Stroke of Genius (8 page)

Pygmalion always knew the exact shape each stone should take. Imagine his surprise one day, when a stone refused to cooperate.

“No, no,” Grace’s mother said in her dissatisfied Bostonian matron tone. “Not the bombazine. Do you want to make her look like a frigate?”

Something inside Grace wilted.

The modiste mumbled an unintelligible apology while managing not to lose a single one of the dress pins tucked between her lips.

“Don’t you have anything else to suggest? What about a sprigged muslin?” Minerva’s hands fluttered in the air helplessly. “That should make her seem less…”

“Less what?” Crispin glanced up from his bored perusal of the sample fabrics.

They’d been shopping for hours and so far they’d only managed to agree on a small reticule with cunning beadwork. Grace’s feet hurt. Her slippers were too small, but her mother insisted she wear them because they were simply too beautiful not to be seen.

Frustrated tears pressed behind her eyes. Grace looked away, but not before she caught Crispin staring at her with a stern expression. She was sure he realized her suppressed tears weren’t from happiness over a new wardrobe.

“Less, you say? Do you hope to make her look less willowy?” he asked. “Or less interesting?”

Grace thanked him silently with a quirk of a smile.

“I only thought sprigged muslin would be more fitting for a young girl,” Minerva said with a sniff.

“Perhaps a girl of twelve,” Crispin returned smoothly. “Anyone with eyes can see your daughter is no child.” He turned back to Grace. “By the way, how old are you, Miss Makepeace?”

He used a formal mode of address since they were in public. Modistes were notorious for gossiping tongues once the pins were removed from their mouths. But Grace suspected the seamstress hadn’t missed Crispin’s overly familiar tone.

“I’ll be two and twenty next month,” she admitted.

“Truly? No wonder your mother wants to disguise your advanced age,” he said with a smirk.

“I’ve heard most of the debutants at Almack’s are closer to sixteen,” her mother said defensively. “Perhaps even younger.”

“Yes, but a gentleman of sense would steer clear of them,” Crispin said. “A man worthy of the name will be more drawn to a statuesque young lady like your daughter. Spare me from a chit in sprigged muslin who chatters all day like a squirrel.”

Statuesque?
No one had ever called her that before. She could almost kiss the man. Her spine straightened slightly.

“Still, some would say two and twenty is a bit long in the tooth. We should have done this years ago, but I never could convince Mr. Makepeace.” Minerva’s brows fretted as she fingered a truly ghastly bolt of green cloth. “If a girlish style can lend her some youth, what’s the harm? We don’t want to show Grace to a disadvantage.”

“Show? Is Almack’s a county fair? You make it sound
as if she were a prize heifer!” Crispin mouthed “Mistress Vache” to Grace behind her mother’s back.

She stuck her tongue out at him and decided he hadn’t earned a kiss, no matter how many times he called her statuesque.

“Really, that’s uncalled for!” Minerva said. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“One can hardly blame me for trying to improve upon them, madam.” Crispin inclined his head in what appeared to be a deferential nod. Grace was sure it was not. “Especially when your words make so little sense. Is your eyesight poor? How can you fail to see your daughter’s best qualities?”

Minerva’s mouth opened and closed like a trout flopping on a river bank. Then she gathered herself and glared up at him.

“Mr. Hawke, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Minerva said with a spine of steel in her tone. “I want the very best for my daughter. I assure you I’m only thinking of Grace.”

“No, you’re only thinking of yourself, Mrs. Makepeace, and how Grace’s appearance reflects on you,” he said evenly. “And if you like that insipid sprigged muslin, I suggest
you
wear it. Your daughter is not the only one who could use some borrowed youth.”

Minerva puffed herself up like a wren on a window ledge. “Well, I never!”

“Probably not, and that may be your trouble.” He turned away from her mother like a potentate dismissing an unworthy subject. “Tell me, Grace. What was it you liked about the bombazine?”

“Oh, you’re both impossible.” Grace put her hand to her mouth and fled from the shop, letting the door slam behind her with a satisfying thwack. Before she reached
the corner, she heard the staccato tap of Crispin’s walking stick behind her. She turned to face him.

