Swan's Grace Read online

  He stood in Conrad’s study, surrounded by bookcases filled with volumes of gold-embossed, finely tooled leather. When he was young he had read every single book in his father’s library. He had finished the last one the week before he was sent out on his own.

  It had been those stories, frequently, that had helped him through the long nights in Cambridge, with men shouting and cursing each other in the dank hallways, fighting in the streets. Grayson had gone over the tales of Odysseus and Julius Caesar in his head, their journeys and successes, to forget the sounds.

  Within a few short months, however, he hadn’t needed the stories. He had learned to fend for himself. Like Odysseus. Like Caesar. He had learned to use his fists, fighting off bigger men, some wild, unrecognizable emotion surging inside him that gave him more strength than his sixteen-year-old body normally would have had.

  By the time he turned seventeen, everyone close by knew to steer clear of him. It had taken years after he had finished Harvard Law to smooth over those jagged edges. Long years of ruthless control to lose the wildness. Because of that, everyone had left him alone. Everyone except Sophie.

  Her baskets eventually gave way to letters and small trinkets. A shirt or sweater. Always arriving when he needed it most. Those gifts had been a mainstay in his life, along with scraping to get by and obsessive studying.

  But one day, the year she turned eighteen, the gifts and letters had ceased. He had learned shortly afterward that she had left Boston. Foolishly, he had been disappointed that she had left without a word to him. Disappointed and oddly alone. For so long Sophie had been such a part of his life. Then suddenly she was gone.

  Whenever he felt that he desired her at the deepest level, he turned away from the thought. He wanted her, yes, but he didn’t need her. He merely wanted to make Sophie Wentworth his own. Or so he told himself.

  “I’m not having second thoughts,” he said to Conrad. “But we’ve got to give her the chance to get to know me again. We’ve been over this.”

  “Damn it man, she’s known you her whole life.”

  “True, but until last Sunday she had seen me only once in five years, and that was at the birthday gala Patrice had for you.”

  Women had wanted Grayson for as long as he could remember. He had never given it much thought until recently—until Sophie.

  He was no fool. He wanted a willing bride in his bed. And because of that, he realized, he would have to take the time to court her. Amazingly, he found himself looking forward to the idea.

  Besides which, Grayson reasoned, with the arrogance of a man used to getting what he wanted, he was certain he could win Sophie over. He just needed time.

  “She’s not as much trouble as she seems,” Conrad said.

  Grayson stared at the man with disbelief.

  “Okay,” Conrad conceded. “So she’s a little troublesome.”

  “A little?”

  “Damn it, Sophie needs someone to keep her out of trouble,” Conrad blurted out.

  Grayson’s mind absorbed the man’s tone more than the words. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Conrad grew uncomfortable and studied a small daguerreotype on his desk of Sophie holding her cello. She was young in the picture, her mixture of pride and defiance clear even in the murky brown-and-white tint.

  “No,” he finally said. “But you remember Sophie and her escapades.” The older man ran a hand through his thinning hair, seeming tired and resigned. “She makes everything into a drama. Always has.”

  Grayson was quickly being reminded of how true this was. Nothing was easy with Sophie.

  “So you can see why I want her married to someone with a level head on his shoulders, someone I can trust to keep my daughter out of harm’s way.” Conrad shrugged. “The sooner the better.”

  “I think we should tell her tonight,” Patrice interjected, her look challenging.

  Grayson barely afforded the woman a glance before he returned his attention to her husband. “No, Conrad. Not yet.”

  The statement shimmered through the room, hanging in the air as the quiet command it was, each man eyeing the other. “As I’ve already said, let her get to know me again. There is time enough before she needs to learn about the betrothal. Then I will be the one to tell her.” Grayson’s gaze pinned the other man to the spot. “Are we clear on this?”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when another knock sounded on the door. Both men turned not to the entrance, but to Patrice, who raised her chin defiantly.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  Conrad leaped for the door, his gaze skewering his wife. “Don’t you dare say a—”

  But the door opened before he could get there.

  “Father,” Sophie said, entering into the room with a fond smile. “Thank you so much for the party.”

  She meant every word. While the event hadn’t turned out exactly as she had hoped, she was grateful that he had tried. And in the end there had been more ups than downs, leaving her with a shimmer of excitement running through her veins.

  Conrad flushed red. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, dear. But in truth, I can’t take credit. It was your stepmother’s doing.”

  Sophie felt a childish flicker of bitterness sweep over her at the thought of the woman, but she covered it quickly and turned. “Thank you, Patrice.”

  The resentment fled entirely then, and was replaced by nothing more complicated than end-of-the-night excitement. “It’s been years since I have seen so many people I knew from my youth.” She laughed gaily, sweeping through the room as though she were still dancing.

  But then she stopped abruptly when she noticed Grayson, though even he couldn’t dampen her spirits. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have business to discuss with your father. Perhaps you could excuse us for a moment.”

  She tilted her head, suddenly aware of an odd tension that shimmered through the room. “But I had a note asking me to come to the study.”

  “Yes, but it was a mistake.”

  With eyes that had intimidated some of the most powerful men in Boston, Grayson shot Patrice a quelling look.

