Swan's Grace (4 page)

"Let her fight. Whether she wants to admit it or not, I'm doing what is best for her." He gave a sharp tug to tighten the belted sash at his waist. "I will explain the situation to my daughter. I will go over there first thing in the morning."

"Tell her about the house," Grayson said, his temper under tight control. "But I don't want you making things worse by telling her about the betrothal." His eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a cold, hard edge. "I will tell her about our marriage myself. If she finds out that on top of everything else you betrothed her without her consent, she will be like a runaway horse with a bit between its teeth. She would reject the match simply to defy you."

"I am her father. She will not defy me!"

"Then you've forgotten what Sophie is like." Conrad grumbled. "I haven't forgotten. She's as headstrong as they come. Always has been."

"My point exactly. Now I will have to untangle this mess."

"I thought the betrothal was finalized."

It was the following morning, and Bradford Hawthorne, patriarch of the venerable Hawthorne family, spoke from the doorway of his study.

Grayson stood at the mullioned window of Hawthorne House, tense and silent, his thoughts concealed as his father's angry voice sliced through the room.

He had woken up at the Hotel Vendome, his mood dangerous as he remembered Conrad Wentworth. Then he remembered the man's daughter, and his mood changed, though it hadn't gotten much better.

Sophie.

A constant in his life from the day she was born, she had followed him around, constantly talking, always asking questions. A whirlwind of trouble he had pulled out of more scraps than he cared to count.

But there had also been a day when she had tried to save him.

At the memory he felt the easing of that hardness in his heart. It was always the same when he thought of Sophie.

Three months ago the match had seemed perfect. Two old Boston families coming together. A shared past that had meaning.

But last night she had been different from the way he remembered her. She had changed. Or was he fooling himself?

In truth, at Conrad's birthday gala she had smiled with a confidence and self-possession that not many women had. On the surface she had been the picture of propriety, wearing a stunning though demure gown, her hair decorous, her jewels subtle. But her eyes had flashed something not proper at all. Like a fire carefully banked.

In truth, there had always been that glimpse of boldness in Sophie. As a child she had always had a hint of independence. As an adult it appeared that hint had become a full-fledged streak that not many men could tame.

His brow furrowed against the thought that it was those things that had intrigued him. Intrigued him enough that after leaving The Fens last night, he had nearly gone back to Swan's Grace, despite propriety, to sleep in his own bed—with her in it. Just the thought of her made his blood surge hot and low. He wanted to pull her close, cup her round bottom, and press her body to his while he looked into those brown eyes flecked with green and watch them darken with awareness.

Cursing silently, he reined in his thoughts.

He hadn't returned. He wouldn't put it past Sophie Wentworth to send word to every paper in town that he had stayed there. Hell, she'd probably write the article herself— as if she needed an ounce more attention than she had already received from being featured in
The Century
.

Clearly the woman didn't subscribe to the dictate that a woman's name should appear in print only twice in a lifetime, first when she married, then again when she died. And the last thing he needed was a scandal.

Grayson shook his head. There had been too many scandals of late in the Hawthorne family. His younger brother Matthew had been ensnared in one that had rocked proper Bostonians to the core, and had had every New Englander riveted to the daily newspapers as the events unfolded. Matthew was married now, to an intriguing woman who had changed his life. The Hawthornes loved Finnea. Even Bradford had grudgingly conceded that she was good for his middle son. But it hadn't always been that way.

Then there was Lucas, the youngest. He hadn't caused a scandal. But as the sole owner of Nightingale's Gate gentleman's club, he lived one. Grayson was not about to add fuel to the family fire.

He knew his father was counting on him to marry Sophie. The coming together of the two old, distinguished families would be a renewal. It was one of the few times Grayson's intentions had coincided with his father's constant schemes and plans to better the Hawthorne name. Or at least they had coincided until last night. Now he wasn't so sure.

"Damn it, I want to know what you've been doing for the last three months," Bradford Hawthorne demanded, pulling Grayson out of his reverie. "I thought the contracts had been signed. But now you stand there and tell me things are up in the air. I demand to know what is going on?"

Grayson shot his father a warning glance. "My affairs are none of your concern."

"That's the problem," Bradford shot back. "All you have had for the last decade are affairs. It's time you settled down and got married. Damn it, Matthew is married and he's a year younger than you."

"Lucas doesn't have a wife," he offered.

Bradford snorted. "The devil take it. Who'd have him?"

"From what I hear, any number of women would have Lucas," he said with a shrug.

"I'm talking about a proper woman, not some lady of the night who'd like to get her claws into a Hawthorne."

Grayson started to disagree, but decided not to waste his breath. He had been arguing about life, marriage, and his youngest brother for too many years to count. He hadn't found an argument yet that could scratch his father's angry convictions.

The only person who had ever been able to make inroads with their father was Matthew. It was no secret that the second son had been Bradford's favorite child. Matthew had been able to talk to their father in ways Grayson never had. But all that changed after Matthew's face had been scarred in an accident.

