Stroke of Genius (19 page)

“You’re wrong.” She sensed the bitterness in his tone ran deeper than his general contempt for the
ton
, but couldn’t imagine why he was becoming quietly enraged. “I will not be bought and sold. I will marry for love.”

“But only if the gentleman can present you with the wedding gift of a ‘milady’ before your name.” The walking stick clattered to the floor and he grasped both her shoulders. “Face the facts, Grace. You’ve already been offered for sale. The
ton
is abuzz with curiosity over who the highest bidder will be.”

She frowned up at him. “You don’t believe it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled gentleman as it is to love a tradesman?”

“On the contrary, it’s much easier. Women all over this country convince themselves of it every day.” His grip tightened on her shoulders and he gave her slight shake. “They weigh the minor inconvenience of their wandering lord’s mistresses. They measure his general inattentiveness against the pleasure of being addressed as ‘Lady Such-and-So.’ And amazingly enough, they find they adore their toad-eating titled spouses regardless.”

“I don’t care what you say, I will have love.”

His mouth descended on hers before she realized the kiss was coming. Demanding, bruising, he would not be denied.

And she didn’t want to deny him. Her lips parted beneath his, welcoming his invasion. She kissed him back, matching him nip for nip, just as fiercely.

He beckoned her to that hot dark place and she followed willingly. Her nipples tingled for his touch and her core shuddered with a nameless throb. Fire streaked through her veins. Bits of her were melting. Her body wept fresh dew
down there
.

She pressed herself against him, joyous to feel him hard and wanting. He found her beautiful. He couldn’t help but kiss her, even though she felt him struggle with his desire. Surely, he must care for her. 

Then suddenly he shoved her away, holding her at arm’s length.

“There you see, Grace,” he said, his voice husky with need. “Just the sort of thing you need to avoid. You mustn’t encourage the wrong sort, you see.”

She sensed deep pain in him and ached to ease it, but he held her away.

“We’re totally unsuited. You want a title and I have none. I have no use for virgins and you’re the proud possessor of a maidenhead.” His expression hardened. “Of course, a quick swive on the floor will remedy that defect. But I don’t have the proper lineage necessary to seal the deal. All women have their price, it seems. Pity not all of them deal in ready coin.”

Grace’s jaw dropped in shock. The man was only playing one of his abominable games with her and insulting her in the process. She pulled back her arm and gave his cheek a stinging slap. He released her immediately.

“There, Mr. Hawke. Was that cut direct enough for you?”

It seemed all the air had fled from the room. She gasped for breath and was finally able to draw enough to keep her vision from tunneling completely. The only problem was the center of her tunnel was filled with his damnably handsome face.

“Quite direct.” He fingered the red mark she’d left on his face. “Your set-down was decisive, forceful and delivered with just the right amount of quivering rage.”

He gave her a mocking bow.

“It appears our lesson is concluded.” 

Chapter 20

She was flawless, his creation of creamy ivory. Too fine a thing for a mortal to crave. Too delectable for him not to.

Crispin paced the sidewalk outside the Almack’s assembly room. He’d upgraded his usual walking stick to an ebony-headed one inlaid with jade in deference to the more formal occasion. Its rosewood length was burnished to a sheen and hid a thin rapier within a secret hollow space.

Not that Crispin expected to need protection in this most respectable of neighborhoods.

Unless I insult Grace again.

He grimaced at his shadow on the pavers. What he’d said was unconscionable. Unforgivable. He’d all but called her a whore. Even now, he had no idea why he’d become so momentarily insane.

Perhaps there was madness in his lineage.

He had no way to know for sure.

But he did know there was no other way into Almack’s assembly rooms except up an interminable stairway. He weighed his need to see Grace as soon as her carriage arrived against his desire not to fight those long stairs before her pitying gaze.

Or maybe she’d laugh at him now instead of feeling sympathy. He rather thought he’d prefer her laughter. The last thing he needed was for her to see him as some pathetic, crippled artist.

Either way, damn me, if I don’t deserve her scorn.

He decided to go in and wait for her at the top of the stairwell. If she was going to cut him, it may as well be where there was plenty of space for him to fall.

As he hauled himself up the steps, he realized she’d do no such thing. He was, for all intents and purposes, her sponsor this night. His word in one of the patronesses’ ears was responsible for the voucher he held in his waistcoat pocket for her. He was about to make her fashionable. Her bold-colored gown would soon be all the rage. She’d never publicly disparage him.

She wouldn’t do it in private either, he admitted with a grunt. He could almost always rely upon others to be a better person than he was.

Grace qualified as a member of a much better species. 

The steps were narrow, designed with much smaller feet than his in mind, and required his complete concentration. At least the railing was solid and he was able bear much of his weight on his well-developed left arm. 

