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Authors: Linda Francis Lee
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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
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
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