Swan's Grace (21 page)

But that peace and satisfaction was short-lived, as she had been betrothed to Bradford Hawthorne already.

The two-seater snared in traffic, and they came to a complete halt. Shouts and curses rang out as each carriage and driver jockeyed for the right of way. Impatient, Emma-line grabbed the speaking tube and informed the driver that she was getting out.

Before he could say no, she hopped down onto the cobbled street, handed him some change from her reticule, then picked her way through the horses and carriages. She didn't stop until she arrived at the barn-roofed store at the corner of Washington and School streets. With her heart in her throat, she walked in through the door.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they did it appeared that no one was there. She walked further inside, the smell of musty old books filling her with memories of another time. Closing her eyes, she felt the bittersweet memories of the past. How had things turned out so differently?

"Em?"

She blinked and saw him. So tall. Still so handsome, his graying hair only adding to his good looks.

"I'm glad you came."

Her spine stiffened and she held her beaded reticule close. "You didn't give me much choice."

Richard chuckled and tilted his head, conceding the point. "No, I didn't, did I?"

His frankness took the bite out of her anger, and she nearly smiled.
Dear, arrogant Richard
. He was still the same.

When they were young he had stepped into her life and all but demanded her attention. She had been engaged at the time, and she had ignored him for weeks. But he had persevered, coming to Andre's pottery house, talking to her while she worked, regardless of the fact that she hadn't responded. He had regaled her with stories of his life. Of his parents, whom he loved dearly. Of his siblings. And as the days mounted, she found she looked forward to his arrivals.

A month into his pursuit, things changed. His story that day had ceased midstream, then he had said, so simply, so purely, "I fell in love with you the first day I saw you."

Just that, on the heels of one of the many elaborate parties celebrating her betrothal, where Bradford had clearly been more interested in the other guests than in her. She had turned to look at Richard that day—and started down a path that had nearly destroyed her life.

The smells of clay and firing ovens seeped into her mind. And it was a moment before she remembered thirty-two years had passed.

Richard took her gloved hand, but she pulled it decidedly away.

"You're upset with me?" he said, his tone admonishing.

"Of course I'm upset. You had no right to put me in that kind of position. That note could have fallen into the wrong hands."

"You never did like ultimatums." He ran his finger along her sleeve. "And you always were beautiful when you were angry."

"Don't think you are going to charm your way out of this one. If my husband had read that note, there would be hell to pay."

Richard scowled. "Don't ruin a perfectly lovely day with talk of your husband. I try my best to forget that he exists."

"If you think for a second that I'm going to forget that fact, you are sadly mistaken."

"
Tsk
, such a waste. But enough about that. I have a surprise for you."

"I'm not interested in a surprise."

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain that you don't want to see the first-edition Jamesian sonnets I found?"

Her eyes widened.

"I thought that might pique your interest."

She closed her expression. "I am not interested in sonnets."

"The volume includes 'The Raven's Love Song.' "

The title was like a knife to her chest. "Why?" she asked after long seconds had passed. "Why are you doing this to me? I'm no longer a silly young girl with dreams of fancy in her head."

His face grew serious. "I am doing this because I have never forgotten you."

This time it was Emmaline's turn to scoff. "Tell some other gullible woman your stories. I'm no longer that naive."

"Oh, Em." He reached for her hand, and when she pulled away, he bowed his head and conceded. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"Sorry!"

The clerk had appeared from a back room and now sat on a tall stool behind a counter. The young man's head popped up at her outburst.

"Sorry?" she said in a hiss.

Richard took her elbow, and before she could think, he guided her out of the store and onto School Street.

"What are you doing?" she demanded when he steered her along, hardly noticing the cold.

"We need to talk, and we can't with so many people around."

"We have nothing to discuss. Furthermore, I have no intention of being alone with you."

