Chapter 42
GRACE
The party soon moved to the dining room. The first several courses brought in the smell of exotic spices.
“Our chefs are at war, you see,” Drasko explained the mix of traditional dishes and the Indian ones, though Grace’s mind stuck to the word “our.” “One cook is a master of South Indian cuisine. The other chef is English and is on the brink of quitting because he cannot learn the dozens of spices that our other cook has on the shelves.” The guests laughed.
“Everything in this life is a negotiation, a war at the start until the peace treaty is made.” His smiling eyes met Grace’s.
A month ago, she would have laughed about it or come back with a bitter answer.
But now… now it was different.
Peace treaty. Was that what this was? She had never been at war with him.
He had never explained why they were supposed to be.
Yet she sensed that when he’d married her, his knowledge of her was much greater than she had first thought.
His wasn’t a peace treaty, but rather a swift invasion—of her thoughts, her feelings, her… heart.
The butler came in. “Mr. Mawr, the guests have arrived.”
“More guests?” Grace turned to Drasko in surprise.
“The Duke and Duchess of Trent,” the butler explained.
Raised eyebrows and glances were exchanged around the table.
Drasko nodded, rose from his seat, and helped Grace up.
“What is this, Drasko?” she whispered in shock.
“A business deal.” He winked.
Grace had only been to the duke’s house once, during a ball, when she had performed for a New Year’s celebration several years ago.
She had always been and still thought she was but an exotic creature to the public.
With her talent, she was treated like a rare pet.
The wealthy didn’t necessarily have a taste for music but simply strove to surround themselves with the best. And if the newspapers and the Music Academy said Grace Sommerville was, then she was.
Never had Grace expected to see them in her own house. Granted, Drasko’s mansion was more lavish and tasteful than the duke’s.
Yet at the sight of the noble couple walking through the marble hall toward them, she felt unexplainable trepidation.
This was, indeed, some sort of game Drasko played. Grace saw clearly through their forced politeness and insincere smiles, the way they sashayed into the dining room, how they nodded at the guests, their eyes sweeping across the table.
“What a surprise!” Elias said without much enthusiasm.
The duchess flicked her hand fan. “Oh, we saw Mr. Mawr only this morning. He was so persuasive about us coming for dinner, and we are such admirers of Mrs. Mawr’s work, that when we were passing by, we simply had to pay our respect.”
They didn’t want to be here—that was obvious.
Yet they smiled politely and eventually studied the exotic dishes with curiosity, gawked at the servants dressed in traditional Indian clothes, perked their ears at the conversations about America and the Orient, and as if on cue, when Drasko set his utensils down during a conversation, did the same.
To Grace’s surprise, the rest of the guests seemed not to care for their presence.
The lawyer and the architect talked loudly to Drasko—they all owned wealth greater than the duke.
Mr. Brodia, Elias, and the banker discussed the business in New York—they knew more about the world than the duke with his dusty ideas of power.
And soon, the duke and duchess looked around as if lost. The people who surrounded them were bigger than the noblemen.
The world was changing. New money poured in.
The new rich disregarded the titles and blue blood.
Power had shifted, and now it was in the hands of the brilliant minds and daredevils who worshipped science and new ideas.
When Elias’s relation, the American banker, mentioned the President of America, the duke entered the conversation. “How do you know the man, may I ask?”
“Family friends, for years,” the banker replied with a careless shrug and resumed his conversation with Elias, while the duke nodded humbly, and his puffed-up chest deflated a notch.
Julien entertained the duchess with a discussion about the newest performance at the Royal Opera.
And Drasko observed it all, quiet satisfaction in his gaze that now and then met Grace’s and spoke the silent, “Everything is perfect.”
“Mr. Brodia! What do you do? I don’t believe we have met,” she heard the duke say.
Elias smiled into his glass.
Grace worriedly looked at Drasko.
