Stroke of Genius (17 page)

Galatea had consumed all his energy while he created her. Now that she was slipping from him, she devoured Pygmalion’s soul.

Crispin waited in the anteroom outside the grand dining room but Wyckham had warned him that every room in Clairmont was designed to awe, so he opened one of the double doors to take a quick peek inside.

“Well, Hawke,” the marquess’s voice rustled quietly behind him. “Let us not stand on ceremony. Go on in. Tell me. What do you think of my ceiling?”

Crispin craned his neck and turned an appraising eye upward. Pagan goddesses were interspersed with Christian saints in a mishmash of disjointed scenes separated by the curved spines of the high ceiling’s supporting arches.

“Reminds me of the Sistine Chapel,” he said after a few minutes study of the overembellished vault. “The artist obviously studied the original. Similar ornamentation, unfortunately dissimilar execution. Whoever your artist was, he charged you too much.”

“My thoughts exactly, though you’d never convince my mother of it,” Dorset said gruffly. “How do you find the cottage?”

“It’s comfortable enough for tonight,” Crispin said. The place Dorset called “the cottage” might have been the manor house on a lesser estate. “Tomorrow I’ll see if it’s light enough for my work.”

Lord Dorset eyed Crispin speculatively. “I’m curious,
Hawke. Artistic geniuses don’t sprout from the ground like cabbage. From whence do you hail?”

He groaned inwardly. The less said about his past, the better.

“I find the public enjoys a bit of mystery surrounding artistic types. Besides, I believe in looking forward, not back,” Crispin said as the sound of approaching footsteps made his head turn.
Speaking of looking forward…

Grace was coming down the long corridor wearing that delectable chocolate and midnight blue gown. Long limbed and elegant, she might have been a goddess descending to join them. Just seeing her determined stride made his heart lighter and convinced him that truth and beauty still existed in the world.

“Blast! Not that bloody brown and blue thing again,” the marquess muttered with disgust. “Hasn’t the girl any other gowns?”

“None that are worthy of her,” Crispin returned smoothly, wondering at both the marquess’s eyesight and his sense.

“Well, that is something I’ll remedy once she is mine. A marchioness ought never wear the same gown twice,” Dorset said and pushed past Crispin to meet Grace before she reached the dining room door.

All the air fled from Crispin’s lungs. If the marquess had punched him in the gut, it wouldn’t have hurt as badly. Crispin knew the marquess was interested in Grace, but his tone was so blasé about making Grace his wife, it was as if it was already fact.

This had started as a game. A lark. Pull a fast one on Polite Society and fashion a bumptious Bostonian miss into the toast of the town.

For an unworthy moment, Crispin almost wished Grace would trip and fall headlong on the red and gold carpet runner. The marquess would probably not
find her clumsiness as endearing as Crispin did. It was all that reminded him she wasn’t an angel who’d temporarily shed her wings.

But no, he really didn’t want her to fall. She might be injured or embarrassed and Crispin couldn’t bear that.

When the marquess made his obeisance over her hand and lingered in his kiss on her knuckles, Crispin vowed not to see her hurt any other way either.

He’d not lost one of his “games” in a very long time, and he was very near to winning this one. Grace was about to bag her titled husband. But in winning the game, Crispin would be actually the loser.

If Grace wanted to be a marchioness, so be it. But the bastard better treat her like the queen she was.

Growing up rough in Cheapside taught him there were lots of ways for a man to die. Crispin would see the marquess found one if he ever made her shed a single tear.

Jasper Washburn stared at his plate. Yes, it was Limoges. Yes, it was embossed with the marquess’s gilt crest. Yes, it was heaped with roast duckling and eel pie and a cranberry and raisin concoction Lady Sheppleton declared “simply divine,” but Lord Washburn’s plate did not make him happy.

It was not located in the correct place.

He was seated at the farthest end of the marquess’s long table, with Lady Sheppleton on his left and her simpleton of a nephew, Manfred, across from him. There was an empty seat to his right at the foot of the table, where the marchioness should have been sitting. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so humiliating if she’d been there, but they were informed Lord Dorset’s mother was dining “en suite.”

