Chapter 14
GRACE
“Miss Grace! Oh, my Lord! Miss Grace!” Eden ran into Grace’s room, panting, her cap askew. “There is a delivery for you, miss. Mr. Mawr is asking for you downstairs.”
Grace frowned. “What sort of delivery?”
“Oh, ma’am. A piano!”
Grace’s heart started humming, the tune so very happy, for the first time since her wedding day, that she darted out of the room at once.
A piano!
It was barely past noon. Surprisingly, her husband was at home. A smile flickered on her face, then grew bigger as she hurried down the grand stairs, then willed herself to slow down.
Not so eager.
But her heart didn’t agree. It threatened to jump out of her chest as she stepped into the music room.
It was a wonderful, light-filled space with giant windows, parquet floors, exotic instruments lining up the perimeter, and colorful frescos on the ceiling.
Drasko and several of his men stood talking, their chatter dying out as they noticed her.
They parted to reveal a clavichord behind them.
“I got you what you wished for, wife,” her husband said, the words so bitter she could hear the poison from a mile away.
Her eyes on the musical instrument, so small and lonely in the center of the room, Grace took a step toward it.
Another step—her eyes roamed the old keyboard, several keys sunken.
Another slow step—the hum in her chest turned into a false tune.
One more—she noticed the scraped paint, the faded polish, the edges so beat up it looked a hundred years old.
The false tune in her head grew into screeching. This wasn’t a gift but an insult.
Slowly, she turned to look at her husband. The beautiful bastard stood with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked, his shameless green eyes on her.
“You got me this ?” her voice broke, her heart sinking.
“You get what you strive for, wife.”
“This is garbage,” she said.
“You are too quick to forget the conversation we had days ago. I will remind you. The necessary minimum, you said.”
She remembered perfectly well what she had said.
He studied the old thing with feigned attentiveness. “I thought I’d do the same. After all, a marriage is a contract, is it not?” He turned his smirk to her.
She wanted to slap it off his face.
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said.
No.
She would poison him again, certainly.
“I shall not touch it,” she responded quietly. “Do you know who I am?”
“You know what they say? That the greatest musicians can play angelic music on the most devilish keys. Your talent, darling”—he walked up to the clavichord and tapped it with the tip of his shoe—“should shine through the broken keys and poorly tuned strings. After all, you seem to have been fond of used goods in the past.”
She gasped. “How dare you? I shall not… this… this garbage”—she nodded toward the instrument—“is an insult to my skills.”
“Very well.” He snapped his fingers.
In seconds, his men dragged the clavichord out of the room.
“Good,” she said bitterly and walked out just to see it being hauled out of the mansion.
Her husband followed her, his leisurely assertive steps echoing behind her, a cunning smile on his face.
His men took the clavichord outside and set the old thing down in the middle of the green lawn, among the rose beds. One of them took a jar and sprinkled the liquid out of it onto the instrument.
“What—” Grace frowned, watching them from the front steps.
Another man struck a match and threw it at the clavichord.
“No!” Grace shouted.
But it was too late. A fire engulfed it.
She rushed toward it. “You can’t do this!” she yelled at the men. “Put it out! It’s an instrument!”
She covered her mouth with her hand, horrified at the sight of the flames among the rose beds.
The fire only grew higher, while the men watched, hands in their pockets.
“Aw, but it is garbage,” a mocking voice came from behind her. Her husband strode toward her, lighting a cigarette. “It is not up to your standards, darling.” He took a deep drag and flicked the match into the fire.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “If you intended to punish me, it is working.”
“I am simply holding the negotiations. I’ve told you the deal is only?—”
“As good as the parties fulfilling it,” she cut in, her eyes on the clavichord, then on him, her heart weeping for the loss.
“Correct. This piano is the minimum effort. It is as good as your side of the bargain.”
She balled her fists at her sides, fighting through the sting. “What do you want?” she gritted out.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, then inspected the tip of his cigarette for some time, testing her patience.
“Three things from you.” He raised his calm eyes at her. “Respect, marital duties, and heirs. At least until I have no interest in this arrangement, and I can let you go.”
“Tyrant,” she whispered but held his gaze.
“We can start with the first one on the list. No insults—that would be nice.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “I hate you.”
He smiled coldly. “That’ll change. They say the road from hate to love is a dark one. Only when you see the light ahead do you know you have arrived on the other side.”
“How poetic. But wishful thinking.”
“I need you to understand something.” He stuck one of his hands in his pocket.
“This marriage was arranged by someone else. The headlines already run all sorts of damaging accusations. It is my fault, not yours. I don’t care about my reputation, but I need peace of mind.
