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thoughts concealed as his father's angry voice sliced through the room.
    He had woken up at the Hotel Vendome, his mood dangerous as he remembered Conrad Wentworth. Then he remembered the man's daughter, and his mood changed, though it hadn't gotten much better.
    Sophie.
    A constant in his life from the day she was born, she had followed him around, constantly talking, always asking questions. A whirlwind of trouble he had pulled out of more scraps than he cared to count.
    But there had also been a day when she had tried to save him.
    At the memory he felt the easing of that hardness in his heart. It was always the same when he thought of Sophie.
    Three months ago the match had seemed perfect. Two old Boston families coming together. A shared past that had meaning.
    But last night she had been different from the way he remembered her. She had changed. Or was he fooling himself?
    In truth, at Conrad's birthday gala she had smiled with a confidence and self-possession that not many women had. On the surface she had been the picture of propriety, wearing a stunning though demure gown, her hair decorous, her jewels subtle. But her eyes had flashed something not proper at all. Like a fire carefully banked.
    In truth, there had always been that glimpse of boldness in Sophie. As a child she had always had a hint of independence. As an adult it appeared that hint had become a full-fledged streak that not many men could tame.
    His brow furrowed against the thought that it was those things that had intrigued him. Intrigued him enough that after leaving The Fens last night, he had nearly gone back to Swan's Grace, despite propriety, to sleep in his own bed—with her in it. Just the thought of her made his blood surge hot and low. He wanted to pull her close, cup her round bottom, and press her body to his while he looked into those brown eyes flecked with green and watch them darken with awareness.
    Cursing silently, he reined in his thoughts.
    He hadn't returned. He wouldn't put it past Sophie Wentworth to send word to every paper in town that he had stayed there. Hell, she'd probably write the article herself— as if she needed an ounce more attention than she had already received from being featured in
The Century
.
    Clearly the woman didn't subscribe to the dictate that a woman's name should appear in print only twice in a lifetime, first when she married, then again when she died. And the last thing he needed was a scandal.
    Grayson shook his head. There had been too many scandals of late in the Hawthorne family. His younger brother Matthew had been ensnared in one that had rocked proper Bostonians to the core, and had had every New Englander riveted to the daily newspapers as the events unfolded. Matthew was married now, to an intriguing woman who had changed his life. The Hawthornes loved Finnea. Even Bradford had grudgingly conceded that she was good for his middle son. But it hadn't always been that way.
    Then there was Lucas, the youngest. He hadn't caused a scandal. But as the sole owner of Nightingale's Gate gentleman's club, he lived one. Grayson was not about to add fuel to the family fire.
    He knew his father was counting on him to marry Sophie. The coming together of the two old, distinguished families would be a renewal. It was one of the few times Grayson's intentions had coincided with his father's constant schemes and plans to better the Hawthorne name. Or at least they had coincided until last night. Now he wasn't so sure.
    "Damn it, I want to know what you've been doing for the last three months," Bradford Hawthorne demanded, pulling Grayson out of his reverie. "I thought the contracts had been signed. But now you stand there and tell me things are up in the air. I demand to know what is going on?"
    Grayson shot his father a warning glance. "My affairs are none of your concern."
    "That's the problem," Bradford shot back. "All you have had for the last decade are affairs. It's time you settled down and got married.