“You’re not eating, Brother,” Mary said from her seat
next to Lady Sheppleton’s nephew, the future Lord Brumford, should he ever find a woman daft enough to marry him.

Jasper felt mildly guilty about throwing Mary to that particular wolf, but she was timid enough not to complain. He’d even seen his sister and Manfred Brumford in quiet conversation from time to time. Mary was the sort to make anyone feel more comfortable, but even she couldn’t resist gazing toward the head of the table where Lord Dorset and the more favored guests were seated. “I seem to have lost my appetite,” Jasper replied.

“You’re not the only one,” Manfred piped up between stuffing huge bites into his gaping maw. “Looks like Mr. Hawke is off his feed, too.”

Jasper glanced up the table toward the end that tilted toward the power in the room. Lord Dorset had placed Grace Makepeace on his left hand and her mother at his right. Mr. Makepeace was at his daughter’s side and Hawke was across from him next to Mrs. Makepeace.

“He’s sitting next to my cousin Minerva,” Jasper said sourly. “What would you expect?”

“My lord, such a remark may be honest, but it’s hardly worthy of you. That’s the sort of observation a gentleman keeps to himself,” Lady Sheppleton said primly.

If only she knew the observations he was keeping to himself about her!

He’d have been perfectly happy to switch seats with Crispin Hawke, even if it meant sitting next to Minerva, whose gushing enthusiasm strained his last nerve. But he’d brave Minerva if it would get him farther from Lady Sheppleton and closer to Cousin Grace.

Besides, he was a baron and Lord Dorset’s neighbor. He was the scion of an old and venerable English family. Why should he be relegated to the far end while
some nobody of an artist basked in the light of Grace Makepeace and her lovely dowry?

Perhaps the marquess had caught wind of Mary’s indiscretion and was punishing him for his sister’s sins. Or perhaps Dorset realized Jasper was a rival for Grace’s affections and that’s why he’d been disrespected. But after the grandeur of Clairmont, how could he tempt Grace with his little Burnside Manor?

Lord Dorset leaned one elbow on the table and spoke confidingly to Grace. She laughed and then her gaze darted toward the artist. Hawke was staring back at her.

Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before? He’d thought Crispin Hawke merely one of those insufferable “self-made” men who seemed to be sprouting up everywhere.

In a world where Beau Brummell, the son of a tailor, could rise to have the Prince of Wales’s confidence and friendship, many such nobodies were under the misapprehension that breeding no longer mattered. Hawke thought he could claw his way into the upper echelons of society.

He is panting after Grace, too.

Jasper tucked that little gem of information into his pocket and wondered how best to make use of it.

“Oh, Lord Washburn,” Lady Sheppleton said. “Do you recall that matter we decided needed further investigation?”

Crispin Hawke’s background.
“Indeed, I do. Has your agent discovered anything of note?”

She dabbed her thin lips with her linen napkin and smiled. “Oh yes. Quite a bit of fascinating information. And I fear most of the intelligence is severely damaging to the subject of the investigation.”

Her smile betrayed no fear whatsoever.

“I look forward to hearing more,” Jasper said.

“What are you talking about?” his sister asked.

“Something that needn’t concern you,” Jasper snapped. He raised a brow at his partner in crime. “Shall we meet later in the library to discuss our mutual interests, Lady Sheppleton?”

“Quite,” she said with a nod. Then her sharp gaze snapped to her nephew. “Slow down, Manfred. That duck isn’t going anywhere.”

But evidently Crispin Hawke was.

The artist pushed back from the table, mumbling what sounded like apologies. He bowed to his host and the ladies at the favored end of the table. Then he nodded in the direction of the less favored and limped out of the dining room, leaving his plate untouched.

Grace’s gaze followed him until he disappeared down the long hall.

“Suddenly, my appetite is returned,” Jasper said as he attacked his eel pie with gusto.

All he had to do was figure out how to best use Hawke’s and Dorset’s rivalry for Grace, judiciously mixed with Lady Sheppleton’s nasty little tidbits, to further his own ends.

Pygmalion undoubtedly made many mistakes in her creation, but there was no denying Galatea was fashioned with love.

And for love.

