Swan's Grace (23 page)

He sighed and wrapped her in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said, his voice so gentle it made her ache.

"It's just a dog." She bit her lower lip. "I had started to call her Sweetie."

"The perfect name for a dog you loved." He brushed his lips against her forehead. "I'm sorry, Sophie. If you want, we'll get a new one."

"I don't want a new dog! And I'm fine, completely fine." She swallowed hard.

He kissed her eyelids, then pulled her head beneath his chin. "You're not fine. You'll never forget Sweetie. And she'll never forget you."

A second passed. "Do you think?" she asked softly.

"You, Sophie Wentworth, are unforgettable." He kissed the top of her head. "There is a party I am attending at a client's house. Come with me. Then tonight we will drink a toast to Sweetie."

"Sorry, I already have plans."

"What plans?"

Her mind raced to come up with something. The last thing she needed to do was go anywhere with Grayson. Then it came to her. "I have an invitation to attend a party of my own." The masquerade.

"No doubt from one of your slew of admirers," he grumbled.

She smiled. "No doubt."

"Cancel," he stated autocratically, then headed for the door. "I'll return for you at eight."

It was nearly eight that night, and soon Grayson would be arriving at Swan's Grace to escort Sophie to his party. Only Sophie wouldn't be there to greet him.

Masked and costumed for the masquerade ball, she stood at the ornately gated entrance that led to the establishment called Nightingale's Gate.

It felt deliciously decadent, and her mood began to brighten.

The rain had stopped, but the night was still cold and the sky was still ominous. Sophie wrapped her black satin cape around herself more tightly.

Despite the opulent walkway, the town house itself looked respectable and unassuming. Though based on the attendees who had passed by her so far, she surmised that this was not a party meant for proper Boston matrons seeking a bit of innocent costumed fun.

Of course, that gave it all the more appeal.

She could just imagine the scowl on Grayson's face if he found out she had attended. After a long, bad day, it was that thought more than her desire to mingle with this crowd which sealed her fate.

Because of that, any chance of her doing the smart thing and returning to Swan's Grace was banished.

Securing her demimask on her face and easing her knotted grip on the long cape and hood, Sophie gathered her skirts and was swept up in the crush of guests entering the receiving room of Nightingale's Gate.

Once she was inside, her slowly budding delight grew. While the anteroom looked circumspect and respectable, the receiving room was anything but. The paintings alone would make a grown man blush.

And the women. By now they had shed their wraps, revealing gowns that left little to the imagination. With her long, hooded cape that she refused to relinquish, Sophie was by far the most modestly dressed woman in attendance. Wouldn't Henry and Deandra have a laugh over that fact, had they been there.

"Your invitation please."

A deep voice sounded at her side. When she turned, she found a man dressed like a velvet-clad courtier, his gloved hand extended. She hadn't been able to find the invitation anywhere when she looked for it as she was leaving. No telling where she had set it.

Hoping for the best, she glanced at the man's extended hand, then offered her own in greeting and smiled.

The man, however, was not amused. "Your invitation," he reiterated.

Obviously the polite, amusing route wasn't going to work. So she pulled back her shoulders, raised her chin, looked down her nose, and said, "I didn't bring it."

He only smiled blandly, and said, "Then you don't get in." He turned to a couple who entered behind her.

The thought of going home—or worse yet, going to Grayson's proper party—pushed her on. "I was invited," she stated imperiously. She had been, though by whom she had no idea.

For the first time the man seemed uncertain, and he peered at her more closely. But before he could speak, another man stepped forward.

At the sight, Sophie's heart slowed. The man wore a black cape and black half mask, looking for all the world like Lucifer from the underworld—the devil himself in unrelieved black. But it wasn't his clothes that startled her. It was his eyes, deep blue, peering out at the world from beneath the mask, spoiling his underworld image.

She felt a moment of unbalance, as if she should know this man.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked politely.

His voice melted over her, familiar somehow, but she couldn't imagine how she would know him.

"Madam," he repeated, "is there a problem?"

Sophie mentally shook herself. "My question exactly," she stated crisply.

The courtier-thug shifted his weight from foot to foot. "She doesn't have a… I wasn't sure…"Then he stopped.

The newly arrived man glanced at Sophie, a smile pulling at the full lips that were revealed from beneath his mask. "You seem to have taken the words right out of his mouth. No small feat considering Brutus is not a man to deal with lightly. But surely you understand that his… concern is derived from the fact that at a party such as this—"

"A party that I was invited to," she interjected, her tone bold and confident. "Though little did I know I would be treated like a common criminal upon arriving."

At this Lucifer threw back his head and laughed out loud. "A woman after my own heart," he said, his blue eyes glittering appreciatively. "Not to worry, Brutus. I'll see to our guest."

Indeed, the devil man escorted Sophie into the grand ballroom. An orchestra played at the front of the room, the music resounding off the walls, washing over her—a seductive Strauss waltz called "Wine, Women, and Song." A good choice considering the event. Men in masks, women with covered faces and dazzling headdresses.

The man handed her a glass of champagne that seemed to appear from nowhere.

"Lovely," she said as she took the shallow crystal, then sipped.

The man eyed her speculatively, his eyes studying her.

"Tell me," he said, "do I know you?"

