Swan's Grace (6 page)

The slamming door brought her head up from the ledger with a start, the pencil lead in her hand snapping on the page.

Sophie sat back in the desk chair, papers with numbers scrawled all over them spread out before her. She could see a long line of harsh sunlight trying to slice through the closed curtains of the bedroom.

Normally she would have been asleep at this hour. Her entourage still was. But worry over finances had kept her up most of the night. The thought of losing Swan's Grace left her reeling. But she had more immediate concerns just then. No matter how she worked the figures, she didn't have enough to get four adults through to May if she had to pay for their lodging—in Boston or Europe.

Of course, she had known that all along, but at two in the morning she had woken up with a flash of hope that if she redid the numbers, cutting back here, saving there, she'd have enough to get them through. The truth was as harsh as the morning sunlight.

To make matters worse, her father had made it clear that Deandra, Henry, and Margaret were not welcome at his new house, and Sophie wasn't about to leave her friends to fend for themselves. Which left staying at Swan's Grace as the
only
viable alternative until she could get her father to straighten things out. And he would, surely. Swan's Grace was hers.

In the meantime she had to find a way to maintain residence in her childhood home. Though how hard could it be? she reasoned. Grayson was an old friend. Besides, how much time did a lawyer spend at his residence? Didn't he have cases to try, judges to meet, clients to advise—all of which undoubtedly took place in courthouses and downtown offices?

She kicked herself for goading him yesterday. Not the best way to start ingratiating herself. But being around him made her uneasy, unbalanced, as if at any second he could tip her over.

Today, she promised herself, she would do better. She would be as sweet as pulled taffy, and he'd have little choice but to let them stay.

For a second she thought of the rumors Margaret had heard of his impending marriage. What if he had a wife waiting in the wings to move in before May? But she wrote that worry off. Grayson Hawthorne was not one to do anything quickly, much less marry that way. No doubt he'd make an official announcement, then have a long and very proper engagement. By then she'd have Swan's Grace back and the money to pay her bills.

As the sun burned brighter, Sophie felt a growing sense of relief. Things would work out. During the day Grayson wouldn't be around enough to care if they stayed at Swan's Grace. And at night he could easily stay at the Hotel Vendome. He had told her father himself that it wasn't a problem.

The sound of efficient footsteps clomping across the downstairs floor seemed to vibrate up through the walls. She grimaced at the thought that it might be Grayson, disproving the theory that he didn't spend much time there. But she dismissed the idea. Grayson Hawthorne did not clomp.

She glanced at the huge four-poster bed that had been her father's—though now Grayson was using it. His belongings filled the room. Fine suits, high-polished boots. A cashmere robe.

In the early morning hours, she had pulled it on, wrapping it around her. His scent clung to the material, clean and musky. She had the fleeting image of his arms wrapped around her, and a shiver drifted down her spine.

He was a man now, not a boy, fulfilling all the promise he had shown years ago.

She groaned at the thought of him. Truly he unsettled her. And staying in a room full of his belongings hadn't been one of her smarter decisions. It made her remember him—made her question her determination to be independent. And that made her mad.

The fact of the matter was, she didn't know how to be anything else. Her mother had taught her to be free, had never made the slightest mention of how society expected a woman to do a man's bidding. She didn't know the first thing about running a household or preparing a meal.

And children.

She pressed her eyes closed at the unexpected thought of holding a baby, Grayson's baby, in her arms. Snuggling close. Someone to love her.

She shook the thought away. She cringed to think of what a mess she would make of a child. Beyond which, she hadn't worked five long years only to toss her success away at the first feel of a cashmere robe around her shoulders. The garment was soft and sweet. Grayson, the man, was anything but.

The clomps from belowstairs broke into her reverie. With little help for it, Sophie secured the tie at her waist, searched the floor for a pair of feather-trimmed slippers, then went in search of whoever was making all the racket.

Just when her foot hit the bottom step, she came face-to-face with a severe-looking woman who looked to be a hundred if she was a day. She wore a no-nonsense hat over steel gray hair, and a starched gown that made Margaret's prudish attire look provocative.

"You look a bit prim to be a thief," Sophie stated without preamble, rolling the long cashmere sleeves up a few turns. "Would you care to explain what you are doing here?"

"I'll not be explaining anything to the likes of you," the woman said with a sniff, her tone censorious as she looked Sophie up and down. "I'll not abide a lady of the night waltzing about a respectable man's home. Get away with you, girl, and believe you me, I'll be having a word with young Mr. Hawthorne."

Young Mr. Hawthorne
, as if he were a boy still in knickers. Who could this dour lady be?

Sophie would have laughed her delight had she not been so surprised.

