Stroke of Genius (4 page)

“How fortunate for you and yet you seem to know little of men.”

“On the contrary, I know something of
gentlemen,
” she said pointedly.

“You say that as if you think there is a qualitative
difference between one man and another. I stand by my first impression. You know very little of men.” He led her to a stool with a back behind a tall table and indicated that she should sit. “You will pose here while I make the preliminary sketch.”

“This is to be a sculpture, not a drawing,” she said as she hitched herself on the padded seat.

“Trust me, Grace. I’ve done this before. You couldn’t bear to hold a pose as long as it will take me to carve your hands. Allow me.” He propped her elbows on the table and began trying different gestures. She forced herself to let her arms and hands go limp while he manipulated them. “Once we create a composition we can agree upon, I’ll make several detailed sketches. Tomorrow you’ll return for the casting.”

“The what?”

“I’ll render your sculpture in clay first,” he explained. “Then I use a pointing machine to copy the cast to stone.”

He nodded toward a device in the corner with a long needle protruding from a wooden arm.

“You carve the stone with a needle?”

“No, I only use the pointer to mark specific details and depths on the stone. Hammer and chisel, those are my brush and oils. The sculptor’s art hasn’t changed much since the dawn of time.” He stepped back, frowning down at her hands. “No, this won’t do.”

She pulled them back and folded them on her lap. “I know they aren’t my best feature.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with your hands, Grace, but a piece of art should speak. The only thing I can make them say is ‘I’m capable.’ Not exactly the message you hope to send your future titled husband, I’ll wager.”

Capable.
It’s what one would say of a draft horse or a
hunting dog or a punctilious accountant. Her belly plummeted downward, but she shot him a glare. She would not give him permission to insult her by keeping silent.

“Perhaps I should put my long-sleeved gown back on and find some gloves to cover my annoyingly capable—”

“Gloves!” He cupped her cheeks and planted a quick kiss on her mouth. “You’re brilliant.”

The kiss startled the breath out of her.

Crispin slowly leaned in again, covering her lips for a longer kiss. He slanted his mouth over hers, running the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips.

Tasting her.

There was a roaring in her ears, an ocean pounding in her head. Her world spiraled down to the exquisite sureness of his mouth on hers, to the feather of his breath on her cheek, to the roughness of his chin against her smooth one. She couldn’t move. If she did, the spell might break. All she could do was bunch the extra fabric of the palla in her lap between her tightly scrunched fingers.

Then he suddenly pulled away and turned his back on her as if nothing had happened. He made for the doorway in his canting stride, bellowing for Wyckham.

Good Lord!
Grace gasped and brought her fingertips to her lips. They were still tingling.
I just sat here. As if I were made of stone. Why didn’t I do something?

She had done something, she realized with a sigh. She’d let Crispin Hawke kiss her silly.

And she hadn’t wanted it to end.

Most people see the world as a splash of color. Pygmalion’s world was merely line and form, light and shadow, but he was untroubled by narrowness of his vision. The simplicity gave his soul room to breathe.

Crispin closed his eyes.
I must be mad.

“Wyckham!” His voice reverberated through the atrium and returned to him in overlapping echoes.

I should be locked away.

“You called, sir.” Wyckham loped toward the studio at a dogtrot, tucking his shirttail in as he came. Evidently, he’d taken Crispin’s order to entertain Miss Makepeace’s maid to heart.

But Crispin couldn’t chide his servant for rash behavior when he’d just committed a major sin of his own.

Bedlam would be too good for me.

It was bad enough that he’d kissed a virgin. It was insanity that he’d
enjoyed
it! His mouth still watered and his cock was downright jubilant. If he wasn’t covered with a leather apron he’d have disgraced himself with the evidence of his arousal.

“Bring Miss Makepeace a pair of opera gloves.”

Wyckham’s brows tented in curiosity, but he turned to do Crispin’s bidding.

And now, I have to face her.

It wasn’t even a passionate kiss. It was chaste. Unbearably sweet.

And the finest, purest thing that had ever happened to him.

He drew a deep breath, schooled his features into a sardonic mask and turned around, determined not to let her see how she’d affected him.

“There’s a reason gloves are such a good idea. You see, my dear Grace, sometimes it’s what a man
can’t
see that truly piques his interest.” His voice was surprisingly steady considering how his gut was jumping. “That is the principle we will use for your sculpture.”

She blinked at him in surprise. Her mouth opened and shut twice.

Please, don’t. Don’t speak of it. If we don’t acknowledge the kiss, we can pretend it didn’t happen.

She cleared her throat and he despaired. It would start any moment and he couldn’t blame her. A virgin would be within her rights to rant at him now. Or maybe demand he marry her. Even though he wasn’t the titled lord she obviously sought, he was fabulously wealthy, which made him an attractive matrimonial target and why he avoided virgins as if they bore cholera. Miss Makepeace might just decide to trap him.

