Swan's Grace

by Linda Francis Lee

  “Make a note to have this door fixed, Miss Pruitt,” he said, shutting out the cold before continuing toward them.

  He was beautiful, and Sophie’s heart kicked. His hair was still damp from his bath despite the weather, and he walked with an ease that few men possessed. It was all she could do not to smile back.

  She really had to make an effort not to be pulled in when he decided to turn on the charm. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard for so much as a moment. They had become adversaries. He had Swan’s Grace. She wanted it back.

  Grayson stopped and looked from woman to woman. “I see you have met.”

  They looked at each other with asperity.

  Grayson chuckled. “I wondered what would happen when the two of you came face-to-face. Let’s make it official. Miss Altima Pruitt, may I introduce Miss Sophie Wentworth.”

  “What is going on here?” Sophie demanded.

  Miss Pruitt pulled her sturdy shoulders back. “I’ll not be working here if you plan to entertain”—she searched for a word—“guests right beneath my nose,” she finally managed.

  “Rest assured, Miss Pruitt, I would never dream of abusing your sensibilities.” He came forward and put his strong arm around the woman’s sturdy shoulders. “Miss Wentworth is Conrad Wentworth’s daughter, and she is staying here, with chaperons”—he actually scowled at this—“while I stay at the Hotel Vendome. Now why don’t you go make us some of that delicious coffee of yours.”

  Altima sent a sharp, accusing glare at Sophie and her attire, then pulled off her hat with swift efficiency, setting it carefully on the hat rack, before heading for the kitchen.

  Sophie watched her go, then turned to Grayson. “Aren’t we cordial this morning?”

  Instantly she cringed at the flip tone. She had promised herself she would be nice!

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Miss Pruitt happy.” He smiled at her, an inviting smile full of warmth and mischief. “The woman types like the wind, takes dictation like a gazelle, and keeps my life organized with the quiet, unobtrusive efficiency of a queen bee in a honeycomb.”

  “Enough with your snappy wildlife analogies.” He really did bring out the worst in her. “Who is this paragon?”

  “My receptionist—though to be more specific, she is a woman I adore,” he said with a grand sweep of his hand to his heart. “In short, she’s the best receptionist I have ever had. And I’ve had a few.”

  “You have a receptionist? Here?” she squeaked.

  “Of course. She runs my office.”

  “You mean your office downtown?” she prompted hopefully.

  “No. I advise my clients from Swan’s Grace. And I do have clients, Sophie. People who keep me solvent so I can pay those things called bills and not become the derelict you accused me of being.”

  He stepped close and boldly ran his fingers down the edge of the cashmere lapels, his voice deepening. “Despite what you want to think, I don’t need your father’s money.”

  His fingers stopped just before they came to her breasts. She could hardly think, much less utter a coherent word, as heat seared through her, centering low in a way she didn’t understand. Could he tell that she had virtually nothing on underneath? Could he feel the way her heart began to pound?

  His hands lingered, his dark-eyed gaze burning into her, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. But just when she would have leaned close, despite everything, he dropped his hands away. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he took in her attire. “And speaking of clients, one should be arriving any minute. Charming as you look, I’d rather they not see you in my robe.”

  Heat surged through her cheeks, mixing with dismay. She hardly understood what he made her feel. Desire? Panic?

  With a jerk, she looked out the window at the carriages rolling by as if all were right with the world. She was so close to having the pieces of her life finally fall into place—different from how she had imagined it would be when she was a child, but still something she had created for herself. Her whole life she had dreamed of being famous, dreamed of being something more than awkward Sophie Wentworth. How many times had she envisioned herself holding court in Swan’s Grace, performing in the Music Hall? Playing Bach.

  She had given up Bach, replacing it with showy pieces. She had given up the dream of playing in the Music Hall, replacing it with Europe. But she couldn’t replace her dream of living in the only true home she had ever known.

