Swan's Grace (16 page)

Very gently he pulled her hands away and held them in front of him. "Is it because the contract was signed without anyone consulting you? Is that what has you so upset and determined to thwart me?"

His fingers circled her wrists, and she was sure he could feel her fluttering pulse. "For starters," she managed.

"That was your father's doing, not mine. I was led to believe you were agreeable."

He was so near, his hard body playing havoc with her thoughts. "And you think that absolves you?"

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because you didn't tell me of the ruse you were trying to pull off once I got here."

"This is no ruse." His thumbs grazed the sensitive skin on her wrists.

"So you keep saying," she said, stringing the words together with effort. "But you should have told me the minute you realized I didn't know about the betrothal."

"I told you about the house." He grew quiet and turned her hands over, staring at her fingers. "At the time I didn't know how much more you could take."

She sucked in her breath, felt that same ache in her heart for a childhood that had been filled with hope and promise.

"Sweet Sophie."

His kind tone was almost more than she could bear, and she lowered her gaze.

"Let's start over," he added.

She felt hope surge inside her, and her head shot up.

"That's wonderful," she said with a gasp. "We can start over and do things right this time."

"Fine."

He lifted her hand, and just when she thought he would kiss the back, he turned it over and pressed his lips to her palm. The sensation shot through her, straight to her knees.

"Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Her eyes pressed closed, and her lungs filled almost painfully. His wife. A childhood dream come true. She planned to say no, told herself to do just that. "Do you love me?" she asked instead.

The words caught him off guard, she could see it. His spine straightened and his dark eyes grew unfathomable. "Love is hardly a prerequisite for marriage," he answered, like a lawyer advising a client. "You will have my respect and the protection of my name. As my wife, I will hold you in the highest regard."

Sharp, piercing disappointment shot through her. Foolishly. She had known what he would say.

"We will be perfect together," he added, though the meager words seemed to cost him.

But they weren't perfect together. He knew nothing about her anymore. "No," she said, then pulled her hand away. "You don't know the first thing about the woman I have become."

She heard the quaver In her voice, couldn't seem to stop it. But she was acutely aware that her head barely came to his strong shoulders, putting her at eye level with his broad chest. She didn't dare look down to his tapered waist, didn't dare let him distract her in any way.

"Then tell me. Tell me who you've become," he insisted.

For half a heartbeat, the truth tangled on her tongue. But in the end she couldn't tell him about the outrageous gowns and provocative concerts. About her mother. And Niles. She couldn't bring herself to tell Grayson about the night she went to his garret and found him with someone else. She couldn't utter the words. Instead she said, "I am someone who can't be caged."

He made a sharp noise in the back of his throat. "That is just an excuse."

"Call it what you like, but I won't marry you, Grayson."

His eyes went even harder, though there was something else there. Something darker, something elusive—the same look she had seen when his father threw him out on his own.

"What is it about me that you find so objectionable?" he demanded.

She hadn't expected that, and the answer was nothing. He was perfect, perfect except for the fact that he was domineering, possessive. And he would expect her to be perfect, too. But she wasn't about to say that.

"You aren't accepting."

He stiffened. "Accepting?" Then he shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"I come from a long, distinguished line of judgmental people, and I recognize one of the inner circle when I see them. Some people embrace others' differences. You, on the other hand, reject those who are different. You hate women like Deandra, you shudder at a man like Henry. And you have little time for a lady like Margaret."

She stopped as just then a thought occurred to her, and she studied him. "You don't realize there is another way to be."

"You know nothing about me," he said tightly.

"Don't I? Don't you look at people with sweeping generalizations, making pronouncements based on what you want to believe—that either people are like you… or they're wrong?"

She realized with a start that she wanted him to deny her accusation, to tell her that he had the ability to look beyond a person's failings. But he only stared at her with harsh, unforgiving eyes.

Yet again, disappointment seared her.