But instead, she ran the pointed tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.

His cock twitched in agony.

“Well, that was…interesting,” she said softly as though to herself. Then she looked up at him, her Botticelli angel face all flushed and rosy. “Will you explain something for me? Why does a man find what he
can’t
see compelling?”

She’d chosen to ignore the ill-considered kiss. What a sensible female.

Crispin could have kissed her again!

Fortunately Wyckham arrived with the gloves in time to knock that daft thought from his mind.

“Here. Put them on.” Crispin nearly flung them to her as Wyckham discreetly withdrew. He never allowed anyone but the subject in his studio while he worked, but he was tempted to call his servant back. Wyckham’s presence would keep him from folly, but he didn’t want the intrusion of another soul just now.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled on the silky gloves. She didn’t seem the nervous type. Even though she didn’t speak of it, the kiss must have moved her as well. Her lips drew tight with concentration as she tried to fasten the long row of buttons.

“I can’t seem to manage this,” she finally admitted.

“Allow me.” Crispin bent to help her, trying mightily not to let his fingertips brush her bare skin.

He failed.

She was soft and warm and there was a tiny brown mole near the crook of her elbow, one small imperfect spot on an otherwise exquisite arm. His soft palate ached to plant a kiss just there, to savor the salty-sweetness of her skin. He quickly hooked the loop over the button to cover it.

Her head was bent and turned away. Sometimes, he did the same when his leg ached so abominably that Wyckham insisted on dressing him. It gave them space, placed a bit of distance between them that made the service more comfortable for both.

And it seemed to work well enough with his manservant. He could cease to think of Wyckham as another person while he accepted his help with something a child should be able to do for himself.

But being this close to Grace made Crispin’s whole body tingle with awareness. She didn’t douse herself in
cloying fragrance, but her hair smelled like summer rain. He fought the urge to inhale her down to his toes.

He only had the barest of guesses who his sire might have been, but he’d never suspected madness might run in his lineage until this moment.

“Let me try this one,” Grace said as she pulled on the second glove and began to fumble with the row of buttons.

He stopped her. “No, this one we leave undone. And grasp the fingertips with your other hand so, as if you’re removing the glove. Ah! Perfect. Hold right there.”

He walked a slow circle around her, checking the angles.

This was safe. He could shelter behind his art and focus on the composition. Light and shadow, line and form, that’s all she was.

All she could ever be.

Her slim forearm was tilted just right. Enough of the glove was off to expose the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. When he stood behind her, he was offered a peek at her concave palm, hidden in the deep shadow.

The pose was seduction itself. Several parts of his anatomy would writhe in pleasure under the touch of that smooth palm. With the right man to school her in carnal arts, what might she accomplish with those oh-so-capable hands?

He took a step back and swallowed hard.

“Now, don’t move,” he ordered as he took his place at the table to begin sketching.

After several moments of silence, Grace said, “I assume you’ll allow my mouth to move.”

“Only if something of interest issues from it.” A little vinegar in his tone would suppress the lunacy their kiss had wakened.

“You haven’t answered my question, Cris.”

His brows lowered in a frown. She couldn’t know how badly that name rankled his soul.

“It’s Mr. Hawke, if you please. Or Crispin, if you must. If you call me anything else, I’ll take it as a sign that you desire our association to end abruptly. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crys…tal,” she said with a poisonous smile.

By God, the woman enjoyed baiting him. He buried his nose in his work.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Confound it! How can I work with these constant interruptions?”

“You don’t even remember what I asked, do you?”

For the life of him, he couldn’t. He was too busy trying to control his body’s reaction to her. He shook his head. “What was the question?”

“Very well,
Crispin.
For a man with a reputation for genius, you demonstrate a remarkably spotty memory,” she said dryly. “You were going to explain why a man is more taken with what he can’t see.”

Oh, Lord. Here’s a field of snares.
No wonder he’d expunged her question from his mind. No man should have to explain the allure of the unobtainable to a virgin.

“Perhaps I can show you quicker than I can explain it with words. Lower your arms to rest, but remember that pose for later.”

He brought his sketch paper over and laid it on the table before her so she could watch him work. In a few minutes, he’d done a quick line drawing of a female figure. Since Grace was an innocent, Crispin drew the nude with a demur hand covering her sex.

“The human body is fascinating. Just look at her,” Crispin said as he slid the sketch in front of Grace.
“Classically proportioned, a thing of idealized beauty. A creature of spirit and light, instead of crude matter.”

Grace nodded. “I see what you mean. There’s nothing the least prurient here, even though she’s not wearing a stitch.”

He smiled, pleased that she grasped his point so readily. Most of the
ton
delighted in feigning shock over his nudes.

“If I gave her wings you’d believe she could fly. But if I add this instead…”

With a few deft strokes, he fitted his nude with a corset that left her nipples perilously close to exposure. Her breasts had been bare before, but they hadn’t seemed erotic until he partially covered them. Now they beckoned like an unexplored land.