Grayson dropped his arms to his sides, telling himself he didn't care about his father and his inability to please the man. But he did care about Matthew and Lucas.

For as long as he could remember, it had been the three of them. Brothers, friends, confidants. Protectors of their fragile mother, who drifted through the house like a whisper. Though if stories were to be believed, when she was young, Emmaline Hawthorne n
é
e Abbot had been wild and daring.

But something had happened that took the laughter from her eyes.

Grayson turned back to the Public Gardens. When he had arrived that morning, he had asked for his mother. But her lady's maid had explained that she was not feeling well, and was not receiving visitors.

"You are the oldest," Bradford continued harshly. "You need to provide me an heir to continue the line."

"Matthew has provided you with a child."

"He has provided me with a girl!" Bradford drew a sharp, deep breath, his nostrils flaring. After a moment he visibly eased. "Sweet as she is, Mary will not retain the Hawthorne name once she marries. I need a boy. Only a boy can ensure that the Hawthorne name doesn't die out. You need to provide me with that boy."

Grayson's temper flared, but he held it in ruthless check.

He would not argue with his father. Instead he started to leave.

But Bradford stopped him. "I know how you are. You'll walk out that door and do whatever you please. But I'm serious about this. You get those contracts finalized with Conrad. I want a wedding."

"I don't doubt you do," he stated coolly. "I
will
marry, but only when I'm ready."

Bradford grumbled. "You had better be ready soon. I'm not getting any younger. And if I left it up to you or Lucas, the Hawthorne name would undoubtedly die out—at least die out on the legitimate side. I need a grandson. You owe me a grandson. Damn it, you owe me!"

The men stared at each other, steely dark eyes clashing with harsh, angry blue, until Grayson forced an ease into his voice that he didn't feel. "I owe you? How is that? At sixteen you turned me out of the house."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They hung in the room, startling and painful.

Bradford shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked away, his face set in stubborn lines. "You should thank me for that. It taught you that life isn't easy. It made you a fighter, it made you succeed."

"Ah, yes, the sink-or-swim method."

Bradford looked back. "You do owe me."

Only long years of practice kept Grayson's emotions in check. "Really, Father? Tell me why."

"Because a son always owes his father."

A late-winter sun was well into the sky when Grayson slammed out the front door. He had locked horns with his father for as long as he could remember. Even when he tried
to
please the man, he only managed to send them both into a rage of temper. And he had never understood why. He also never understood why his father had forced him to leave Hawthorne House at sixteen. The excuse that he had needed to learn to succeed rang hollow. As a teen, he had worked harder than anyone he knew, had better marks, had more plans. But none of that had mattered.

Stunned and dazed, he had been forced to strike out on his own, finding a rat-infested garret across the river in Cambridge, close to Harvard, where he had already made plans to attend. In the beginning he'd had to fight to survive, the only thing separating him from having to steal for food being baskets filled with meat and cheese, bread and milk. And always a cake—from Sophie.

For months after leaving Hawthorne House, all he'd had were those baskets secretly delivered by servants. And the talking machine. Sophie's words and her gifts of food to sustain him. His eyes narrowed against the memory of the young boy he had been those first weeks. Scared. Cranking the handle of the talking machine over and over again in that drafty, thin-walled garret. The words surrounding him, blocking out the angry shouts and fights between grown men in the hallway.

Eventually he had worked his way through Harvard College, culminating with his graduation from Harvard Law. But as long as he lived he would never forget that it was Sophie who had helped him when he needed it the most.

Instead of hailing a hired hack, Grayson cut across the Public Gardens, a large expanse of land made of curving pathways, footbridges, and plants and trees imported from all over the world.

When he came to the footbridge that would take him toward downtown and the courthouse, where he had planned to go, he veered off to the right and headed for Commonwealth Avenue. And Sophie.

Sophie.

A slow, deep breath filled his lungs. Despite himself, he wanted to see her. Needed to see her.

He cursed the need, but somehow couldn't bring himself to change his direction. His thoughts hardened at the weakness, but then he told himself he simply needed to replace the memory of the bold, provocative woman he had seen last night.

He wanted proof that he hadn't made the single biggest mistake of his life based on the foolish memory of a young girl and a long-ago kindness. Did he yearn only for someone who no longer existed? In the years since she had left Boston, had he in some way always been waiting for her return? And when she didn't, had he simply seen to it that she did?

After he slipped out through the gate and wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the park, he had to stop for traffic before he could cross Arlington Street. The boulevard was packed, and the walkway was filled with warmly dressed pedestrians. When a gap came in the flow of carriages, he stepped off the granite-block curb onto the unevenly cobbled thoroughfare to start across. But he stopped in his tracks as a hired hack sped by. He would have sworn the woman inside was his mother.

"Come on, stop holding everyone up," a washerwoman barked at him.

But Grayson didn't move. The swarm of people who had been waiting to cross parted like a sea and hurried around him as he stared at the retreating carriage. But then he shook his head. That couldn't have been his mother. Emmaline Hawthorne didn't take public conveyances. Beyond that, he had been told she was still in bed.