"Oh, Grayson, you want a proper wife. And in addition to not understanding who I've become, you've forgotten who I used to be," she said with a rueful smile. "Somehow, whether it was caused by that article in the magazine or by the night you saw me at my father's birthday gala, you've begun to picture me as someone I'm not."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? What do you remember from our childhood?"

He didn't answer.

"Do you remember how I followed you everywhere? As much as I hate to admit it, Megan wasn't exaggerating about that. Or do you remember how crazy I made you when I constantly turned up without warning?"

"You didn't make me crazy."

"No? How about when I followed you into the Beacon Hill carriage house?"

A light flashed in his eyes.

"If you need reminding, I fell out of the loft after I leaned too far over the edge to see what you were doing. Do you remember that?"

"Perhaps," he answered, his tone clipped.

She knew he remembered every detail.

"You were using the stable's watering spigot to bathe."

"And you were mortified speechless!"

"I was
momentarily
speechless, and only because you were naked as the day you were born." A daring smile pulled at her lips. "You were beautiful."

His gaze shot warnings.

"Naked, and so large. I asked if I could touch you. Do you remember that? Would you like me to describe some more?"

"I think I remember quite enough."

Her smile fled. "Good, and remember well. We both know that I'm not like you. I was never polite or proper. And I can't live with someone who will always think I'm wrong."

They stared at each other, dark eyes clashing with golden brown. But there was nothing more to say. She saw in his expression that he finally understood the truth of her words. It was over. Finished.

Sophie dropped her gaze, then stepped past him. And this time he didn't try to stop her.

Relief filled her, though she felt a stab of regret as well. Part of her was still the little girl who spoke into that talking machine, the little girl who dragged a three-quarter-size cello around everywhere she went, making it hard not to be noticed by the young boy she always followed.

But when she got to the bottom of the stairs his voice rang out.

"Sophie."

Unable to do anything else, she turned back. She stared at him as his face transformed. The darkness fled, the anger dissipated, leaving only a confident smile which made her breath catch.

"I don't give up that easily" he said with a warrior's deceptive softness. "You've known me long enough to understand that." He walked up to her and gently framed her face with his strong hands. "You're a woman now, not a child. We
are
perfect together. It's just going to take me a little longer to make you see that."

She could hardly absorb the words as his gaze drifted to her lips and she was sure he was going to kiss her. Her mouth went dry, and she felt the tingle of her skin where he touched her. But he didn't kiss her. He only leaned close until she could feel his breath against her ear.

"You will be my wife," he whispered. "I promise you that."

Her heart leaped, and she cursed the fact.

Then, very abruptly, he set her at arm's length. "In the meantime I have work to do. Perhaps later you will join me for a cup of tea." Then he stepped away all too calmly, striding through the doorway to his office.

Unsettled, she blinked as she regained her composure. "Don't count on it!" she called after him with a frustrated growl.

He had the audacity to chuckle.

As promised, Grayson set out to win her with a possessive assurance that both intrigued her and made her uneasy. He wooed her as if he had all the time in the world, assured that in the end he would have her.

In turn, Sophie set out to let him know that he wouldn't.

But regardless of her determination, he seemed even more intent, simply shrugging his shoulders and smiling during those times she played raucous music whenever a client appeared. He didn't so much as blink when she indeed painted the library a tawdry shade of red. Did little more than cringe when the all-too-efficient Miss Pruitt packed up her desk and quit in no uncertain terms. And when she and her friends had a drunken champagne-and-caviar party, Grayson had merely taken a fluted glass, toasted the group, then left for the hotel after the simple request that they not burn the house down.

It seemed that the more outrageous her actions, the more convinced he was that he was winning.

Sophie assured herself that he wasn't.

On the fifth day of Grayson's pursuit, it had been a quiet morning when Sophie sat down to play. It was cold outside, and a fire burned brightly on the hearth, warming the room. She had dressed in a rich pink ostrich-feather-and-velvet lounging ensemble with matching ostrich-feather mules, more suited for a bordello than a drawing room.

Just when she started warming up for a new piece that had been adapted from the popular opera
The Fairy Queen
, which she wanted to add to her repertoire, Deandra walked into the room.