“It changes how one views the figure,” he explained. Another few marks and a bit of shading and suddenly his angelic being wore one stocking gartered above a knee. The other stocking pooled around her ankle, waiting to be drawn off.

“A man begins to wonder about what’s hidden.” When he added a few scandalous, wispy hairs peeping out at the juncture of her thighs, even the hand discreetly covering her pudenda now seemed wicked.

“Stop.” Grace put a hand to his forearm. He was surprised that she met his gaze, instead of turning away in virginal disgust. “I understand now.”

Her lips parted softly. The color in her cheeks deepened from rose to flame and crept down her neck. The Grecian gown she was wearing dipped in a deep V between her breasts. Crispin didn’t intend to let his gaze wander into that sweet valley, but he couldn’t seem to help it. The slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath was intoxicating.

She cleared her throat and resumed the pose they’d agreed on for her hands.

“Perhaps I should get back to work,” he suggested, his voice rough with pent-up desire.

“Perhaps you should,” she agreed, eyeing him as if he might make off with the silver.

Grace’s forearms prickled. Her fingertips had gone numb. Crispin gave her breaks to swing her arms in wide arcs from time to time, but he seemed so intent on the sketch now, she didn’t want to interrupt him.

It might lead to conversation and she’d already had more of that than she could bear. The man had her insides fluttering like a hummingbird.

Each time she closed her eyes she saw that sketch again. How easily he re-created the nude female form in minute detail.

How many women modeled for him like that?
she wondered.

Plenty, she decided, uncertain why that knowledge should tighten her belly.

She had to think about something else.

Sunlight was flooding the atrium now. Architecture was surely safe.

“Your home is beautiful.”

“Hmm…Oh, the house. Yes, thank you.” He glanced up for a moment, then bent back to his work. “It serves me well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. Everything was about him. What she’d heard about artistic types was true. Narcissism was their true religion.

“I was surprised to learn from your manservant that you purchased your house.” She wiggled her toes since she had to hold her fingers steady. “It was my understanding that the finer families of London lease their
dwellings, just in case the neighborhood should fall out of fashion and they need to move to one more in keeping with their standing.”

Crispin snorted. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I am not counted among London’s finer families.”

“But you’re well regarded. You move in the highest circles.”

“A crow may fly with eagles, but it doesn’t brighten his wings,” Crispin said in a clipped tone.

“But everyone speaks so highly of your work—”

“As they well might,” he finished for her. “The
ton
fears me because I can render them as gods or goats with equal facility and they know it.”

“Is that your aim? To inspire fear?”

“No, fear is an unworthy goal.” He bore down on the paper, shading and crosshatching the sketch. “My aim is power. Every man aspires to power that he may live as he chooses.”

When Crispin lifted his eyes to her, there was no deference in his gaze. He had no respect for her wealth or her gender. He said and did exactly as he pleased. That stolen kiss proved it beyond doubt.

“However, if fear is the path to power,” he said with a shrug, “I’ll take it where it is offered.”

Grace sighed. “If only there was a path to power for a woman.”

“There is. I have several delightful female friends who have managed to maintain control over both their person and their fortune.”

“How?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “They are top-tier courtesans who’ve been very judicious in their choice of patrons.”

Grace snorted. “I meant a
respectable
path to power.”

He frowned. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten how superior
pure women are. Tell me, how many languages do you speak?”

“Well, my French is passable and—”

“Any courtesan worth her salt is fluent in three or four tongues and well-read in all of them. Have you entertained any crowned princes in that Boston brownstone of yours?”

Her mother had hosted a tea for the mayor once, but she supposed that wouldn’t count for much when measured against a royal guest.

“A courtesan must be able to converse wittily and intelligently with philosophers and statesmen. In my experience, ‘birds of paradise’ are possessed of exquisite taste and sensibility. I’m pleased to name them my friends.” He moved to another position to sketch her hands from a different angle. “What about that seems unrespectable to you?”

“But a courtesan must…” Grace bit her tongue. She would not allow him to goad her into indelicacy. “I’m not ignorant of the world, you know.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. But if that’s the case, why haven’t you recognized that you are already on the ‘respectable’ feminine path to power?”

A cynical smile cut across his face.

“The word about town is that your father’s fortune will buy you a titled husband. That is as powerful as a
respectable
woman can hope, as powerful as she ever need be.”

She scowled at him. “You make it sound so…mercenary.”

Crispin bent to his work again. “Isn’t it? Services rendered for goods received.”

Grace’s arms ached so from holding them still. She pacified herself with visions of bashing him over the head with his sketchbook. “So in your view of marriage, am I the goods or the service?”

He cocked a brow at her. “Both, my dear Grace, if your future husband is a man of any luck at all.”