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.
Chapter Fourteen
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,” Grayson 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.
A discreet knock sounded at the front door. She started to ignore it, though she quickly realized that it could prove to be a much needed interruption. Perhaps one of Grayson’s clients. A suitor. Maybe even an old friend. Anyone would do just then.
But when she pulled open the door, Sweetie limping along at her side, she stopped cold. A well-dressed man and a little boy stood at the threshold. For half a second their faces were serious, but in the next, the boy cried out and fell to his knees. The dog whimpered and hobbled forward, straight into the boy’s arms.
“Goldie!” the boy cheered, before he sobered and took in the animal. “What happened to you?”
Sophie could hardly think, much less speak. And the quaking inside her started again.
The little boy buried his face in Sweetie’s neck, and Sophie could feel his tears and her own.
“Oh, Goldie,” he cried, his voice muffled.
“Do you know this dog?” she asked needlessly.
The man stepped forward and extended his hand. “I am Norville Green. This is my son, Danny, and we saw your notice posted about Goldie. Dear God, what happened to her?”
“I’m not sure,” she barely managed. “She was hurt when I found her a few houses away from here.”
The man shook his head. “We were having a picnic in the park when she ran off chasing a squirrel. When she didn’t return we searched for hours. My son has been despondent ever since.” He knelt down before Sweetie. “From the looks of her, it’s amazing that she survived.” He glanced up. “How can we thank you for caring for her?”
The pounding tightened her throat. Silly, she told herself, it was only a dog. Not her dog. She had told herself that again and again.
“No need to thank me. I’m just glad to see that Sweet— I mean, Goldie, has so
meone to love her and care for her.”
Reluctant to let her go, but knowing she could do nothing else, she lowered herself to her knees. Sweetie seemed torn between the little boy and her, going back and forth as best as she could.
Sophie made it easier. She gave the dog a quick, hard hug, then pushed up. “Well, I’m glad you found her. Perhaps you’ll come by once in a while.”
The door shut behind them, and Sophie leaned back against the hard wood, feeling it press along her spine. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Not knowing what else to do, she walked inside Grayson’s office and sat in his chair, pressing against the leather, imagining it was him.
She felt caged inside by more than rain. Even the thought of a gala masquerade party didn’t ease her mind. She felt alone, giving her too much time to think.
What was she doing?
Did she really want to go back to the life she was leading in Europe?
She gave a hard shake of her head. Europe had been good to her. Loving her. Wanting her in a way that she had never been wanted before.
Though Boston seemed to want her now. The callers. The flowers. The endless invitations. Didn’t they?
She cursed the insecurity, cursed the fact that mere weeks in this town could make her feel like time had stopped, then circled back to when she was different from everyone else—hearing music in her head, hearing it once and knowing it by heart, her mother telling her she was special. Everyone else hating her because of it. The desire to play with other children, ordinary children’s games, but her mother saying she might hurt her hands.
How many times had she cursed the fact that she was a prodigy, wishing she were like every other child she met? But even she understood that she was different. She might have longed for a doll, but she hadn’t had any interest in playing with one. Hopscotch, checkers, jacks? No interest. Chess? Maybe. But music? Notes and measures, rests and interpretations? All of these had fascinated her for as long as she could remember. And because of that, the other children had thought her strange.
Swan's Grace Page 19