"I've decided to make a few changes to the show," Sophie stated, halting the bow in midstroke.

"Really?"

Sophie leaned back. "I see an even bigger event, with more flash and greater sparkle." She ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth, then smiled impishly. "Even some men."

"Some men?" Margaret asked, entering behind Deandra.

"Just one or two. One to hold my chair, another to hand me my cello. Big, handsome men. We'll dress them in fine woolen trousers—just a little too tight—and fine silk shirts. I see it as an extravaganza, the likes of which Boston has never seen before."

"The likes of which the Ringling Brothers Circus has never seen," Margaret lamented, shaking her head.

"As long as you're going for big," Deandra said, "why don't we shoot you out of a cannon, then those men of yours could catch you and present you to the audience like a gift."

Sophie laughed. Margaret groaned.

Deandra tapped her cheek with the end of a pencil in consideration. "You know, we actually could—"

"I will not be shot out of a cannon. Even I have my limits. I just want to make sure that there is no mistake about what kind of a show I perform."

"Like there will be one iota of doubt the minute you drop the cape from your shoulders?" Deandra eyed her. "What is this about? You are already daring enough that you should offer smelling salts at intermission instead of champagne. Why do you need an extravaganza?"

Sophie sniffed and studied her nails. "Because I want Grayson Hawthorne to have an apoplectic fit when he witnesses his bride-to-be in action."

"I thought you were going to take him to court."

"I will if I have to. But it occurred to me last night that a court case could drag on for years. And the fact is, Gray-son just thinks he wants to marry me. Just like Bostonians think they want me to perform for them. They want me now because my photograph has been in magazines and they hear I'm famous."

Deandra nodded slowly in dawning understanding. "But once they see you perform, carried out by a bunch of brawny men…"

She would gain her freedom.

But at what cost?

She shook the thought away. She would not marry, nor would she lose Swan's Grace. She would fight for her independence and her home. She would do battle for the two things her soul depended on. She would fight for the life her mother had given her.

And if by the time the concert arrived Grayson Hawthorne hadn't already thrown up his hands in defeat over her tactics to run him off, he would start running the minute he saw her play. The very proper man would back out of the betrothal so fast heads would spin. Then she would let
him
out of the contract, just as soon as he returned Swan's Grace.

"Just tell me what you want me to do," Deandra said. "In fact, we might get some ideas in New York. I heard Lily Langtree is singing at Carnegie Hall at the end of February. Henry suggested we take the train down and see her show."

A trip? On a train? A trip that would cost money? Sophie's stomach fluttered.

"I can't," Margaret said.

Thank God
, Sophie thought, her sigh of relief seeping out of her like air from a child's balloon.

Margaret and Deandra eyed her curiously.

"Don't mind me, I was just yawning." Then she did just that, stretching extravagantly. "Why can't you go, Maggie?"

Margaret's brown eyes filled with barely contained excitement. "Because that's the week my cousin Lucinda invited me to the country. Apparently most of the family will be there. You don't mind if I go, do you?"

Sophie's thoughts shifted completely, away from money problems and to Margaret. "Mind?" She squeezed Margaret's hand. "I'm thrilled for you. I know how much this invitation means to you."

Eventually Deandra left the room, as did Margaret. Once she was alone, Sophie's mind was filled with mixed emotions, the past and the present—with what her life had been and what it would be when this was all over. It would be the same, she told herself, the same life that she had loved. Traveling, concerts. And once she regained Swan's Grace, she would spend the off season at her home with her friends around her. Money would no longer be a problem. They could come and go as they pleased. Life would be exciting and full. It would be, she told herself firmly when doubt flared.

Perhaps she would become like Isabella Gardner, with her risqué art and extravagant parties. Once Boston got over the shock of the wealthy woman, they had embraced her with open arms.

Encouraged by her plan, she noticed her hands had started moving of their own volition, her fingers and bow finding notes that she hadn't played in years. Startled by the unexpected direction, she forced herself back to the familiar strands of
The Waltz of Swans
.