  Grayson Hawthorne and his purchase of Swan’s Grace had thrown what remained of her dreams into chaos.

  But should it really matter? She had a glamorous life. People around the world adored her, would never believe she had experienced an awkward day in her life.

  Her gaze shifted and ran over the black-and-white marble floor in the foyer, the stately, fluted columns, the grand sweep of stairs she had descended again and again as a child, a long linen towel attached to her shoulders trailing behind her, making her a queen.

  His touch drew her attention and made her breath catch. He cupped her chin and forced her to look at him.

  “What is it?” he whispered, his dark gaze serious. “What is it that I keep seeing in your eyes?”

  For one blinding second she had the foolish urge to blurt out her dreams, to pour out the worries she had shouldered on her own for so long. But too many years of having only herself to depend on kept the words firmly in check. Because the truth was, she was no longer a child, no longer anyone Grayson Hawthorne would care for if he learned who she had become. Independent and provocative. Pushing the envelope. Anything but proper. And she knew she couldn’t give up her dream of Swan’s Grace.

  She bit back her desire to tell him her worries. She raised her chin and found her practiced diva smile. “I never would have guessed you’d become such a romantic in your old age. Seeing things in eyes. Really, Grayson, next you’ll be waxing on about lips like roses and kisses like wine.”

  His gaze drifted low. “Your lips are like roses.” Then, as if he could do nothing else, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Barely a touch, only a teasing brush, but enough that her insides went soft with yearning.

  After a moment he pulled back. “And your kiss is like wine.”

  He ran the tips of his fingers along the collarbone beneath her gown, barely, softly, making her body come to life with a slow sensual burn.

  With no warning at all came an image of her as his wife, lying beneath him, tangled in sheets, his hands slipping beneath the cashmere robe.

  Whom had he chosen? she wondered with a sudden rush of heat to her cheeks. Whom had he picked to be his wife? For the first time in five years, she felt a flash of regret for the path she had taken. She wished she had understood the rules to a game that had never made sense.

  But she had always been different, and to try to change now would be like hammering a square peg into a round hole. She had already lost herself once, five years ago. She couldn’t afford to lose sight of who she was again.

  Grayson started to say something, but was cut off when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Miss Pruitt announced from the back, followed quickly by the clomp of her sensible shoes.

  It was all happening too fast, and Sophie felt rooted to the spot. Grayson seemed to understand.

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything is going to work out, Sophie,” he said gently. “We’ll talk later. But for now, go.”

  He turned her around and gave her a little push. Mechanically she took the stairs, turning back at the top to see a smartly suited man enter the house, the austere double doors closing behind them as the men walked into the study.

  Grayson was there to stay. Entrenched. He had no intention of going anywhere.

  And his kiss had been like wine, sending her senses reeling. Making her want more.

  She really had to speak to her father, to somehow undo whatever it was he had done. She couldn’t afford for Grayson to remain in her life.


  For three days running, Sophie sent word to her father every morning. But each note was returned with another stating he couldn’t see her. At first she was hurt, then she became angry. But by the fourth day, she was fighting off full-fledged panic. Why had her father asked her to return if not to be with the family?

  To top it off, Grayson had showed up at Swan’s Grace to work first thing each morning with a regularity and punctuality she could set a clock by. The infamous Miss Pruitt arrived as well, appearing at eight, staying until five, riding roughshod over Sophie and her entourage as though they were a gaggle of wayward geese.

  And each of those days, Sophie avoided Grayson like the plague, certain that the minute he found her alone, the talk he wanted to have would be to tell her once and for all that she had to move out. Each time he had asked for her she managed to be out, unavailable, or indisposed. Henry told her that after the last time he had delivered her message Grayson had actually growled.

  Henry had been delighted. She less so. The man’s patience was running dry.