But she was saved from having to do anything when Grayson pushed open the front door. He wore a fine wool overcoat and clapped his gloved hands together to warm them. A rush of cold air came in with him.

He glanced down at the lock as he passed across the threshold, and when he looked up he noticed the two women. Sophie saw his eyes darken when he noticed her. His gaze traveled over her, seeing his robe, the motion like a caress. Then he smiled, surprisingly bright and rich considering he had left her yesterday in a dour mood.

"Make a note to have this door fixed, Miss Pruitt," he said, shutting out the cold before continuing toward them.

He was beautiful, and Sophie's heart kicked. His hair was still damp from his bath despite the weather, and he walked with an ease that few men possessed. It was all she could do not to smile back.

She really had to make an effort not to be pulled in when he decided to turn on the charm. She couldn't afford to let down her guard for so much as a moment. They had become adversaries. He had Swan's Grace. She wanted it back.

Grayson stopped and looked from woman to woman. "I see you have met."

They looked at each other with asperity.

Grayson chuckled. "I wondered what would happen when the two of you came face-to-face. Let's make it official. Miss Altima Pruitt, may I introduce Miss Sophie Wentworth."

"What is going on here?" Sophie demanded.

Miss Pruitt pulled her sturdy shoulders back. "I'll not be working here if you plan to entertain"—she searched for a word—"
guests
right beneath my nose," she finally managed.

"Rest assured, Miss Pruitt, I would never dream of abusing your sensibilities." He came forward and put his strong arm around the woman's sturdy shoulders. "Miss Wentworth is Conrad Wentworth's daughter, and she is staying here, with chaperons"—he actually scowled at this—"while I stay at the Hotel Vendome. Now why don't you go make us some of that delicious coffee of yours."

Altima sent a sharp, accusing glare at Sophie and her attire, then pulled off her hat with swift efficiency, setting it carefully on the hat rack, before heading for the kitchen.

Sophie watched her go, then turned to Grayson. "Aren't we cordial this morning?"

Instantly she cringed at the flip tone. She had promised herself she would be nice!

"I'll do whatever it takes to keep Miss Pruitt happy." He smiled at her, an inviting smile full of warmth and mischief. "The woman types like the wind, takes dictation like a gazelle, and keeps my life organized with the quiet, unobtrusive efficiency of a queen bee in a honeycomb."

"Enough with your snappy wildlife analogies." He really did bring out the worst in her. "Who is this paragon?"

"My receptionist—though to be more specific, she is a woman I adore," he said with a grand sweep of his hand to his heart. "In short, she's the best receptionist I have ever had. And I've had a few."

"You have a receptionist? Here?" she squeaked.

"Of course. She runs my office."

"You mean your office downtown?" she prompted hopefully.

"No. I advise my clients from Swan's Grace. And I do have clients, Sophie. People who keep me solvent so I can pay those things called bills and not become the derelict you accused me of being."

He stepped close and boldly ran his fingers down the edge of the cashmere lapels, his voice deepening. "Despite what you want to think, I don't need your father's money."

His fingers stopped just before they came to her breasts. She could hardly think, much less utter a coherent word, as heat seared through her, centering low in a way she didn't understand. Could he tell that she had virtually nothing on underneath? Could he feel the way her heart began to pound?

His hands lingered, his dark-eyed gaze burning into her, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. But just when she would have leaned close, despite everything, he dropped his hands away. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he took in her attire. "And speaking of clients, one should be arriving any minute. Charming as you look, I'd rather they not see you in my robe."

Heat surged through her cheeks, mixing with dismay. She hardly understood what he made her feel. Desire? Panic?

With a jerk, she looked out the window at the carriages rolling by as if all were right with the world. She was so close to having the pieces of her life finally fall into place—different from how she had imagined it would be when she was a child, but still something she had created for herself. Her whole life she had dreamed of being famous, dreamed of being something more than awkward Sophie Wentworth. How many times had she envisioned herself holding court in Swan's Grace, performing in the Music Hall? Playing Bach.

She had given up Bach, replacing it with showy pieces. She had given up the dream of playing in the Music Hall, replacing it with Europe. But she couldn't replace her dream of living in the only true home she had ever known.

Grayson Hawthorne and his purchase of Swan's Grace had thrown what remained of her dreams into chaos.

But should it really matter? She had a glamorous life. People around the world adored her, would never believe she had experienced an awkward day in her life.

Her gaze shifted and ran over the black-and-white marble floor in the foyer, the stately, fluted columns, the grand sweep of stairs she had descended again and again as a child, a long linen towel attached to her shoulders trailing behind her, making her a queen.

His touch drew her attention and made her breath catch. He cupped her chin and forced her to look at him.

"What is it?" he whispered, his dark gaze serious. "What is it that I keep seeing in your eyes?"