He stopped and turned to face her, his features suddenly serious. He looked at her for an eternity, just looked, before he dropped his gaze and studied the hand that he held, stroking the gloved surface with his thumb. "I never forgot you. I tried. God, how I tried. You have to believe me." His thumb ceased its motion and he glanced at her. "I truly am sorry that I hurt you. But I had to go," he whispered. "I really did. And now that I've seen you again, I can't believe I ever left."

Her throat tightened.

"Just talk to me. I ask nothing else. We'll go to a cafe, or a park bench, or somewhere out of the way where people you know won't see you. But please, Emmaline, don't run away from me again."

She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy from the sound of kind words washing over her. How long had it been since someone had spoken to her as if they cared? How long had it been since someone sought her out? Her husband wanted no part of her.

Was this destined to happen, that Richard would return? Would everything have been different if Bradford had been kind to her this morning?

She didn't know; she only found herself walking by the man's side, the straining winter sun wrapping around them, tinting them in a muted gold, making her feel years younger. And she couldn't deny the bubble of excitement that sprang up inside her.

It was horrible and wrong. She knew that. And she told herself she would catch a hansom cab at the next block and return home. But block after block she allowed herself to be guided along, Richard's hand on her elbow, the touch proper, but not.

He was bold, his fingers on her sleeved arm as intimate as a passionate kiss.

"Tell me about your life," he said, steering her around a puddle in the street.

"There is nothing to tell."

"Of course there is. Tell me about your concerns." He looked down at her. "About your dreams."

And oddly she did. They walked for more blocks than she cared to count. With each step they moved farther away from downtown, farther away from the life she had been born to lead.

"You've certainly done your share of charity work, and clearly you love your sons," he said when her words trailed off. "But what have you done for yourself?"

The question startled her. She hadn't thought about doing anything for herself. Not in years, until she returned to her sculpting.

He must have sensed her confusion. "Tell me, Em, what do you like? What do you want just for you?"

She couldn't answer. Not because she didn't want to, but because she realized she didn't know how. She knew what her husband wanted, and her sons. She knew what her friends and the community wanted. She had spent a lifetime seeing to those needs. But in all that time no one had asked what she wanted, what she cared about. For the first time in years she felt pursued and desired, cherished and interesting. She put from her mind what she was doing, slipping away and meeting this man.

"You want to sculpt again," he said. "Why else would you have contacted Andre Springfield?" He glanced down at her. "Unless you contacted him because you really had hoped to see me."

She shot him a scowl. "I wanted to sculpt."

"Then why don't you go more often?"

"It is so hard to get away."

"You deserve that. You deserve to think about yourself for a change. And if it's hard to get away, why don't you have a tutor come into your home? Women of good families do it all the time."

A bud of excitement swelled inside her at the thought. Would Bradford allow it?

"I could come to your house and teach you."

She whirled to face him. "Good God, no!"

Richard chuckled, then feigned an innocent look. "Now, Emmaline, I wouldn't cause a single problem."

"Just as you didn't cause a single problem this morning by sending me that note."

He didn't even have the good grace to look abashed. He only chuckled more, his wide smile and white teeth flashing in the sunlight.

"All right, so perhaps it's not a good idea that I come to your house. But go to Andre's more often. Forget about me. Do this for yourself, for Emmaline Abbot."

"Hawthorne," she corrected sharply.

"Ah, but you were once Emmaline Abbot, a beautiful girl who loved as no other."

"Emmaline Abbot, the girl you left without so much as a word."

"You always were a stickler for details."

He propelled her along the walkway, stopping to buy her a hot cocoa and then a brown wrapper filled with candy.

"Do you remember the time we took the trolley out to Brookline?" he asked.

"No," she said too sharply.

"I think you do."

"Well, maybe a little." A reluctant smile surfaced.

"You danced around without your slippers, as I recall."

She felt the surge of color in her cheeks. "I was a foolish girl."

He turned her to face him, surprising her. "You were a beautiful young woman." His hands slid up her arms, his thumbs brushing her collarbones. "You still are beautiful," he added, his voice growing gruff. "Very beautiful." His gaze drifted to her lips.

