“Do you understand, Mother?” she whispered. “Do you understand what I am doing and why? You were my tie to Boston, and you’re not here anymore. But I need Swan’s Grace, I need to know it’s here and it’s mine.”
Outside, the dormant rosebushes stood strong against the cold wind, while the long, bare branches of a willow swayed like a dancer.
But the room remained still, offering no response.
She leaned back in the chair, the hardwood trim biting into her back. Her mother was gone, there would be no answers.
Jerking forward, she returned the bow to the strings and concentrated on The Waltz of Swans. One bar, two. The notes easy and lyrical. But it wouldn’t flow. The notes coming from the cello tangled with the notes in her head. G-D-B… A-B-D-B-D. Notes from the Bach that demanded her attention.
Sharply she lowered the bow, and she would have left the room altogether if the music hadn’t wrapped around her. Like a promise? Or a curse?
With her hand still trembling, she glanced one last furtive time toward the stairs, then gave in to the pull and started to play. G-D-B… A-B-D-B-D. The same section, again and again, until she leaped off and continued on, playing with her eyes closed. Dreaming. Hoping. Feeling each note like a mother wishing for a child.
She didn’t think; she played as she had when she was young. She lost herself to the sound, the sweet, resonant vibration of the chords against her body as she worked the suite as if she had played it only yesterday. She played so intently that she didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t hear the booted steps coming through the doorway. She didn’t hear anything until she stopped as she came to the end.
“God, that was incredible.”
Her head popped up, the bow slicing crazily down the strings as she jumped in surprise. “Grayson.”
“Hello.” A beautiful smile pulled at his full lips.
She stared at him, trying to focus, her heart pounding as much from the music as from his unexpected arrival. The promise of the Bach and Grayson’s handsome form standing there was almost too much to take.
“What was that you were playing?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she stated, laying the bow carefully across the table.
“It didn’t sound like nothing. I’ve never heard it before.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s just the opening notes of a Bach cello suite.”
“Really?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t know Bach wrote suites for the cello.”
“There are six of them, though not many people are aware they exist. In fact, for years the person who found them thought they were little more than bowing exercises. How wrong they were.”
“Do you play them in your concerts?”
“Good heavens, no,” she said too quickly. Calm down, she told herself.
“Why not?”
Calm was elusive, and her palms grew sweaty. “Because they’re a bore.”
She hated the way he considered her, looking at her as if he could see into her soul.
“Then what do you play?” he asked.
“A bit of this, a bit of that. All pieces my audiences adore. Why are you here?”
Grayson could tell she was trying to change the subject. But he let her. He had no idea why the stunning music she had been playing when he walked into the house would bring a stain to her cheeks when she was asked about it.
He had heard the sound as he walked up the road after having spent the morning in court. He had approached from Berkeley Street and had seen her through the side window as he drew near. He had easily spotted her hair, like a golden flame. Standing before her now, he saw her beauty like a lick of fire. With her hair neither blond nor brown, and her startlingly vivid eyes, it was easy to see traces of her Norman descendants—warriors who fought brutally for what they wanted.
Did she have more of them in her than their coloring? Was that what made her a challenge?
Or did she fill a need in him?
For years he had fought off the desire for something he couldn’t name, fought off an emptiness. He had found ways to cease his circling thoughts, to forget—in long hours of work, in the soft flesh of women. But that was only temporary. Always he woke, knowing that the woman next to him wasn’t what he wanted. They never filled the void inside him; the sex served only as a way to fill his mind momentarily with a blank slate, as if nothing had been etched there long ago.
There were other means to forget. Music. Sweeping crescendos and dazzling denouements. But mostly there was work. Business deals and court cases had consumed his thoughts and energies. He had risen to the top of his field, worked obsessively. But once there, what did he have?
He had worked a lifetime to gain his father’s respect. But regardless of his accomplishments, he couldn’t say he had achieved his goal. He hated the familiar feeling of futility. And as always, he didn’t know why he continued to care. Why did the need circle around inside him? It made him weak. And weakness was unacceptable.
“Hello. Are we sleeping?”
He blinked and found Sophie standing before him, fluttering delicately ringed fingers in front of his eyes.
“I was thinking.”
“You do too much of that.”
He watched as she sauntered across the room, her shimmering gown trailing behind her like a waterfall of gossamer gold, the stain gone from her cheeks, her equilibrium regained. One minute she was sultry and flip, the next she was vulnerable.
That was something he didn’t understand about her. He had heard of musicians who were artistically brilliant, but their talent was twined with a monstrous self-centeredness.
Someone who didn’t look deep enough might think that of Sophie. But Grayson had seen the caring, the giving.
When they were young. Recently with the dog. With her ragtag group of friends whom she looked after like a mother hen.
“You still haven’t told me why you are here,” she said, her heels clicking on the floor as she walked across the room to the tray of tea items.