  Only once, at the end of a long day, had she actually seen him. She was sitting in the drawing room, working through a new cello arrangement of La Bohème on paper, unaware that he was across the foyer in his office. Miss Pruitt had marched out of the library, knocked on the closed double doors, then entered. Sophie glanced over and saw Grayson sitting behind his desk. He was intent on a client who was talking, the man’s back to her. The receptionist set freshly typed papers in front of her employer. Without warning Grayson had glanced up and seen her. Their eyes met, locking with unreadable undercurrents, and all the while the client never stopped talking.

  Leaning back in his chair, Grayson had studied her over steepled fingers as if he could understand something if he looked at her long enough. She saw the heat in his eyes. The possessiveness.

  With a start, she had pushed up from the divan and gone in search of Deandra, hating the way her knees felt weak and her heart leaped in her chest. The incident had left her oddly unsettled.

  And still her father wouldn’t see her.

  Finally, last night, less than two days before the party her father had mentioned, Sophie simply obtained her father’s new address and went to his house unannounced. Upon arrival, for one brief second she had forgotten why she was there.

  The Fens was beautiful in an ostentatious sort of way, but it was the party decorations that had moved her. If her father was to be believed, the decorations were for her homecoming party. Didn’t that mean he cared?

  But whatever delight she had felt quickly evaporated. Other than finally getting to see her precious half sisters, the visit was a disaster. Conrad adamantly refused to get Swan’s Grace back, saying the deal was done. No amount of arguing swayed him.

  He was angry and dismissive until finally she whispered, “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

  Her father sighed, looking suddenly older than his years. “I am doing this because it’s for the best.”

  “Best for whom?” she blurted out, trying to understand.

  His anger returned full force. “Best for this family! Now you will do as I say, and move in here to The Fens. And send those… those hangers-on back where they came from.”

  Angry, Sophie had defied him. She had left The Fens and returned to Swan’s Grace, more determined than ever to regain her home.

  “What are you doing in here?” Miss Pruitt cried out, breaking into Sophie’s thoughts.

  The woman’s sensible hat was still perched on her head as she entered the library, her reticule clutched in her hands as if she was afraid one of them would steal it.

  “Ah,” Henry drawled from his favorite cushioned seat in the corner of the book-lined room. “It’s our dear Miss Khan. Can we call you Genghis for short?”

  Deandra laughed appreciatively, looking up from studying her manicured nails, the layers of her long, shimmering gown rustling as she unhooked her knees from her chair. “Henry, you can be so clever.”

  Even Margaret had to cover her smile.

  Miss Pruitt’s lips pursed like a shriveled prune, and her eyes narrowed. But they flew open with dismay when a sudden breeze came through the open windows and played havoc with the papers on her desk.

  “Look what you’ve done!” she cried, dashing to the window to slam the glass panes shut.

  “Were those important?” Henry asked, picking up a sheet and starting to read. ” ‘Mr. James Lampman, formerly of 212 Mount Vernon Street, more recently of 155 Huntington Avenue, wishes to sue for damages after one H. Paul Redman ruined his reputation and his business—’ “

  The woman snatched the page away so quickly that the paper nearly tore in two. “That is private,” she barked. “Now get out of here! Out! Out! Out! This is my office!”

  She tried to shoo them from the room, but Margaret stood her ground.

  “You can’t run us out. Our Sophie needs to play.”

  Music was as much a part of Sophie’s day as breathing. If she didn’t have her cello in her hands, music ran through her head. She worked out passages no matter what she was doing, without thought, out of habit.

  “She’ll practice somewhere else,” Miss Pruitt stated. “That is, if you call that noise I’ve been hearing music.” She looked directly at Sophie, who hadn’t moved. “I hardly call The Love Nest worth a grown person’s time.”

  The statement surprised Sophie, then made her laugh in turn. Miss Pruitt was a smart one. With a smile, Sophie stood from her chair, then handed Henry her instrument. “Tell that to all the men who pay to see me play, Miss Pruitt.”

  The older woman’s look grew knowing. “I know what men pay to see you do.”

