Swan's Grace Page 9

  Sophie continued on, but her attempts to cross the room proved to be no easy task, given that everyone wanted to say hello, inquire after her journey home, or comment on the article in The Century magazine.

  And the men. Every man there, eligible or not, clamored after her. Men who as boys hadn’t given her the time of day. They all wanted a dance, or a minute of her time.

  The night was proving to be a wonderful success. She was home, and from all appearances, Boston adored her.

  Halfway across the foyer she saw the man her stepmother had pointed out earlier. Niles Prescott, with his gray hair combed back and the lines of his face making him look dashing rather than old, was the longtime conductor for Boston’s Music Hall. He had been a close friend of her mother’s. Too close, she knew some had whispered. He was also the man who had given the debut concert he had promised her to someone else.

  Sophie blinked hard when she remembered the crushing announcement of who would perform the solo at the Grand Debut. The Music Hall’s auditorium had been filled with students and their parents. Niles Prescott stood at the podium. Sophie had waited impatiently to hear her name called, to rise from her seat, to walk to the stage with the audience thundering their applause. It was the moment she had lived her whole life for.

  Sophie felt heat sting her cheeks when she remembered how she had stood, the name announced taking seconds too long to register. Then the sight of her greatest competitor walking to the podium. The triumphant smile. The embarrassment, the devastation.

  Later, the conductor had said very little to her. But it was enough. I didn’t think you could play Bach.

  A lie.

  Sophie knew it had nothing to do with Bach. She thought of her mother and the man. The promises he had made, promises he no longer had to keep once her mother was gone.

  But even knowing that, for the first time in her life, Sophie had begun to doubt herself. Was it a lie? she had suddenly begun to wonder, insidious thoughts that became indistinguishable from the truth.

  Always before she had simply played, Bach being her most cherished composer. After she lost the long-counted-on debut, she started second-guessing what she did and how she did it.

  She had fled to Germany’s Leipzig Music Conservatory, where she enrolled in the four-year program. She analyzed and studied, practiced and played, until she had taken every class and learned everything any of the professors could teach her. Then finally she gave a debut recital, but in Amsterdam, not Boston. And it had been a disaster.

  She had been nervous and self-conscious. The audience’s reception had been cold, and she had cringed at the reviews the next morning describing an uninspiring performance by yet another child prodigy. But all of that changed when she created her new show. Flash and dazzle. Jewels and gowns.

  It might not be Bach, but for the first time everyone had loved her.

  Earlier in the evening, Patrice had mentioned that Niles wanted to see her. Sophie couldn’t imagine what he wanted, and she had no interest in finding out. She wasn’t sure what she would do if she came face-to-face with him after so many years.

  Somehow she slipped through a knot of guests to escape, and practically ran into Bradford and Emmaline Hawthorne.

  “Little Sophie,” Bradford said grandly, kissing her hand like a Renaissance courtier.

  He was a tall, distinguished man with broad shoulders. He had the ability to be charming, but she remembered too well when he had so callously sent Grayson out on his own. She had hated the man back then, and still couldn’t quite bring herself to forgive him.

  “Now really, Bradford,” Emmaline Hawthorne said, extending her hands to Sophie, “she is no longer a little girl.” She pulled her into a loving embrace before setting her at arm’s length. “She has grown up to be a beautiful young woman.”

  Emmaline was soft and dreamy, her age lending her a grace and dignity that youth would never allow. Sophie’s own mother had been more practical than beautiful, and Sophie had always marveled at Emmaline’s ethereal loveliness.

  The older woman’s smile softened. “I know your mother would be proud of you. I wish so terribly that she were here to see your success.”

  Sophie felt a poignant lump swell in her throat, the sudden wish that her mother were with her now hitting her so hard she nearly stumbled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne,” she managed. “That means a great deal to me.”

  They were interrupted when someone called out her name.