He stopped, planted the walking stick between his boots and leaned toward her.

“Well done, Grace!” He gave her an approving nod. “Don’t give her permission to demean you. If you hadn’t bolted when you did, I’d have had to drag you out by the hair.”

“Did it occur to you that I might be trying to get away from you, too?”

One of his hands shot to his chest. “Me? What did I do?”

“You were unforgivably rude to my mother,” she said with vehemence. “I won’t have you speaking to her like that!”

He frowned. “Hold a moment! In case you didn’t notice, I’m on your side.”

“There are no sides. You’re playing one of your infernal games again,” she said with disgust. “And you’re using me as the ball to bat back and forth.”

His lips twitched. “Perhaps a little.”

“Perhaps a lot. Besides, my mother isn’t the one who called me a cow.”

He laughed. “That’s a private joke between us,
ma petite vache.
”

“It’s not very funny.”

His smile faded. “No, I can see that it’s not. I only said it because I wanted to remind you that I stand ready to rescue you…again.”

“I can rescue myself, thank you very much.”

No, no, no.
She would not think about the way he fought off those ruffians at Vauxhall for her. Or the way his sharp eyes seemed to bore into her soul and see far too clearly for her comfort.

“I want you to apologize to my mother.”

“I would be happy to,” he said with a sweeping bow. “Just as soon as she apologizes to you.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest and turned to walk on. “She won’t do that. You’ve got to understand, Crispin. She means incredibly well.”

“Indeed. I’m sure a vivisectionist also has noble intent, but at the end of the day his subject is still flayed alive.”

“She honestly doesn’t realize she hurts me.” Grace picked up her walking pace.

“Someone should tell her.” Crispin fell into canting step with her.

She slanted her gaze at him. “Someone just did.”

“Then I hope the truth has its desired effect,” he said. “It’s supposed to set one free, or so I’ve heard. You should make your own choices. She’s trying to mold you into something you’re not.”

“She’s been at it for a while.” Grace laughed mirthlessly. “And she’s had the devil’s own time of it, too. I’m not the most cooperative lump of clay. But if there’s one quality my mother has in buckets, it is persistence.”

“A positive quality,” Crispin said grudgingly. “As one who wrestles with stone for a living, I can’t fail to admire persistence, even in a mother. So long as she’s not trying to run your affairs.”

“Didn’t your mother try to run yours?”

A wall slid down behind his eyes. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Perhaps we should be.”

His lips clamped shut. For the first time since she’d fallen on her face on the Hakkari carpet before him, Grace sensed that Crispin Hawke didn’t know what to say.

“I should return. Mother will be upset.” Grace did an about-face and headed back toward the dress shop.

“Aren’t
you
upset?” he asked, keeping pace with her.

“No one cares if I’m upset.”

He caught her hand and brought her up short. “You’re wrong, Grace.”

He didn’t say anything else, but her breath was choked off just the same. Was it possible that the darling of the
ton,
London’s most celebrated artist, the cynical genius who insulted his patrons because he could, the one and only Crispin Hawke actually
cared
for someone other than himself?

The idea was ludicrous. No, this was probably just the start of some new game of his.

But if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget the way her heart pounded while this dangerously attractive man looked at her with something both desperately earnest and unspeakably wicked glinting in his gray eyes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid,
the tap of his walking stick repeated against the cobbles all the way back to the dress shop.

Then he felt even worse when he mouthed enough of an apology to appease Minerva Makepeace, that shedragon whose tender feelings Grace seemed determined to protect.

But it made Grace happy, so he did it.

With his artistic prowess, he expected to be more help in choosing the right gowns for Grace. He learned quickly that what a man found pleasing counted for very little when it came to feminine fashion.

Women, it seemed, dressed to please other women. It was an obscure fact, but it was drummed into his head with thoroughness as the day droned on.

He distanced himself from Miss Washburn, Mrs. Makepeace and her opinionated French maid when they
turned to debating the relative merits of Brussels lace over French. Wyckham, who was stuck minding the landau around the corner, had the best luck of the lot.