Since there was no hostess at the dinner, the ladies did not withdraw for tea in the parlor. Neither did the gentlemen retire to the smoking room for cigars and brandy, a situation Grace suspected sucked a good deal of pleasure from the evening for her father. Her mother, however, was in high spirits and once they all moved to the splendid music room, it took very little coaxing to persuade her to sing “The Maid of the Mill” while Cousin Mary played the piano.

Grace had longed to follow Crispin when he excused himself from supper, but unless she could plead a convincing headache—and she’d never developed any theatrical talent—she was stuck with the whole party for the duration of the evening. She couldn’t remember what the topic of conversation had been when he made his exit, but the tension in his jaw told her he was upset.

Lord Dorset insisted Grace share a spot on the padded window seat with him. It left them in full view of the rest of the company, but able to have a quiet, private conversation.

“Tell me, Miss Makepeace,” the marquess leaned over and whispered to her as her mother launched into the second verse. “Do you also fancy yourself a singer?”

“No, my lord,” she whispered back. “That gift did not fall on me.”

Cousin Jasper was moved to join in on the chorus and splatted out a singularly bad high note.

“It appears the gift missed others as well, but you at least have the good sense not to advertise it,” Lord Dorset said. “Do you play?”

“Nothing more complicated than a tambourine,” she admitted. Perhaps her lack of accomplishments would make the marquess look elsewhere.

“Good. Nothing is more tiring than amateur performances, though your cousin has a deft touch on the ivories.” His gaze lingered on Mary for a few heartbeats before he turned back to Grace. “What do you do?”

“I read. And I write.”

“I also enjoy quiet evenings with a book. Do you have a favorite?”

Grace noted that he skated past asking about her writing in favor of less personal conversation. Even so, while the rest of the party entertained itself with an impromptu concert and sing-along, Grace decided the marquess seemed a thoroughly decent, perfectly honorable English gentleman. He was the sort of fellow Grace could see herself spending time with in companionable silence, like a pair of old stockings comfortably rolled together and stashed in the same drawer.

But when his arm brushed against hers, there were no sparks, no flutters of awareness. No little faerie of pleasure danced up her arm.

“I met the marchioness earlier,” she whispered after wondering whether to tell his lordship she’d found his mother in the darkened portrait gallery. She wasn’t prepared to discuss the strange likeness of Lord Dorset’s father with anyone yet. “She was kind enough to show me to your library.”

“Kind, eh? Then you must not have met
my
mother.”

Grace flinched in surprise. It was the sort of acerbic comment she expected from Crispin, not a well-bred lord.

Cousin Jasper launched into a recitation of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” The direction of the entertainment could only lead down from this point. Grace decided even if it wasn’t convincing, it was time to feign a headache. She asked Lord Dorset to excuse her.

“Not at all, Miss Makepeace.” He stood and extended a hand to assist her. “Allow me to see you safely to your chamber. This house is the sort that goes off in odd directions if one is unfamiliar with it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, “but oughtn’t we wait till Lord Washburn is finished with his recitation so we can bid the others good evening?”

He shook his head and led her from the music room. “One of the privileges of rank is that one may come and goes as one pleases and there is none to gainsay it. I daresay Mr. Hawke had the right idea when he made good his escape during the meal.”

“Are you a recluse then?” she asked as they walked from one grand room to the next gilded space.

“No, just one who cannot abide the artifice of society. You may have noticed I am not at home in the whirl of London. And once the rest of the house party arrives tomorrow, the increased number will only have moved the mindless activity of the
ton
to my doorstep.”

In the exotic trophy room, the marquess put a hand to the small of her back to guide her around the elephantfoot ottoman.

Again no reaction, pleasurable or otherwise, greeted his touch.

Perhaps because he seemed to be saying he regretted their presence in his home.

“If you did not wish us to come here, you should not have invited us, my lord.”

He laughed.

“I didn’t say anything funny.” She hadn’t meant to in any case.

“No, I laugh because you make it possible to breathe, Miss Makepeace.” He smiled at her and she recognized his mother’s smile on his face, sardonic and cynical. “Do you have any idea how many people would dare speak so bluntly to me?”

“Not many, I suppose.”

“None who didn’t outrank me, and there are precious few of those,” he said as they mounted the grand stairs side by side.