You will do your best to show respect and consideration.
And I will do the same because we need to keep things civil between us and in public. ”
Finally, he was admitting the reason behind their marriage.
“The second agenda comes next. I do expect you to fulfill your wife’s duties. And not the necessary minimum. I’ve changed my mind. I want it consistent.” He cocked his brow at her. “Perhaps, we can agree on a schedule.”
“A schedule?” she mocked.
“Yes. Business requires a plan. I promise to be a gentleman, and you shall learn to please —a concept perhaps foreign to you, but I heard you are a great student.”
Bastard. “I shall hate every minute of it.”
“Wishful thinking, darling,” he said with a straight face. “You shall forget hating the moment you realize that my attention can be quite satisfying. When your little vain heart survives the storm, you might even ask for it again.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
Anger spiked inside her, betrayed by the blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Boy, is it hot here,” he mocked her, as the clavichord was smoking like an old furnace. “As to the heirs? We can wait until you are ready. I am a patient man.”
She wanted to call him names but couldn’t find the words. She imagined what he would do if she suddenly vanished. Perhaps, she could stay with Rivka. Work in a drug store? Teach music?
Ah, that was the rub. Grace would have to say goodbye to her music career and the concerts and the stages and?—
Music, yes.
All through the years with the guardians who never loved her, the friends she could never have around, her life carefully scheduled up to every hour of every day, Grace never had anything but her music.
No, no, she could not give it up.
And this man—her heart beat wildly as she stood her ground—could be a tyrant, indeed.
Nothing she wasn’t used to. But he could allow her to create.
This house was an exotic cage, with its fountains and opulent furniture, Asian statues and a greenhouse with plumerias and mango trees and palms and wonderful flowers—but a cage, nevertheless.
What did Grace do when she had no escape? She played. And she sang. And she wrote her best pieces when she was at her worst. The best music was created by torment. There was no haunting beauty in peace.
So be it.
This was, indeed, a business deal.
“Very well,” she said bravely, suddenly relieved at the decision. “Let’s make a deal. In exchange, I can keep friendships with whoever I want. I go wherever I want. You shall not limit my freedom.”
Her husband’s head tilted just a little—a momentary surprise in his eyes, only a second of it that she caught and held on to with triumph.
A minuscule smirk tugged at his lips. “You have no notion of freedom. But whatever you think it is, have at it.”
At the snap of his fingers, his men put out the fire.
Grace looked at the charred shape of the poor clavichord and swallowed the hurt and harsh words that begged to come out.
“This piano,” he said right behind her, his voice surprisingly soft this time, without a hint of usual coldness, “was a used one and belonged to someone else. Perhaps, your supposed marriage to Charles wasn’t what you truly needed.”
For a brief second, Charles’s face appeared before her, then the memory of the floral perfume on him on their wedding day, then him walking out on her.
She hated them, those visions. She resented the stranger who had forced her into this marriage and was probably right. Deep down inside, she knew he was, and she hated that too.
Only nine years older than her, he had sailed all around the world, lived in two countries, seen dozens more, helped build a diamond empire.
What did she have? Nothing, not even a family.
What had she done in her past? She had simply used the only thing she’d been lucky to have—her talent.
Was it worth surviving everything else?
Grace bit her lip, holding back tears. She was already starting to learn from him—everything was a business deal, and the answer to her question was simple. Yes. A thousand times yes. What else did she have left but her music?
His men were smoking and watching her. So were the maids peeking from behind the doorway and the windows.
Grace took a deep breath and summoned her courage. She walked up to her husband and looked him in the eyes.
He watched her in silence, the smoke from his cigarette curling in the air between them.
Grace nodded. “Business it is. Do I have to learn more about my husband from newspapers? Or will he spare me his attention from time to time? So that when we are in public and they ask me questions, I can answer”—she summoned all her bitterness—“with respect ”—she faked a smile—“at least a few of them.”
He cocked his head, that little motion she noticed when he was either curious or daring. “I suppose there is a lot to discuss.”
“I agree,” she said with determination. “I shall make this work, at least for the foreseeable future. If this is to work, there would be many rules. Before I was your wife, I was Grace Sommerville. My talent belongs to the people. I’d like you to respect that too.
We cannot give up who we are, so we shall pretend to be who we are not.
This will be perhaps the grandest performance of my life. ”
His lips pursed just a little to hide a smile. “I cannot wait. You have always been great at performing, Mrs. Mawr.”
Anger flared inside her. Hurt twisted her heart. She broke their stare, turned on her heel, and walked away. Pacing herself, taming her hurt, she marched across the lawn toward the house and felt his eyes on her all the way to the door.