  Sophie didn’t understand what was going on, but frankly she was still too content to care. She was exhausted, and the excitement of the night was starting to wear off. She longed to slip between cool, downy sheets and drift into a dreamless sleep.

  “Fine,” she said with an indifferent shrug. “I’ll ask Jeters to drive me back to Swan’s Grace.” She twirled around suddenly and laughed. “I want to get to bed so I will be refreshed by midday.” She headed for the door and pulled it wide as if she were dancing with it, her low-heeled dancing slippers clicking on the hardwood floor just beyond the Oriental carpet. “Donald Ellis is taking me out to Brookline for a picnic tomorrow afternoon. And after that, Allan Beekman has asked me to dinner at Locke-Ober’s.”

  “You will do no such thing!” Patrice snapped.

  The words sizzled through the room, stopping Sophie abruptly, the doorknob still held in her hand.

  “Patrice,” Grayson warned ominously.

  “What is going on here?” Sophie asked. “The three of you have been acting strange since I walked through the door.”

  “You will not go anywhere with any man, do you understand me?” her stepmother asked.

  “Why not? What harm is there in a picnic with a man I have known since he was in short pants, or dinner with an old family friend?”

  “It is time someone told you that engaged women do not go on picnics with men who aren’t their intended. And you are engaged,” Patrice added.

  Sophie froze. Conrad groaned.

  Tension, like fire, shimmered through the room. Sophie felt it, white and hot against her skin.

  Emotion flared, but she forced it aside and laughed. “That is ridiculous. I haven’t been home long enough to meet anyone new, much less become engaged. Who in the world has been spreading such rumors?” She looked at Grayson, her eyes chastising. �
��Have you been trying to get me into trouble again?”

  He didn’t reply. He stood like a tight coil ready to unleash, his handsome features dark and murderous.

  At length he ran a large hand through his midnight black hair. “I think you know I don’t spread rumors, Sophie.”

  “Then who said such a thing? And who could I possibly be engaged to?”

  “To Grayson,” Patrice stated triumphantly, though she wasn’t looking at Sophie. Her eyes were locked on the man in question.

  Sophie went still, and she felt every fiber of her being pulling in on her as she stared at her stepmother in shock.

  She forced another laugh, this one hollow and aching even in her own ears, as she looked at Grayson. “Enough with the jests.”

  “This is no jest, Sophie,” he said after a moment, deep, troubled regret etched on his face. “We are betrothed.”

  All traces of laughter vanished. “You’ve got to be out of your mind. We’ve hardly exchanged a civil word since I got here, and certainly not a word about marriage.”

  She jerked around to face her father.

  “It’s true,” Conrad said without having to be asked. “I made the arrangements before you returned to Boston.”

  The words were like a blow. Her eyes bored into her father. “That’s why you asked me to come back, isn’t it? So you could marry me off, not so I could be with—”

  She bit the words back, swallowing them with effort.

  There had been times in her life when she understood that the next sentence uttered would change her life forever. She realized this was one of those moments, realized somewhere in her mind that she already knew the answer to her unfinished question.

  Her father still didn’t have a place for her in his world.

  She felt her heart tear, ripped apart by indifferent hands as if it were no more consequential than a child’s craft made of thick colored paper.

  Beyond that, her father had taken it upon himself to change her life. Irrevocably and without her consent. Yet again he had betrayed her.

  Her knees felt like putty when she realized that her life had changed some time ago and she simply hadn’t known it. She had danced through the days seeing what she thought was the truth, when all the while it was a lie. She hadn’t been free. She hadn’t been loved.

  How long had it been since her father had changed her world without telling her? A month? A year?

  Deep down, had she actually sensed that her life had shifted the minute she got the letter from her father? Was it possible that she’d had some clue early on? Had she understood that some other reason besides love prompted him to ask her to return?

  She shook the thoughts away. She didn’t want to hear what Grayson was saying, wouldn’t accept it. If she acted as if the words hadn’t been spoken, she could make them go away.

  “I’m really tired,” she said, feeling disjointed and dizzy.

  “And Donald is picking me up at noon. I’ve got to get some rest.”

  Patrice gasped. “Haven’t you heard a word that has been said here tonight? You aren’t going on any picnic.”

  “I hope it snows. There is nothing more divine than a beautiful winter carriage ride to the country when the landscape is crisp with new-fallen snow.”

  She started back for the door, her mind an odd blank.

  “Stop this,” Patrice demanded.

  “Perhaps I’ll take my cello along, with a basket of fruit and cheese.”

  “What has gotten into you?” her father blurted out.

  “Maybe even some warmed wine would be nice. People drink wine like water in France. Did you know that?”

  “Sophie.”

  Grayson’s voice filled the room, filling the void in her mind like no one else could. Reminding her. Making it impossible to keep the words at bay, as she wanted so badly to do.

  With the haze and fog cruelly swept away, she whirled to face him. “What?” she demanded. “What do you want from me?”

  He started to reach out to her, to wrap his fingers around her arms and pull her close, as he had done so many times since she had arrived. That possessive gesture. Now she knew why. He felt that he owned her.