Her breath caught and her eyes drifted low. How easy it would be to lean close, to feel a man's lips on hers. How many years had it been since she had been kissed? And was this desire that she felt really about Richard, or was it simply due to a lack of love?

"I thought of you often," he whispered, his hand drifting up to her face, cupping her cheek. "I wondered what you were doing with your life, if you were happy or sad." His thumbs brushed her skin. "I don't want to lose you again."

He leaned forward, and she knew that he was going to kiss her. Would it still feel the same? Would he still make her yearn?

Her heart pounded, but at the same time her mind cried out a frantic warning.

"Do you want me, too?" he asked.

With a cry, she jerked away. "No!"

He very gently took her hand. "Yes, I think you do. But not yet." He raised her hand and kissed her palm.

She pulled away as if she had been burned.

"I've waited this long, Emmaline, but I won't wait much longer."

She turned away sharply and lifted the hem of her gown. Then she rushed down the granite walk and never looked back.

The carriage stopped at the busy juncture of Atlantic Avenue and India Street. Earlier, just as Grayson had motioned to a hired hack, he had caught sight of a woman slipping out of Hawthorne House. A mix of foreboding and anger had sliced through him, and he had followed.

But following wasn't so easily done. He had lost the carriage in traffic soon after leaving Beacon Street. Grayson had told the driver to continue on, up and down the curving streets, with no success. But just when he would have given up, he was certain he saw her. With a man.

Stepping down from the carriage, Grayson tossed the driver a coin, then started walking. He crossed the street, weaving through drays and horses, craning his neck when a carriage blocked his view, gilt lettering announcing a delivery service.

Frustrated, he barely waited for the wagon to pass before he continued across the cobbles, and found that his mother was gone. Only the man remained.

Before Grayson reached the other side, he was blocked again, this time by a vendor pushing his cart. And when his path was free, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Blood rushed through Grayson's temples as he started to run. He darted from person to person, trying to see their faces, finally grabbing a man from behind.

"Hey, what are ya doing?" the tall stranger demanded.

Grayson realized in an instant that he had the wrong man, and he let go as if burned.

Out of breath, Grayson stood in the middle of the shipping district, an ominously dark sky brewing overhead, pedestrians parting as they walked around him, giving no notice to the fact that he stood there with eyes wild and wide open.

Both the man and his mother had disappeared like smoke in the wind, just as it started to rain.

Grayson arrived at Swan's Grace, his thoughts in turmoil. After leaving India Street, he had returned to Hawthorne House. At first there had been a flutter of confusion when he asked to see his mother.

"She's busy, Mr. Hawthorne," said a maid at the same time as another offered, "She's in bed, Mr. Hawthorne."

The women grew flustered. "We mean… we mean… your mother is busy going to bed."

His mood had darkened even more.

During the ride from the docks, he had convinced himself that he only thought he had seen his mother. He hadn't seen the woman's face. It could have been anyone. But with the flustered confusion, he had grimly concluded that it had been Emmaline Hawthorne.

His forbidding thoughts had been interrupted when a few minutes later she descended the stairs in "at home" attire, her lady's maid seeming to breathe a sigh of relief when she appeared. Without preamble, he had asked her if she had been to the harbor. She laughed, perhaps too loudly, then dismissed his claim that he had seen her, explaining that she had been home all day.

Was that the truth? Why would she lie? And if she hadn't been home all day, why would his mother, a woman beyond reproach, meet a man not her husband on a bad side of town?

Grayson slammed the front door of Swan's Grace shut, his boot heels ringing on the foyer floor. At the sound, Sophie's dog appeared around the corner, stretching as if she had been asleep. "Sophie," he called out.

He needed to see her, like a palliative to his racing thoughts. He didn't like thinking about his feelings for Sophie. The desire, intense and raging, was like nothing he had ever experienced before, as if he couldn't survive without her. This woman was driving him nearly as insane as his mother was.

"Sophie," he demanded, his voice echoing against the marble and high ceilings.

But no one came. The house appeared to be empty except for the dog. He swore softly.

