifted into ruthless planes.

"What do you want me to do?" Lucas asked.

Grayson met his eye. "Nothing. Leave Niles Prescott tome."

"Fine. Though first, you'd best look at this," Lucas said, extending a discreet folder. "It contains all you need to know about Sophie's concerts."

But Grayson had barely got it in his hands when another knock battered the front door. Knowing no one else would get it, Grayson set the folder down on his desk, then strode out and answered it.

"Mr. Hawthorne," a man cried, out of breath, as if he had run a long way.

"Hastings?" Grayson said in surprise at the sight of the family butler.

"Your mother's lady's maid found this on the floor," Hastings said, his brow furrowed with concern as he extended a single sheet of folded stationery. "I thought it would be best if I brought it to you."