  She yanked her arm away and watched as his expression grew grim.

  “We are engaged, Sophie, and I cannot allow you to go on a picnic with Donald Ellis, or dinner with anyone else.”

  She felt steel fill her soul, and she welcomed the hardness.

  “Then unengage us. Good God, I’ve never known two more ill-matched people in all my life.”

  “I disagree,” he replied.

  She whirled back to Conrad, her heart pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear. “Then you undo this, Father.”

  Conrad’s lips pursed, then he said, “I can’t. God, what a mess this has become.”

  “Why?” Her voice started to rise. “Tell me why you can’t undo an unforgivable wrong?”

  Conrad looked as if he wanted to shrink away. But Patrice was not so bothered.

  “Your father can’t undo the betrothal because money has changed hands.”

  Sophie’s shoulders stiffened, a pain sweeping through her that was hard to imagine, but her eyes never wavered from her father. “If you’ve given him some sort of dowry, ask for it back.”

  Conrad’s face blushed red. “Actually, it was Grayson who settled an amount on us. And I’ve already spent the money, Sophie, love.”

  The endearment seemed to spur Patrice on. “While you’ve been enjoying yourself in Europe, we’ve had bills to pay.”

  “Bills to pay?” Confusion filled her. “Father has more money than Croesus. Everyone knows that. Or if you don’t have enough money to pay your bills, why build this house? Good God, the halls are all but jewel encrusted, and there are enough servants to run a large hotel.”

  Then she stopped, her heart wrenching in her chest. “You have bills because of this house,” she whispered, as brutal understanding came clear. “You sold me and my home without my knowledge or consent to pay for this… this monstrosity.”

  “I hardly call this a monstrosity,” Patrice bit out.

  “Then what would you call it? What would you call a garish mausoleum that you bought and paid for with my money, my house—my soul?”

  “Good Lord, Sophie,” Patrice scoffed. “Stop being so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic?” Sophie asked, pulling the word out with scathing sarcasm. “Oh, that’s right. Sophie is always dramatic. Anyone else would be considered upset or furious— indignant over a wrong that has been done. But I’m always dramatic. Well, let me tell you how dramatic I am.” She turned to Grayson. “I’m not about to be sold off to the highest bidder. And if I have to, I’ll pay the money back myself.” She would, even if it took her the rest of her life to pay off the debt. “What is the amount? I’ll even pay interest. You can make a decent return on your investment,” she finished coldly.

  “I don’t want your money. I want you as my wife.”

  “But I don’t want you!” Not as a husband, not as someone who would demand he control her life. She couldn’t take that; she couldn’t be molded into something she had never learned how to be, unable to guide her own destiny, dependent on others to make her dreams come true. Didn’t Grayson understand that, Grayson who had known her for so long and so well? Didn’t her lifelong friend understand that she couldn’t be caged? No matter how much he drew her.

  And the truth was, he didn’t really know her anymore. He only thought he did. He had no idea who she had become.

  Grayson didn’t respond; he only looked at her with grim determination.

  “I’ll fight it,” she stated. She stopped pacing and took in the three people in the room. “I am not a commodity to be traded.”

  “You can fight it, but you won’t win,” Grayson said with quiet solemnity. “I drew up the contract myself. Only I can let you out of it.”

  “Then do it!”

  He looked at her for an eternity, emotions that she couldn�
��t fathom drifting across the sculpted planes of his face—at war with himself, as if he wanted to let go of her but couldn’t. “No, Sophie. I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “It hardly matters. The result is the same. But I will give you time to get used to the idea. Promise me you won’t do anything rash in the meantime.”

  “The only promise I’ll make is that I will never marry you. I don’t care if you have a contract. I don’t care if you have bought and paid for me.”

  With that she turned as calmly as she could, fighting back the tears that burned in her eyes, and started through the doorway. But at the last minute she stopped and turned back to Grayson.

  “One last thing. Niles Prescott asked me to perform at the Music Hall.”

  “And you said no.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Tell him yes.”

  Patrice clasped her hands together, her mood instantly changing. “This is wonderful news. It will be a grand event! Everyone who is anyone will want to attend.”

  Sophie looked at her stepmother, her bitterness no longer contained. “Everyone who is anyone? Do you really think there is more for you to conquer, Patrice? Do you have to have every man loving you? Wasn’t my father enough of a prize? Wasn’t it enough for you to come into Swan’s Grace to nurse my mother, and instead take her place?”

  “Sophie!” Conrad gasped.

  Patrice’s eyes narrowed.

  “There was nothing untoward going on between Patrice and me while your mother was still alive.”

  No, nothing untoward in a physical sense. But only because Patrice was too smart for that.

  “Apologize to your stepmother this instant,” Conrad demanded.

  “I don’t think that is necessary. She’ll get her concert, and the cream of society will attend. That should mollify her,” she said, her eyes locked with Patrice’s. “In fact,” she added, her chin rising, her mind racing with what gown she would wear—the low-cut red velvet, or the ruby satin with more lace than bodice, “I suspect that indeed it will be a grand event, one Boston won’t soon forget.”