“Imports, Your Grace,” Mr. Brodia answered most gracefully. “All sorts of imports. All across the world. America, Italy, France. France, yes. Wonderful country!”
Drasko’s lips curled, hiding a smile, and Grace held back a chuckle.
The duchess stiffened. “France? Ah, Mrs. Mawr!” She abruptly turned to Grace. “I just so happened to run into the marchioness earlier today.”
“Is that so?” Grace met her husband’s smiling eyes.
“Indeed. She informed me that you didn’t respond to the invitation to her Summer Ball. She seemed quite upset. Arrangements have been made for you to perform.”
Lies . “I did not receive the invitation,” Grace said.
“How odd! Perhaps it got lost with the courier. Well, she said that she was going to visit you, if that is all right with you. You can discuss the details. She is most excited about you being there. So is the rest of London. Your talent is unprecedented.”
Grace felt Drasko’s gaze with her every pore. It was all his doing. He was a brilliant businessman, truly. His reputation was warranted.
When the party moved to the music room, Grace sat down at the piano and played a part of the “Danse Macabre”—the piece she loved yet knew was too daring for conservative minds like the duke and duchess’s.
And all through her performance, she felt his eyes on her, felt proud to be in this room with him, and despite a dozen people, played only for her husband.
She finished the piece to loud applause, the loudest from the duchess.
“Drasko, your wife is simply perfection,” Mr. Brodia said.
“Indeed,” her husband replied, and she pursed her lips to hide a smile.
Drasko, Drasko, Drasko , she repeated his name in her mind, the syllables that tasted like potent whisky.
Laughter and chatter spread across the room.
She marveled at how carefree it was. Happy at finally hosting such a wonderful dinner, minus the duke and the duchess, she nevertheless looked forward to it being over so she could be alone with her husband—a thought she right away shamed herself for.
Though that wouldn’t happen tonight, she realized a bit later. Mr. Brodia would stay late into the evening. Elias was quite drunk, and she offered to let him stay the night.
But that was all right. For once, Grace was happy. At last, she got to meet her husband’s friends.
The duke and duchess were the first ones to leave.
The duke was quite drunk, his arm wrapped around Mr. Brodia’s shoulder as they had a heated discussion, not a clue that he had just made friends with the Bankee Syndicate.
The duchess melted under Julien’s compliments.
Their visit was Drasko’s business deal, one he had made for Grace, and she wondered why he made an effort at all, why he did all those things for her despite telling her their marriage was yet another deal.
There was a lot Drasko wasn’t telling her. She still ached to know it, know more of him, nurtured an unusual fantasy of what the two of them could be. In the future. The future she was frequently envisioning lately. The two of them. Perhaps, their children.
His children…
She couldn’t ignore anymore how her heart softened in his presence, how cheerfulness swept over her when she heard him talk about her.
She felt a foot taller by his side as they walked the duke and duchess out and were about to bid farewell to them.
“Mr. Mawr,” the duchess said with unusual ease in her gestures, “perhaps we could borrow your Indian chef sometime. I would love to have my chefs learn those wonderful recipes of yours.”
“Absolutely, Your Grace,” Drasko answered with a familiarity that would be noticed if the duke and duchess weren’t so obviously drunk.
“Oh, and, Your Grace!” Drasko wrapped his arm around Grace’s waist. “As to the auction, I will ensure that the duchess has the first look at all that we intend to display.”
“Ah!” The duke drunkenly raised his forefinger in the air. “So, the auction is in London? Do I hear you right, Mr. Mawr?”
“Yes. I decided that the Mawr treasures truly belong to the best of England.”
“You have it, dear,” the duke reassured his wife, patting her on the back, as they stumbled out.
Grace met Drasko’s eyes. A moment of silence passed between them, like this was a language of their own.
She still didn’t know what he wanted, why he had done all that for her. It was not the game of power—he’d played many, and she wasn’t part of it.
Then what?
The only thing she was sure of was that her husband had many secrets, and she didn’t know a single one of them.