“I amended the Music Hall contract I brought you before, adding the additional terms you asked for. You drive a hard bargain. But they agreed to everything.”
She whirled around to face him. “How could they?”
He studied her, wondering what he saw. Regret? “I thought that is what you wanted.”
“Well, yes. But…”
She stared at the sheets of paper he held in his hands, her porcelain cheeks so pale that he could see a faint hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
With a start she glanced up at him. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I just thought… I mean, I didn’t think they would agree so readily.”
“But they have. Are you thinking about backing out?”
He watched her chin rise.
“Never. Where do I sign?” she demanded.
After a second of studying her, he pulled a pen and a bottle of ink from a small writing desk. Setting the papers flat on the surface, he handed her the pen.
Sophie stared at it, her eyes closing for one brief second, before she strode forward with determination. Taking the pen, she brushed against him, barely a touch, but he felt it to his core as she passed to stand in front of the contract. Then she stopped. She didn’t move, and Grayson could see the column of her neck, the delicate wisps of hair curling over smooth skin. She smelled like sweet soap and spring-water, not heavy perfume.
“Do you realize how much I want to kiss you right now?”
Her thoughts broke apart at his words, but she didn’t turn around. “I’m a cellist, not a mind reader.”
His answering chuckle filled the room. “Do you have a glib response for everything?”
“I try,” she said dryly. “You’d be amazed at how glib and entertaining I can be.”
He hesitated, felt all joking fade from his mind. “I’m beginning to think it has nothing to do with entertainment. I think you use it as a defense.”
&nb
sp; This time there was no glib response, and she went very still. “Ah,” she mused, her tone forced, “a disciple of Dr. Freud, I see.”
“Who?”
She shook her head, and he could tell that she breathed in deeply.
“Forget it,” she said. “You wouldn’t have heard of him yet.”
“You’re filled with lots of names and titles I haven’t heard of.”
She started away, but he wouldn’t let her go. Not this time. He caught her arm, his fingers sliding gently across her skin. “You aren’t going to keep me at a distance.”
His hand skimmed up to her shoulder, then his other hand, until his palms cradled her face.
“I won’t let you push me away, Sophie.” His thumbs ran gently over her cheeks.
She didn’t respond, but she looked at his mouth, the way it was full and sensual, strong. She felt a shiver race through her, a slow, throbbing heat building up inside her. He did that to her, made her yearn.
“In the years you were away,” he said, his voice deep and low, “you’ve built a wall around yourself.”
His palms drifted down her neck to her shoulders, strong and confident, making her want to lean in to him—making her want the very kiss he said he wanted to give her.
“You are an odd mix of bravado and shyness”—he took one long curl and wrapped it around his finger—“conceit and self-deprecation. I understand that.” His eyes met hers. “But what I don’t understand is why.” His finger slipped from her hair and he leaned down, his lips so close that they were nearly touching hers. “I intend to find out.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate her mind, but suddenly they did and she jerked back, her heart racing. “Leave me alone, Grayson. I don’t want you prying into my life. And I certainly don’t want your kiss.”
She ended on a lie, and they both knew it. They stared at each other until he merely smiled with that irritating self-confidence, and nodded his head. “Fine, for now,” he said, his voice a sensual brush of sound. “I’ll give you time. I’ve said that all along.”
With that he turned her around to face the papers, but she could hardly think. Her pulse raced and she was much too aware of his large hands on her shoulders—of his promise to dig into her life. Would he learn about her mother and Niles Prescott and why she had left Boston? Would he learn about her past?
“Sophie?”
She only stood.
“You’re going to be wonderful. If you play like you did when I walked in, Boston will love you. How could they not?”
Her heart raced.
“Sign the contract, Sophie. I have work to do.”
She tried to focus on the pages, feeling backed into a corner. Despite all her plans and bravado, how could she go through with it? How could she let Boston see her show?
When she only stood there, he lowered the pen, stepping beside her, and studied her with an all-too-curious look. “What are you afraid of?”
In a flash she grabbed the pen. “I’m not afraid. Of anything!” She had stopped being afraid a long time ago. Then she brought the pen to paper and signed angrily. “There, are you happy?”
“This isn’t for me, Sophie. It’s for you. The question is, are you happy?”
“As a clam.”
Grayson considered her, trying to understand what he saw in her eyes. Was he right when he thought that she was trying to keep him and others at arm’s length?
But then he noticed a slip of paper resting beneath her cup of tea. The name Percy Walters caught his attention.
“What is that?” he demanded.
Sophie looked down, then pulled the soggy note away and read. Glancing between him and the slip of paper, it was obvious that whatever was written there made her happy.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. This came yesterday around noon. Maybe one.” She shrugged. “Something about some Percy Walters’s court date on the twentieth being moved up from one o’clock to eleven in the morning.”
She handed him the message, the sheet limp.
Grayson felt fire start to burn in his mind. “Do you know what day it is?”