Then he noticed Grace off by herself, looking at that length of bombazine again. She was frowning down at it with complete absorption.

He moved over to stand next to her. The faint scent of vanilla tickled his nostrils. She usually didn’t wear fragrance, but this one blended perfectly with her natural scent. She was like a plate of something sinfully fresh from a baker’s oven.

Where does she apply it?
he wondered. Did she dab the fragrance behind her ears? Or in the hollow between her breasts?

He shook off that thought before his trousers grew tighter. “What is it that draws you to this fabric?”

“The color,” she said decisively. “It reminds me of autumn at home. The maple leaves turn scarlet, the birch are gold, and the oak trees turn this lovely shade of warm brown.”

Crispin ran his hand over the fabric. Minerva Makepeace was right about one thing. It was far too stiff to drape well or move with the wearer. Grace
would
look like a frigate in it.

But the color…He lifted a corner of it to her cheek.

Her skin glowed like alabaster. Her hair was shot with deep auburn highlights and her lips were a warm peach.

Crispin could almost taste them. He gave himself a mental shake. He was here to render assistance, God help him, not ogle her like some spotty schoolboy who’d just learned what miracles his cock could perform.

But it was hard not to ogle. Most women would look tired and washed out in this color, but the iridescent
brown suited Grace perfectly. Even her mild amber eyes took on a deeper cast.

“Hold a moment,” he said. “I think I saw this color in silk. Ah, here it is.”

The bolt was slender and he wondered if there was enough fabric to make a gown for her, but he wanted to see the shimmering silk against her skin. There was a muted blue next to it that complemented the brown, so he hefted that as well.

“Here we are.” He unrolled the bolt and draped it across her shoulders. Now that her unremarkable oyster-colored frock was covered with the rich brown silk, the effect was an immediate jolt to his groin. “It’s as if you’re dipped in chocolate.”

Her cheeks flamed and her eyes widened. He wished fervently that she really were covered in something sweet and sticky. And she needed him to lick it off.

Slowly.

He no longer cared that his trousers were decidedly tight.

“Do you think there’s enough fabric for a gown?” she asked, her tone breathy.

“Well, perhaps we could do something clever with the neckline,” he said, adjusting the fabric to suit his vision. Starting at one shoulder, he traced a diagonal line, over one breast and under the other.

Grace drew a sharp breath as his finger skimmed over her. “I can hardly go about like that with one…”

One breast bared.

He heard it clearly, though she didn’t speak it. Probably because he was thinking it, too.

“If only you could,” he said with a wicked grin, “it would convince me of the existence of a merciful God. But since we must appease the current fashion deities,
we should probably drape the blue from the other shoulder, like so.”

He tossed the end of the sapphire bolt over her other shoulder and smoothed it into position. As he did, his palm grazed her breast through the thin layers of fabric.

Her nipple rose up to meet his hand, tight as a May bud.

She gasped and he pulled his hand back as if she’d scorched him. Her eyes darkened.

But she didn’t say a word.

A lady who didn’t welcome his touch would have objected by now. Even though her mother, her maid, her cousin Mary and the modiste were just on the other side of the small shop, Crispin couldn’t resist. He was certain his frame blocked the other women’s view of Grace. By finger widths, he lowered his palm to her breast again and covered it lightly.

Her lips went slack. The pointed tip fairly burned a hole in his hand.

Her breast filled his hand to perfection. He squeezed, forcing himself to be gentle. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she sucked in her bottom lip.

To keep from making a noise of pleasure,
he realized.

His erection was almost painful. If she stirred him this much fully clothed, he was a dead man if he ever got her naked.

But who wants to live forever?

He circled her nipple with his thumb and her eyes popped open. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a soft tug.

She let out an involuntary moan.

“I say, Grace, what
are
you two doing over there?” her mother asked, breaking the spell.

Crispin turned around to face Minerva, standing in
front of Grace to give her time to collect herself. All he needed was a strategically held bolt of fabric.

“We have made a minor discovery,” he said as he snapped up that bolt of puce serge Minerva had contemplated earlier and held it before himself. “Miss Makepeace, are you ready to show them?”