"No, never met."
Drat
. She glanced at him furtively, wondering if perhaps they had.

"You seem familiar."

"Since I'm wearing a mask," she answered, "how could that be? Given your disguise, I'm sure I wouldn't recognize you if you sat next to me in the Public Gardens tomorrow."

Lucifer placed his hand over his heart and chuckled. "You wound me deeply, madam. Am I so forgettable? I know I would never forget someone as lovely as you."

Sophie smiled, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, welcoming the velvet feel of champagne slipping through her limbs.

"But enough of that," he said. "I agree you shall remain anonymous. At least for now. I have always loved a mystery."

She declined another glass of champagne. One was her limit. Then Lucifer pulled her into a dance. He led her around the hardwood floor as if they moved in a dream. He held her close, too close, and she had the sudden thought of Grayson. Grayson held her like this. Grayson's voice rumbled the same way. Somehow this devilish man reminded her of a man who wouldn't be caught dead in a place like Nightingale's Gate.

Sophie chuckled at the thought.

"What is so funny?" her host asked, whispering against her ear.

"You remind me of a man I know who is the very picture of propriety."

"How so?" he demanded, his voice rumbling in his chest as he leaned forward to brush his lips boldly across her neck.

She pushed back sharply, but he held her secure. She met his eyes. This man was not like most men she knew. He was like Grayson, not easily controlled with sultry looks and bold words.

She looked at him as he expertly turned her around the floor, her heart pounding harder. "Just like that. The way you… kissed me. The way you hold me, the way you talk. It makes you seem so like Gray—" She cut herself off. "It makes you seem like the other man."

She would have sworn the devil man stiffened. But when she looked more closely, a smile still pulled at his lips.

Seconds later the waltz ended and he guided her to the side. She told herself that the hand which led her was not as suddenly forceful as it seemed, and that his laughter had not grown forbiddingly dangerous.

A footman brought her yet another glass of champagne, and this time she took it gratefully. When she turned back, her host was deep in conversation with the courtier from the door. When they broke apart, Brutus hurried from the room.

Sophie started to excuse herself, suddenly thinking better of spending too much time with the likes of Lucifer, but just then a new man with a patch over his eye and an odd, hooked contraption covering his hand approached.

"Might I have this dance?" Captain Hook asked.

But it was the devil who answered. "No," he said curtly, then he pulled her back onto the dance floor, the crystal chandelier glistening overhead.

Grayson needed a woman.

He needed to sink his flesh between the legs of a willing female and purge all thought from his mind. But that was the problem. The only woman he wanted was the very woman who was making him lose his mind.

Sophie.

He stood in the foyer of Swan's Grace and cursed the fact that it was empty. He had arrived early with a locksmith. It was long past time the broken lock was fixed. She had insisted that she would see to it, each time telling him someone was on their way. But still the lock remained broken, allowing anyone who dared to slip inside.

Grayson paced as the man finished his repair, but by the time it was done, the house was still empty. No doubt she wasn't there just to make him crazy.

His jaw cemented.
Damn Sophie and her fathomless eyes
.

Earlier he had considered taking a mistress to ease his need. Someone who understood. No strings, no ties.

His face grew grim. Everything had strings; nothing came without a price. Sophie, he decided, was costing him his sanity. And he hadn't even married her yet.

He bit back a curse. But soon she'd be his wife.

Not soon enough—or too soon?

He no longer knew.

"Mr. Hawthorne."

Grayson turned to find Lucas's right-hand man standing in the doorway. He couldn't have been more surprised to find the burly man standing in the foyer of Swan's Grace. Instantly he grew concerned. "What is it, Brutus?"

"Your brother would like to see you, sir."

"Tonight? Can't it wait?"

Brutus hesitated. "It's… an emergency. At Nightingale's Gate."

Nightingale's Gate was brightly lit when Grayson strode into the main ballroom wearing the long cape and half mask Brutus had provided at the door.

"Your brother insisted," Brutus had said.

"There you are," Lucas said heartily, clamping his hand on Grayson's shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," the younger man replied, though his smile was devilish. "I just hated to think you hadn't accepted my invitation."

Grayson eyed his brother closely. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved that nothing was wrong or perturbed at being dragged here for no reason. "I already have plans."

"Do you really?"

"I am escorting Sophie to the Tisdales' ball this evening."

"Ah, yes, Sophie. You mentioned she was back."

"What is this about, Lucas?"

The younger man chuckled. "Nothing, nothing. But tell me, how is your little Sophie doing?" Lucas asked unexpectedly.

Grayson glanced at him in question, suddenly suspicious. "Why do you ask?"

Lucas shrugged. "Just wondering. Earlier, you were a bit… out of sorts over her. Are you sure you're not really in love, big brother?"

Grayson couldn't have been more startled if he tried. Sophie had asked the same question. As if she believed the sentiment truly possible. Love? Did he love Sophie? Of course not. She would be his wife. A woman to have his children, make his home.

He tamped down the surge of unexpected emotion he couldn't afford, and drew his features into a sharp blank, then shot Lucas a cold look. "Getting fanciful in your old age, are you? I would think you'd be the last person to think about love—or even believe it was possible. And if you did think love possible, surely you don't think the sentiment worthwhile. Mother's love for our father certainly hasn't served her well."