  “Sophie!” a woman exclaimed, striding up to them in a cloud of shimmering skirts and sparkling jewelry. “Don’t you look smashing,” she cried, then extravagantly kissed the air beside either cheek.

  It took a second for Sophie to realize that the woman was Megan Robertson. Megan was shorter than her, and rounder in a voluptuous sort of way, with dark brown hair done up in a mass of twists and curls, and large brown eyes. As an adult she was lovely in a Rubenesque sort of way. But when she was eighteen she had been called darling—and had been awarded Sophie’s solo in the Grand Debut.

  “Hello, Megan,” Sophie replied evenly, hating the flash of insecurity that surged inside her as if five years hadn’t passed. She was successful now, she had to remind herself.

  Megan quickly greeted the Hawthornes, who then excused themselves, leaving the two women alone. Megan whirled back to Sophie.

  “You must come with me! Everyone is talking of nothing but you, and I am going to show you off.”

  Megan hooked her arm through Sophie’s as though they were still schoolgirls and began leading her from room to room of the Wentworth house. Sophie didn’t know what to make of this girl who had always competed with her, always promising that one day she would be the best. After all these years, was she trying to be kind?

  Sophie all but scoffed out loud at the surge of gladness that this once most popular girl would befriend her now. They were adults, not children.

  “You remember James Willis,” Megan said, waving to a man, then pulling her along to his side.

  “James, love. You remember our Sophie, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” The man was dressed in expensive but slightly rumpled evening wear, and the pomade he used wasn’t completely successful in taming the cowlick on the top of his head. “It has been a long time.”

  Sophie felt a devilish smile pull at her lips. “Yes, it’s been a very long time. I haven’t seen you since you put a frog down my dress.”

  James blushed a bright shade of red, and Megan laughed gaily. She swatted James’s coat sleeve with her fan. “You didn’t.”

  “As I recall,” Sophie replied, “you helped him, Megan.”

  “Oh, yes.” She laughed and pulled Sophie on. “How could I forget the way you squirmed around and carried on like you’d been shot? You always were such an actress.” She raised her hand. “Thomas! Thomas Redding. Look who I have here.”

  Sophie felt her teeth start to grind. So much for any hope Megan would be kind.

  Thomas Redding was a tall, thin man. As a boy he had spent his time reading books, his round spectacles as much a part of him as his nose. Since then, Sophie knew he had become a highly respected councilman.

  He bowed formally and took her hand. “Miss Wentworth, it is a pleasure to see you again. And might I add that the photographs in the magazine did not do you justice.”

  Megan all but jerked her away, leaving Thomas kissing air instead of knuckles. “He has become so grandiose. Of course he’s right, though. You are simply gorgeous. Who would have guessed that little Sophie Wentworth would have turned into such a beauty?” She scanned the room. “Oh, look, there’s Grayson Hawthorne. Surely you remember him.”

  Sophie stopped abruptly as her heart stilled. He stood in the receiving room, his dark hair shining beneath the crystal chandelier, his white formal tie crisp, his black evening jacket accentuating broad shoulders. Even though he was surrounded by people, he stood apart from the crowd. He exuded power, a strength that drew people at the same time it made them cautious.
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  As always, he was stunningly handsome, but he was also the last person she wanted to see after the kiss they had shared. Just remembering sent a shiver through her body, making her want more.

  Still, after all these years, he captivated her as no one else ever had. During her concert tour over the last many months, she had been courted by European princes and English diplomats, but only Grayson held her attention. Just her luck to be attracted to a man who was as much fun as a cold splash of water on a cloudy winter day. She shuddered to think about a life together, Grayson in bed by eight, no doubt with a hot-water bottle at his feet and a warming cap on his head.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She thought of his kiss, felt the betraying heat flaring low, and suddenly she wasn’t so sure.

  But then Patrice was at his side, her hand resting boldly on his arm as she told him something. Sophie felt her stomach clench as her stepmother smiled and stepped even closer. The pair spoke for a moment, but then Grayson looked up as if he sensed her presence, and their eyes met across the room.