  The room went quiet. Sophie and Miss Pruitt stared at each other. Henry, Margaret, and Deandra stared at them.

  A tense moment passed until Sophie, at last, laughed.

  “Come along, children. When the woman is right, the woman is right. More than one man who has seen me perform doesn’t know the difference between Beethoven and Boston baked beans.”

  Deandra and Henry exchanged a questioning look before they followed Sophie from the room.

  Despite her laugh, Sophie hadn’t been as immune to Altima Pruitt’s words as she wanted her entourage to think. Long years as a serious cellist couldn’t be suppressed completely, making her think of Bach.

  If she had tried, really tried, could she have done it?

  Could she have played Bach’s cello suites and moved a crowd?

  Needing to be alone, Sophie went into the study— rather, Grayson’s office—clicking the door shut behind her. Grayson was in court that morning, and he wasn’t expected until well after noon.

  She sat in the desk chair, so much like the seat her father had had when she was growing up. But this was a new chair, changed. Like so many things about her life.

  Part of her wanted to board the next ship bound for France and never return. But it hardly mattered. She didn’t have the money for passage. She had to sit tight until she received advance-booking money for her June concert in Paris.

  Frustrated, she pushed up from the chair and went to the side window. Earlier that morning she had pulled on a simple sky blue day dress with long, fitted sleeves. But despite the sun she felt the need to wrap her arms around herself and briskly rub her arms.

  “You look cold.”

  She whirled around to find Grayson standing in the doorway wearing a dark suit and waistcoat, his white shirt and collar starched, his light wool trousers molding to his strong thighs. Would the impact of his presence ever lessen? Would she ever get used to his hard-chiseled perfection? His height, the darkness of his eyes? The casual ease that was little more than a patina over a barely contained power? Would she ever grow used to the effect he had on her?

  She would have fled through the door had he not blocked the way. Besides, she would not be a coward.

  As casually as she could, she went to his desk and sat in his chair, hooking her ankle beneath one knee and swinging her slimly b
ooted foot in a desperate effort to appear calm while her heart hammered in her chest. “Nope. Not cold at all. And weren’t you supposed to be gone for hours?”

  Grayson strolled into the room and sat in the chair opposite her, as though she were the lawyer, he the client. He leaned back and crossed his legs with ease, then looked at her.

  “The court session was postponed. Besides, we need to talk.”

  The time had come. This was it. He was going to tell her to pack her bags and head for a hotel. Her mind raced with what she could say. Where would they go? How would they survive until May?

  Nervous, she picked up a fountain pen to keep her hand from shaking. “Of course we need to talk. But first, did you see the flowers?” Anything to avoid the inevitable.

  He sat for a moment, then glanced back at the foyer. “It’s impossible not to see them. What are they for?”

  The pen stopped midcircle. “For me” she explained, then resumed her designs. “There are flowers and candy. Trinkets and baubles. Not to mention invitations by the dozens.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  A smile tilted her lips as she glanced at him. “My homecoming. Word has gotten out that the prodigal daughter has returned.”

  He stood from the chair and reached for the pen. Their fingers touched, and she felt it intensely—his long and strong, hers smaller, with short, rounded nails so she could press the strings of the cello.

  He took the pen from her hand and set it aside. “I’d hardly call you a prodigal.”

  She sat back, her teeth catching the corner of her lower lip, cradling the fingers he had touched. “What would you call me?”

  He came around and stood between her and the desk, leaning back against the edge. She felt her pulse skitter, and without being obvious, she pressed farther away. But he only looked at her for a long time, really looked, and her discomfort grew.

  A strange tenderness softened his obsidian eyes. “I’d call you complicated.”

  She made a scoffing sound, too loudly. “I’m a simple girl, nothing more.”

  Pushing up, she tried to move away. But when she stood, the chair didn’t slide back, and she found herself so close to Grayson that if she shifted so much as an inch they would touch.