But before she realized it, she sought out a G, then tumbled down to a D with a smooth, rolling bow gesture back and forth across the top three strings. The prelude of Bach's First Cello Suite in G Major.

Could
she have done it?

Could she have ultimately triumphed had she been given the debut recital at the Music Hall?

Had she taken the easy way out when she started to play the provocative popular pieces instead?

Had Niles Prescott been right about her all those years ago when he didn't give her the show?

She brought her hand away as if she had been burned, the bow knocking against the table from her haste. The truth was, she had played the opening bars of Bach, and it had sounded perfect. Even she recognized the brilliant color, the perfect tone.

She listened for a moment, confirming that the house was silent. Deandra and Margaret had returned upstairs. No one would hear.

Taking a deep breath, she ran through the first bar again. Her hand began to tremble, tears burned in her eyes. Years tumbled back, and she could practically feel her mother's presence in the room.

"Do you understand, Mother?" she whispered. "Do you understand what I am doing and why? You were my tie to Boston, and you're not here anymore. But I need Swan's Grace, I need to know it's here and it's mine."

Outside, the dormant rosebushes stood strong against the cold wind, while the long, bare branches of a willow swayed like a dancer.

But the room remained still, offering no response.

She leaned back in the chair, the hardwood trim biting into her back. Her mother was gone, there would be no answers.

Jerking forward, she returned the bow to the strings and concentrated on
The Waltz of Swans
. One bar, two. The notes easy and lyrical. But it wouldn't flow. The notes coming from the cello tangled with the notes in her head. G-D-B… A-B-D-B-D. Notes from the Bach that demanded her attention.

Sharply she lowered the bow, and she would have left the room altogether if the music hadn't wrapped around her. Like a promise? Or a curse?

With her hand still trembling, she glanced one last furtive time toward the stairs, then gave in to the pull and started to play. G-D-B… A-B-D-B-D. The same section, again and again, until she leaped off and continued on, playing with her eyes closed. Dreaming. Hoping. Feeling each note like a mother wishing for a child.

She didn't think; she played as she had when she was young. She lost herself to the sound, the sweet, resonant vibration of the chords against her body as she worked the suite as if she had played it only yesterday. She played so intently that she didn't hear the front door open, didn't hear the booted steps coming through the doorway. She didn't hear anything until she stopped as she came to the end.

"God, that was incredible."

Her head popped up, the bow slicing crazily down the strings as she jumped in surprise. "Grayson."

"Hello." A beautiful smile pulled at his full lips.

She stared at him, trying to focus, her heart pounding as much from the music as from his unexpected arrival. The promise of the Bach and Grayson's handsome form standing there was almost too much to take.

"What was that you were playing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she stated, laying the bow carefully across the table.

"It didn't sound like nothing. I've never heard it before."

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's just the opening notes of a Bach cello suite."

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "I didn't know Bach wrote suites for the cello."

"There are six of them, though not many people are aware they exist. In fact, for years the person who found them thought they were little more than bowing exercises. How wrong they were."

"Do you play them in your concerts?"

"Good heavens, no," she said too quickly.
Calm down
, she told herself.

"Why not?"

Calm was elusive, and her palms grew sweaty. "Because they're a bore."

She hated the way he considered her, looking at her as if he could see into her soul.

"Then what do you play?" he asked.

"A bit of this, a bit of that. All pieces my audiences adore. Why are you here?"

Grayson could tell she was trying to change the subject. But he let her. He had no idea why the stunning music she had been playing when he walked into the house would bring a stain to her cheeks when she was asked about it.

He had heard the sound as he walked up the road after having spent the morning in court. He had approached from Berkeley Street and had seen her through the side window as he drew near. He had easily spotted her hair, like a golden flame. Standing before her now, he saw her beauty like a lick of fire. With her hair neither blond nor brown, and her startlingly vivid eyes, it was easy to see traces of her Norman descendants—warriors who fought brutally for what they wanted.