  He looked at her for what seemed like ages before he disengaged his arm from Patrice. After a second her stepmother seemed to realize where he was going, and her blue eyes hardened before she turned away sharply.

  “Grayson!” Megan called out.

  Instantly Sophie headed in the opposite direction, but the seemingly delicate Megan had a grip of steel.

  “Look who I have here,” she cooed. “When was the last time you saw our little Sophie?”

  Grayson didn’t bother to look at Megan. His dark eyes bore into Sophie’s, at once sensual and unnerving as he ran his gaze over her. “Just yesterday.”

  The words made her feel touched, like a brush of fingers against her spine.

  Megan’s chin went up. “Yesterday? You’ve already seen Sophie since her return?” She shook her head, then she laughed. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. What did she do? Lurk outside your house waiting for you, like she always did?”

  It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did Sophie felt childish embarrassment burn hot and fast through her cheeks. Slowly Grayson turned his exacting gaze on the shorter woman.

  “As it happened, I was waiting for Miss Wentworth when she returned,” he said, his voice taking on a sharp edge.

  Megan looked between Grayson and Sophie. “Really,” she replied, all the more intrigued.

  Sophie cringed and groaned silently. The last thing she needed was for Megan to think there was something going on between them. Her nemesis would no doubt latch on to that and find a way to embarrass her.

  But before anything else could be said, a group of men circled around.

  “Miss Wentworth!”

  “Sophie!”

  “You’re a vision!”

  “A dream!”

  Sophie felt the welcome balm of familiar words, and her pique drifted away. She forgot about Megan. She started to smile, then smiled even more when she saw Grayson’s jaw muscles starting to tic. He looked at each man as if wondering which of their bones it would be easiest to snap.

  But when he noticed her smile, he raised a brow, then leaned back against a Doric column as if to say, Two can play at this game.

  She nearly scoffed at the thought. Grayson Hawthorne might play for a second or two, but in three he’d be ready to throttle someone. Namely, her.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” she said, slipping into the familiar role like slipping on a velvet cape. “Is that you, Dickie Webster? And Devon Bly. Goodness, it’s Wade Richmond. Such handsome men you’ve grown up to be.”

  They tugged on their lapels importantly and smoothed their hair like preening peacocks. Grayson crossed his arms on his chest and looked grimly amused.

  Megan, however, didn’t look amused at all.

  “Of course you all remember one another,” the woman said, her smile tight. “How could any of us forget Sophie? Especially after that memorable day when we all heard her voice on the gramophone. A silly child’s toy, really, playing a silly child’s game. But it was fun.”

  Dick Webster and Devon Bly laughed appreciatively. Grayson stood away from the column, suddenly tense as his gaze met Sophie’s. Megan looked between them all yet again, her eyes glittering like jewels beneath the chandelier.

  “You remember that day, don’t you, Sophie, dear?” she asked, her voice creamy with barely hidden delight.

  Sophie’s heart pounded. Remember? How could she forget? A child’s prank, but one that had mortified a young girl who had never quite learned how to navigate the precarious waters of childhood and making friends. Music she had always understood. Music had made sense. But childish games and practical jokes left her stunned and hurting.

  She knew it shouldn’t affect her. As an adult she should look back and laugh. But all she remembered was Megan tricking her into talking into the brass speaking tube, uttering words that had been so important to her. Then Megan had taken that machine and played it aloud for a group of laughing peers—and Grayson. Sophie especially cared that Grayson had heard.

  But the worst part was that he had done nothing. Only watched. Only stared. His young eyes had narrowed in the harsh gaslight that had painted all his friends in gold, as if he were furious.

  Why had he stood there? Why hadn’t he said anything?

  Sophie shook the questions away, the glittering crystal lights coming into focus. She stared at Grayson, and cursed herself for a fool that such a childish prank still had the power to hurt her.