Grace noticed that he was very nearly her match for height. Her mother had been right to insist upon heelless slippers for her this evening.

“Let us speak frankly then, Miss Makepeace. You are here because I am considering whether we are well suited. I must confess, my estimation of your worth continues to grow.”

“May I take that as a compliment to me and not, as the gentlemen at White’s believe, a speculation on the size of my dowry?”

He laughed again. “Indeed, you may. You are a woman who knows the value of silence and yet when you do speak, it’s almost always worth hearing.”

“Almost?”

He shook his head as they arrived at her chamber door. “You must forgive me. I am not accustomed to courting. My tongue is not as glib as it ought to be.”

Her belly reacted with a quick roil instead of a flutter of excitement. Claudette’s ribald comments about how rare it was to find an Englishman who knew what to do with his tongue flitted through her mind.

What was wrong with her? A peer of the realm was courting her! And all she could do was fight off wicked thoughts of Crispin Hawke and how well he might use his tongue.

“You don’t seem the type to be easily shocked, so I’m going to confide in you a bit about the House of Dorset. My father cut a wide swath with the ladies,” he said. “He was frightfully indiscreet and his affairs embittered my mother till she was unrecognizable. If you met her, you probably already know that.”

She couldn’t protest the truth, but it might be considered bad form to agree with such an assessment. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt his feelings, so Grace remained silent.

“I do not possess my father’s astounding good looks or his easy charm,” he said. “But I flatter myself that I possess other attributes of a more constant nature.”

The marquess took one of her gloved hands and brought it to his lips. “I would be honored if you would call me Richard.”

Her jaw dropped. Her mother was right. Lord Dorset was serious about her. Panic bloomed in her chest.

“Richard,” she repeated woodenly.

“And may I call you Grace?”

“It is my name.”

“Good night, then, Grace.”

To her dismay, he leaned forward to kiss her, but she turned her head at the last possible moment so his lips bussed her cheek.

“Good night, my lor—Richard.”

She pushed open her door and scuttled through it sideways to escape quicker. She leaned against it and the latch closed behind her with a satisfying click. It was several moments before she heard Lord Dorset’s
footsteps retreating from her threshold. Only then did she dare breathe.

Grace wrapped her arms around herself to keep from unraveling in all directions and began to pace.

She didn’t feel insane. Of course, an insane person wasn’t likely to recognize insanity, was she? And yet she knew she must be.

Lord Dorset—Richard—was a good man. An honorable man. A wealthy and titled man. He couldn’t have been better designed to please her mother if she’d ordered him by pattern and had him stitched up to suit her.

And there was no way Grace could marry him. Not in good conscience.

Not as long as Crispin Hawke was all she could think of. If she could feel a little warmth for the marquess, just a brief flicker. One-tenth of the ache Grace felt for Crispin might do.

Her bedchamber was suddenly too close, the air so stifling she couldn’t push it in and out of her lungs for another breath. She opened the French doors and stepped out onto the fine terrazzo-tiled balcony.

Except for the hunting call of an owl and the constant scritching sound of insects, the night was perfectly quiet.

Then, just on the edge of sound, she heard it. The rhythmic strike of a hammer on the blunt end of a chisel, interspersed with a cleaving sound and the clatter of stone giving way.

She didn’t know where the sound was coming from, but she knew its source. Crispin was working in the cottage. The sound of his blows traversed the distance between them by some quirk of acoustics, bouncing off a hillock, ricocheting off the stables and hammering away at her heart.

He chipped away pieces of her. A little off her inhibitions here, a mighty whack on her conscience there. Bits of the armor she’d carefully constructed to shield herself from him were falling to the slag pile at her feet.

She heard frustration in his relentless strikes. Agony. Need. A lump formed in her throat and defied her attempts to swallow it away.

A night breeze rose and ruffled her hair. It didn’t matter. No breeze would cool the rising fire in her blood. She stood motionless as a statue, waiting for the lamps to be extinguished on the lower floors and Lord Dorset’s houseguests to retire for the night.

Then she would answer Crispin’s summons. She’d follow his hammer strikes straight to him and if there was anything left of her when she got there, she’d willingly give him every bit of herself.

And if she lost all, so be it.