He had work to do, and he told himself to go to his office, but he couldn't still his mind. Grayson strode from room to room, Sophie's pet hobbling along at his side, limping awkwardly. Grayson searched but found nobody. Sophie clearly wasn't at home.

He had an important social engagement he needed to attend that evening, and his closet at the hotel was empty, the clothes that had accumulated in a pile beside the wardrobe finally taken to a washerwoman to be cleaned. But he had plenty of clothes upstairs.

As he headed back to the foyer, the dog continued to follow along. Grayson stopped and looked down. The dog looked back. They were a sight. He knew it. Two pathetic, mismatched souls.

"Go on," he said, motioning toward the kitchen.

The dog merely cocked her head, then followed after him as he continued on.

Grayson started up the stairs, but was stopped by a struggling sound. Glancing back, he saw the dog trying to make it up the stairs. Trying. Wishing. Needing to be saved.

An ache swelled inside Grayson and he grumbled. But when the dog stopped, stood there panting, and looked up at him with those big brown eyes, Grayson could only hang his head and curse again, then he marched down the steps.

"You are as maddening as Sophie," he said more harshly than he felt. Then he scooped up the mutt and started back up the stairs, muttering the whole way.

Not three steps up, however, the knocker announced someone's arrival. He marched back down, set the dog carefully on the floor, then pulled the front door open at the very moment the knocker sounded again.

"Well, well, well," a man said, "have you given up the law and become a butler?"

A reluctant smile curved Grayson's lips. "Lucas," he said, reaching out to shake his youngest brother's hand.

Lucas smiled, avoided his hand, and pulled him into a firm, nearly bone-crushing embrace.

"How have you been?" Grayson asked, standing back to look at Lucas. "More to the point, where have you been? I haven't seen you in ages."

"Here and there." Lucas shrugged.

"Come in."

"I can't stay. I'm in a hurry."

Lucas Hawthorne was a tall man, as tall as Grayson, with the same dark hair and broad build. The biggest difference was in their eyes. Lucas's were startlingly blue, just like their father's.

Grayson was striking, but Lucas looked like the rake he was, handsome, with a devilish smile pulling at his lips.

He owned the infamous Nightingale's Gate, Boston's very own exclusive gentleman's club. Dancing, drinking, gambling, all in the finest surroundings. To gain entrance to the elegant confines, a man had to have money, and lots of it. Grayson knew that men wanted to gain admittance in droves.

The youngest Hawthorne was gaining a reputation as much for Nightingale's Gate as for the fact that he was the errant son of the blue-blooded Hawthorne clan. Rarely did a family that dripped such respectability have a son who owned an infamous establishment. Or if they did have such a relative, they kept the unfortunate fact concealed.

And that was just what Bradford Hawthorne had tried to do, only to be thwarted by his youngest offspring, who took great pleasure in letting all the world know about the life he led. Bradford hated him for that as much as anything. But everyone knew the sentiment was returned, in spades.

Grayson knew all this, as well. He had tried to bring the two men together, had tried to get them to talk. But each was as stubborn and tight-lipped about what had caused the rift as the other.

Lucas pulled out a beautifully wrought engraved invitation on thick vellum. The most proper of Boston matriarchs couldn't have done better. "This is for you."

Grayson read it quickly. "A masquerade," he stated, shaking his head, "at Nightingale's Gate." His countenance grew stern. "Is this wise?"

"Come on, big brother," Lucas cajoled, amused when he should have been chastened. "You'll be surprised to find how many people you know attend my annual event."

"Sounds like the perfect opportunity for the Boston police to fill their jail cells."

Lucas only laughed, then glanced down. "Who's this?" he asked, clearly surprised at the sight of the dog leaning up against Grayson's perfectly creased flannel pant leg.

At the sight of Sophie's pet, Grayson looked as surprised as his brother. "A new addition to the household," he grumbled.

The dog wagged her tail and panted.

Lucas dropped to his haunches and ran his fingers through the scattered tufts of fur. "You look like you've been around the block a time or two, and met up with some mean sorts, my friend."

