Swan's Grace

by Linda Francis Lee

  She closed her eyes against the memories. But one memory wouldn’t be pushed away. Being four years old and Grayson, older than his years, defending her, then bending down on his knee and brushing her tears away, kissing her nose, then ruffling her hair when he sent her on her way. She had fallen in love with him that very moment, then had followed him around every chance she got.

  A click in the distance gained her attention. When she glanced out of the office, she caught sight of Grayson. He had opened the front door and stood there looking out into the rain, clothes of some kind held forgotten in his hand.

  Without warning she remembered the night she had found him with another woman. Seeing him there, naked Was he still so hard and strong? she wondered. Would she ever touch him so intimately?

  The thoughts shot through her mind before she could stop them as she took in the commanding planes of this handsome man. As usual, he wore a dark suit with a crisp white collar attached to his creaseless white shirt. But today she could just make out a paisley waistcoat, a hint that there was more to him than his austere exterior.

  He didn’t appear to know she was there. He stared out into the dreary day, much as she had earlier. His expression was different now, disturbed somehow. The arrogance was gone, though he looked every bit as commanding. Even lost in thought he seemed a force to be reckoned with.

  Carefully she tried to slip away.

  “I know you’re there.”

  “You have eyes in the back of your head, do you?”

  “More like those shoes of yours aren’t meant for stealth.”

  She looked down at her Louis mules with two-inch, fashionably curved heels. “So they aren’t.”

  Grayson turned slowly from the door, then leaned back against the casing as he took Sophie in. As always, her beauty hit him hard, her fiery soul burning beneath.

  “I have someone coming to fix the lock,” he said.

  She looked confused.

  “You know, the lock Henry broke when breaking into the house.”

  She only shrugged. “Who’s going to break in and steal your belongings?”

  He took in the length of her, slowly. “It’s not my papers and files that worry me.”

  He would have sworn she blushed. But if she did, she quickly recovered and sauntered into the foyer.

  “I’m bored,” she stated. “Why don’t you take me out for tea? Or better yet, take me dancing.”

  He would have smiled, but thoughts of his mother and Lucas concerned him.

  “I’m not in the mood for tea,” Grayson said, forcing his family from his mind. “And I doubt there is a dance hall in Boston open at this hour, not that I would take you to one if there were,” he stated, and even he could hear the sharpness in his tone.

  She raised a brow. “Tsk, tsk. You’re upset. Is my invitation too forward? Should my daddy have called your daddy to see if you could come out to play?”

  A smile sprang to his lips, and he set his suit aside and walked toward her. For every step he took, she took another one backward.

  “We can play, if you’d like,” he offered, one dark brow tilting devilishly. “Though I’m not sure we should ask your daddy.”

  There was no mistaking the red that surged in her cheeks this time.

  “Shouldn’t there be clients here?” she demanded.

  He stopped and groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten to tell me about another appointment.”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” she answered. “Though I have been taking messages for you all week.”

  Several steps later, she ended up behind his desk, he in front of it.

  “You mean you’ve started answering the door?” he asked.

  She sliced him a dry look. “How could I help it? It got easier to answer the knocking than to ignore it. People can be persistent. In fact, I think you’re more sought after now than ever before.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I think I’m a draw. And clearly I have a knack for this. Take that nice Mr. Cardwell as an example. You remember him, don’t you? I advised him on his divorcement.”

  “Yes, I remember. Did he come by to say he is suing me for malpractice?”

  She scoffed. “No. He patched up his differences with his wife, and his marriage is once again bliss—based on my advice. Proof that people don’t really want stodgy, pompous, boring types after all.”

  “You think they’d rather I be wild and outrageous, like you?”

  She shrugged. “I think they’d settle for an occasional smile.”

  His face darkened, all teasing and lightness gone, the awful, troubled look she had noticed when she first walked into the room resurfacing.

  She studied him, then couldn’t help the kind smile that pulled at her lips. “But he greatly appreciated your advice, as well. You are the most highly regarded lawyer in Boston.”

  “He said that?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Well, no, but you looked like you needed some kind words.”

  He looked at her in disbelief and shook his head.

  So much for cheering him up.

  “So tell me,” she said, her palms flat on the blotter, her eyes sparkling mischievously, “what’s the occasion?” She gestured toward his colorful waistcoat. “Do you have a date?”

  “I hardly think a date is appropriate, given that I’m betrothed to you.” He came around the desk.