  She tore her gaze away from Grayson, fighting back the red that wanted to resurface in her cheeks. “I can’t say that I do remember, Megan.” She laughed an especially practiced laugh, the sound like silken honey.

  “Really?” Megan responded, her brow raised. “If only I could find that talking machine I could play it again to remind you. I’m sure it would make you laugh at how silly we all were back then. I wonder what happened to it? I don’t think I saw it again after that day.”

  Sophie hoped like Hades it was never seen again.

  Patrice chose that moment to join them with the conductor in tow. He was still a tall, elegant man. She thought of her mother, and it was all she could do not to squeeze her eyes closed.

  Her stepmother. Niles. Megan, and even Grayson. Suddenly she felt like the ugly duckling she had always been, awkward, and underneath paddling frantically just to keep afloat.

  “Sophie,” Patrice chimed. “You remember Mr. Niles Prescott, don’t you?” She smiled up at the man. “I am told he is quite renowned in the music world.”

  “Miss Wentworth,” the man said formally, bowing low, as if he hardly knew her.

  How many times had he come to Swan’s Grace for tea? How many times had he regaled her mother with wonderful stories of his years in Europe as a musician? His years conducting Bach? Sophie had hung on every word, enamored of the exciting life he had led.

  If her mother hadn’t spent so much time with the man, would her father not have become so enamored of Patrice?

  When he straightened and met her gaze, his light eyes bored into her. “It is a pleasure to see you again. I read the article in The Century and was as intrigued as the rest of the world.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prescott. I see you’ve done well for yourself.” She couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice. “I hope to attend a performance at the Music Hall before I return to Europe in May.”

  She felt more than saw Grayson’s sudden tension. The sensation confused her, since no doubt he would be thrilled to death at the thought of her moving out of Swan’s Grace.

  But her thoughts were interrupted when the conductor said, “Actually, I had hoped you might honor us with a performance of your own. It is time that Boston’s very own, much-talented daughter played an official concert in our city.”

  Her heart leaped, beating in that low, all-encompassing way, filling her, surrounding her. To play in Boston. To stand onstage in the Music Hall, the lights trained on her. How often had she dreame
d of just that?

  But that wouldn’t happen. It was too late. She wouldn’t play for the denizens of Boston because, as Deandra had not so subtly pointed out, she would curl their hair. She had returned to forge a relationship with her father, not ruin it for good.

  “I’m afraid that is impossible,” she said.

  The man stiffened, Patrice gasped her outrage. Grayson looked on with considering appraisal.

  Anxious to get away, Sophie grasped at the first exit she could take. “Oh, look,” she said. “I believe dinner is being served.”

  Patrice instantly glanced around. Indeed, a footman was announcing the meal. Without a word, she gathered her skirts and quickly made her way to the dining room.

  The conductor regained his composure. “Perhaps I can change your mind.” He extended his arm. “Will you allow me to escort you in to dinner?”

  But Grayson stepped forward, taking her arm possessively. “I’ll be escorting Miss Wentworth this evening.”

  Niles stammered until Megan stepped forward. “Niles, darling, will you be good enough to escort me into the dining room?” she asked. “My husband is nowhere to be seen.”

  The conductor shrugged and nodded his head, then proto dinner with Megan at his side.

  As soon as they were well away, Sophie pulled her arm free. “Thank you for that,” she said sincerely. “The last thing I need is to be hounded by Niles Prescott all night.”

  She started for the dining room, but was stopped when Grayson gently took her arm once again.

  “I was serious when I told Prescott that I am escorting you this evening.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To keep the long line of suitors at bay.”

  Sophie laughed, growing relieved, curling her hand through the crook of his arm without thinking. “There has been a long line this evening, hasn’t there?”

  Grayson scowled. “Hasn’t anyone taught you the fine art of being modest?”

  “Of course.” Her eyes sparked with amusement. “But it seems an unnecessary waste of time. At least around you.”

  With a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, he pulled her close. Her eyes widened, then drifted to his lips.