"The dog was all but dead when Sophie found her," Gray-son explained, remembering the feel of those shuddering breaths against his chest, hardly aware that he spoke.

Lucas looked confused as he straightened. "Sophie?"

Grayson refocused his attention. "Yes, Sophie. She's back."

"Little Sophie Wentworth. And Sophie has a dog." Lucas laughed out loud, then studied his brother. "Actually, you look fit to be tied. Don't tell me it's because of a dog."

"If you really must know, it's Sophie who is driving me to distraction. But that's beside the point."

Lucas laughed harder at this. "Sophie always did have the ability to stir things up. God, I haven't seen her in ages. Does she look the same? Hair wild with tangles, and eyes much too big for her face? And those ruffles. Tell me she doesn't still wear so many ruffles that she looks like a sheep."

Grayson's lips quirked fondly. "No, she hardly looks like a sheep. She's grown into a beautiful woman."

"I'd like to see her."

"Unless you're willing to come by for dinner sometime, I don't see the opportunity arising. You certainly won't see her at Nightingale's Gate."

Lucas laughed. "Why not? Bring her to the masquerade tonight. No one will know it's you."

"No one will know it's me because it won't be."

Lucas laughed out loud. "One of these days I'm going to get you there, big brother."

After Lucas left, Grayson stood in the doorway for several minutes until he heard the dog whimpering at his side. Without thinking, he tossed the invitation on the foyer table, then lowered himself to his haunches. "What is it, girl?"

The dog whimpered and burrowed her head against Grayson's thigh. Despite himself, he chuckled and ruffled the dog's fur. "You want some attention, do you? Unfortunately, I've got to run. But first I need a suit."

He started for the steps, but this time when the dog started to follow, Grayson held his hand out and said, "Stay." And the dog did.

"You clearly were trained by someone, my friend. But by whom? Do you have a family who is looking for you?"

The dog cocked her head, then sank down onto the tile floor as Grayson headed up the stairs.

Sophie returned, slipping inside the house just before it started to rain. Her cheeks were pink and her hands ached from the cold. She'd have to warm them thoroughly before she could play.

As she pulled off her hat, she was surprised to find Sweetie lying patiently in the foyer. Sweetie, as she had begun to call the dear animal, had improved greatly, but she still had a difficult time.

A second set of notices for the animal had been posted, and not a single person had shown up to lay claim. Though she had promised herself she wouldn't become attached, she knew she had. Each night Sweetie slept in her room, and each morning the dog followed her downstairs to hear her practice. Like a shadow. Like a constant. Like someone who really loved her, for herself, regardless of how she looked or how she played.

Sophie closed her eyes and didn't understand the tears that burned, the sense of love and healing, of hope. Never in her life had she had something of her own to love. Her cello didn't count, because an instrument couldn't love her back. And while she loved her entourage, she knew it wasn't the same. They liked her, had come to care for her, perhaps. But the fact was that the minute she couldn't pay their salaries, her
friends
would be gone.

"Have you been waiting for me this whole time?" she asked, setting her hat aside.

Sweetie rolled over to be petted. Sophie laughed and obliged. "Just for a bit, then I really, really have to practise." For days she had played very little. It was as if she could hardly make the bow move over the strings. Every time she launched into
The Waltz of Swans
or even
The Love Nest
her hand wavered, and the next thing she knew she was daydreaming about performing Bach.

Straightening abruptly, she peeled off her coat and tossed it aside, then tugged her gloves from her hands and set them on the foyer table. A thick invitation caught her attention.

The weather was getting worse, and she heard the rain start to pour down from the pewter gray sky. Sophie wished she had gone with her friends to New York after all. Money be damned.

She hated the rain. Always had.

She needed something to do—besides attempt to practice.

With a flicker of excitement, she opened the envelope and found an invitation to a masquerade ball at a place called Nightingale's Gate. Most every day she received invitations to some event or another. But nothing sounded as deliciously decadent as a masquerade ball. Just the thing to brighten her mood.