  “So you keep saying.” She gave an unladylike snort.

  “Then why are you at Swan’s Grace now? You don’t appear to have any appointments. And you usually don’t show up here this late in the day.” Her lips tilted. “Isn’t it time for you to do something boring, like take a nap?”

  “If you’d like, we could go upstairs and crawl into bed together. Though I’m not sure I want to nap.”

  Sophie laughed appreciatively. “You really are getting good at this.”

  “I’ve resigned myself to long years of practice from now until death us do part. Speaking of which, we have to set the date for our wedding.”

  “I thought you said you were going to woo me.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “If that was wooing, I’d hate to see what not wooing is.” She waved her hand, dismissing him as if she didn’t believe for a second that he would marry her.

  “You will be my wife, Sophie.”

  “Really?” she asked, her voice suddenly low and smooth like molasses.

  Instantly Grayson was suspicious.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you want a wife who wears provocative clothes?” She walked around the desk to stand before him, her head tilting back to look him in the eyes. Then she slipped her hands under his lapels and rested her palms on his waistcoat. “A wife who wears feather boas?” She smiled provocatively, then, with a flick of her wrist, slid the feathers free and wrapped them around his neck.

  The motion caught them both by surprise. Suddenly, they were close. Sophie didn’t like the change at all— Grayson standing so near, the desk behind her, the tables turned, giving him the advantage.

  “Are you flirting with me, Sophie?”

  She scoffed, though her voice was shaky. “No, I was just playing.”

  She tried to step away, needing to put distance between them, leaving the boa around his neck. But he took hold of one end and pulled it off, then looped it around her gently, pulling her back.

  “I don’t play games, Sophie. Nor do I break promises. And I promised your father I would marry you.”

  “I, on the other hand, have no such qualms about breaking promises.” She tried stepping aside. “I am a master of crossed fingers and expedient prevarications. Besides, I didn’t promise anyone anything.”

  “But your father did, on your behalf.”

  “You just can’t let that go, can you?” she griped.

  The boa held her there as securely as a rope. Her flash of good humor fled, and she felt her frustration from earlier return. “Damn it, why do you want to marry me? Give me one good reason. We used to b
e good friends,” she said after long moments, looking away. “Why ruin that?”

  “I’m not interested in being your friend, love.” He touched her chin, his fingers a gentle caress as he forced her to meet his gaze. “I want to be your husband.”

  “I’ve already told you, Mr. Hawthorne,” she said, enunciating each word, “I’m not going to marry. I will not be any man’s possession.”

  His eyes narrowed. “A man doesn’t own a woman.”

  “Perhaps not literally. But look at Patrice.”

  “She is certainly not a possession,” he insisted. “She is a wife. The mistress of a man’s home. Mother to his children.”

  “His home. His children. A woman is told what she can or can’t do.” She hesitated, then forged ahead, heedless of dangerous territory. She had gone too far to turn back. “Look at your mother.”

  She felt the tension snake through his body.

  “My parents’ relationship is like any other. That is what marriage is.”

  “But it shouldn’t be!”

  “Why?” A look came into his eyes. “Tell me why,” he demanded, his voice suddenly intense, as if he wanted to believe there could be something different.

  But she had no profound explanation, no example of anything other than what he had described. “It’s just not fair that a woman is forced to do a man’s bidding,” she said with a sigh, not knowing what else to say.

  Grayson’s face grew grim, and she thought for a moment that he was disappointed that she didn’t have a better explanation. “If I’ve learned anything in this world,” he said, “it’s that life isn’t fair. The sooner you understand that, the easier it will be for you.”

  “Accepting that won’t make me any better at marriage. I won’t make a good wife, no matter what you think.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “You need someone who will sit at home and act like a proper lady.”

  “You wouldn’t have to sit home, Sophie. And how hard can it be to act proper?”

  Her throat tightened. He didn’t understand. Not her. Not her life.

  “This is a silly conversation,” she said at length, forcing a smile as she swallowed back the lump in her throat.

  He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

  “You’re just nervous. You will be a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. I’ve seen that with how you deal with the dog.” He glanced at the foyer, then his brow furrowed. “Speaking of dogs, where is yours?”

  “Gone.” She bit her lip to keep it steady. Suddenly the day pressed in on her in a way that seemed unbearable. She hated the burning in her eyes and the tightness in her throat, could hardly explain to herself why she felt so lost. “Her owner showed up a few minutes ago.”

  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.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  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.