She clucked her tongue as she glanced around the room as if looking for a calendar, her equilibrium yet again regained at the thought that there was hope yet that she could run him off.
“It is the twentieth,” he bit out.
“Really,” she said, relieved that he was no longer talking about digging into her past. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Oh, look at that. Five till eleven. You’d best hurry or you’ll be late.”
He counted to ten.
“You know,” she offered, “I’m not much for giving advice, but none of this would have happened if you had a real office with a real receptionist.”
“I have a real office, and I had a real receptionist. You ran her off.”
“I can think of a few things to call Miss Altima Pruitt, but receptionist isn’t one of them. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. But fortunately for you, as long as you’re here, I don’t mind taking a message or two.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She smiled like a cat who got the cream—like a cat who just might win the war yet. “If you hurry, it’s possible you could make it in time.”
An hour later, with Miss Pruitt little more than a bad memory, Grayson at court, and everyone else gone, there was no one to answer the shout of hello Sophie heard in the foyer.
With heels clicking on marble and her feather boa swirling as she walked, Sophie came into the entryway to find a middle-aged man wringing his hands. His eyes went wide at the sight of her—or maybe it was her attire. It was hard to say.
“I’m here to see Mr. Hawthorne,” he stammered, then glanced at the empty office. “I had a twelve o’clock appointment.”
“Did you really?” she asked, her tone a lament. “As it happens, there has been a pesky little change in plans. Your Mr. Hawthorne had to dash off to court.”
“Do you expect him back?”
Sophie grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then I’ll wail.”
“It could be hours.”
“Fine.”
“Suit yourself.” She waved toward the drawing room, then she started for the stairs.
“Do you think I might have some tea while I wait?”
“Tea? You want me to make you some tea?”
“If it’s not a bother.”
“Hmmm,” she murmured, shrugging her shoulders at the newness of the idea.
When she was growing up, her mother had insisted her time be spent playing and practicing. Sophie had never learned to run a household—though she was learning rapidly, since she couldn’t afford servants. But she had yet to progress to the kitchen. That was Margaret’s domain. “Why not? I’m sure we can drum up a cup. Come along.”
Startled, the man followed her to the kitchen.
Despite having spent a minimum of time in the kitchen over the years, Sophie procured the kettle and cups with ease, searched out the canister of tea leaves, and had the stove going as though she did it every day. Once she had the brew steeping on the counter, she found her favorite tiny cakes in the cupboard and set them out on a Wedgwood plate.
She poured two cups out. “Sugar?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” The man sipped. “Perfect.” He sighed, leaning against the counter. “I can’t tell you the kind of week I have had.”
Sophie hmmmed noncommittally as she plopped a sugar cube into her cup, then rummaged through a velvet-lined box for a spoon.
“I had so hoped to have my… err… difficulties resolved today,” he continued. “Or at least have a plan of action put in place.”
“I certainly understand about needing a plan of action,” she mused over a sip of tea, then dropped another cube in the cup. “Anyway, Grayson is bound to return, and no doubt he will solve your difficulties.”
“Do you think?”
Sophie finally looked at the man. For the first time she noticed his
furrowed brow and the dark circles under his eyes. She couldn’t stand to see someone in need. “Of course.” She smiled at him, stirring, the silver clinking against china. “Things always have a way of working out, even when you don’t think they will.” She had come to depend on that sentiment over the last few days.
“Even with a divorcement?” he blurted out, his face turning bright red.
“Ah, a divorcement.” She tsked and set the spoon aside. “I’m sorry, Mr…”
“Cardwell. Willard Cardwell.”
The man began to ease, and the next thing she knew he was telling her every aspect of his predicament. She cringed at the personal details, couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to talk so openly about their life. She was a strong believer in one’s private life remaining private.
But Mr. Willard Cardwell didn’t appear to live by the same standards, and she quickly learned that he and the missus had been married five years, had four children, and his wife was suddenly fraught with sick headaches. By the end of his tale, Sophie was so caught up in the story that she didn’t think about the fact that the conversation was entirely inappropriate.
“Good God, Mr. Cardwell. Who wouldn’t have headaches after having a child once a year, four years running. The woman needs a rest!”
He sputtered and puffed up. “But I’m a man, after all, and I have—” He cut himself off abruptly, his face flaring red.
“You’re a man and you have needs. Tell me something that’s news.”
“Then you see, I have little choice but to get a divorcement!”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Grayson Hawthorne told you that?” she demanded, incensed.
“Actually, not in so many words. He told me I needed a mistress. But I can’t afford such a woman! I can only afford a wife, and mine no longer has any interest in me.”
“Pshaw. What does Grayson know?”
“He’s a lawyer! The finest in town.”
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Cardwell. Grayson Hawthorne might be knowledgeable as a lawyer, but he doesn’t know the first thing about women. If I were you, I’d not waste my good money on a lawyer or a mistress.” Then she leaned close and told him just what she thought he should do.
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