“I say, do you mind?” came a supercilious voice behind him. Crispin recognized the speaker as Grace’s cousin.

“Ah, Lord Wash . . . burn, I believe.” Crispin needed to be on his best behavior this night if he was going to make things up to Grace. Even if it meant being pleasant to a loathsome toad like her cousin the baron. It was really a pity, too. ‘Lord Washbucket’ was so deserving of his acerbic wit. “Good evening to you.”

Washburn mumbled something in return.

Crispin was half way to the top, but he stopped and pressed his spine to the railing so Washburn and his sister could mount the steps around him more easily. Crispin doffed his hat.

“You’re looking lovely this evening, Miss Washburn,” Crispin said with a pleasant smile. In truth, Mary’s gown looked a tad threadbare. The silk was a bit too shiny in spots and her dull jewels were undoubtedly paste, but she smiled her thanks. Washburn had turned himself out with all the bells and whistles required for gentlemen by Almack’s strict dress code. Even though knee britches and stockings were dreadfully last century, the patronesses demanded men wear them with tailed coats for admittance to their hallowed assemblies.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawke,” Mary said softly as the couple moved past him up the staircase.

Crispin grinned after them. Washburn was horribly spindle-shanked and his legs showed to grave disadvantage in the calf-hugging stockings. Crispin itched to say
‘By Jove, Washburn. Are those your legs or are you riding a chicken?’
But Grace wouldn’t be inclined to forgive him if he added to his sins by insulting her cousin, so he clamped his lips together until they were out of earshot.

“Perhaps the patronesses who guard the gates aren’t so daft, after all,” Crispin murmured as he continued to climb. The archaic dress code meant a man had to show himself for what he was. At least so far as his legs were concerned.

When Crispin reached the top, Miss Washburn had already entered the assembly rooms, but her brother was shifting his weight from one foot to the other outside the door.

“Wouldn’t let you in, eh? Bad luck, old chap!”

The baron puffed up like an offended wren. “I’m waiting for my cousins, if you must know.”

“You surprise me, Washburn.” Crispin shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d allow your sister to wander unprotected through that maze of slavering demons.”

Lord Washburn glared at him. “Nonsense. Only gentlemen are allowed in Almack’s.”

“My point exactly,” Crispin said. “Wasn’t Lucifer was the brightest being in the heavens? And yet look how low he fell. Stands to reason that the deepest depravity may be found in the hearts of men with dazzling titles before their names and demitasse cups in their hands.”

A bright blotch of red bloomed on the man’s jaw. “I’m frankly shocked that you expect to be admitted, Hawke. The patronesses work to ensure no one tainted by trade is allowed in. Surely a
craftsman
ranks even lower than a tradesman in the grand scheme of things.”

Crispin decided he could wait to be nice to the man till after Grace arrived. “Well, you’ve not tainted yourself with trade one jot, have you, Washburn?”

“Of course not.”

“Hence your empty pockets and your sister’s ancient ball gown.” Crispin knew for a certainty he could buy all of Lord Washburn’s holdings and still have plenty of money in his Bank of England account. And his wealth was the product of his own sweat. Why the aristocracy viewed industry with such disdain was a puzzlement to him. 

Lord Washburn tried to look down his nose at him but since Crispin topped the lordling by a good head, the effect was comical instead of haughty.

“A gentleman is born, sir,” Washburn said with a superior sneer. “Not made.”

“So are geniuses, I’m told,” Crispin said. “Where do they fall in the grand scheme, I wonder?” He snapped his fingers as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Perhaps that’s why the patronesses
invited
me to their assembly, instead of waiting till I petitioned for admittance.”

“I will not suffer such insolence,” the baron said through clenched teeth. “You may have fooled a few weak-minded women, but you don’t fool me. For all your fleeting acclaim, you will never be what I am.”

“Ridiculously pompous? Oh, I do hope not.”

Lord Washburn’s eyes bulged. “No, sir. A well-bred gentleman. A man with a lineage of which he can be proud. Don’t you realize I can trace my ancestors back to the days of William the Conqueror?”

“Can you?” Crispin shrugged. “Everyone should have a hobby, I suppose. Rest assured, Lord Washburn, if ever I feel myself in need of a pedigree, I’ll purchase a blooded hound.”

The sound of voices traveled up the stairwell. Crispin recognized Homer Makepeace’s booming tones.

“Unless my ears deceive me, our favorite ‘tradesman’ is on his way up,” Crispin said as he pulled out three vouchers from his waistcoat pocket. “Good thing I was able to use my ‘fleeting acclaim’ to have him and his family admitted.”

When Grace reached the top of the stairs, Washburn was quick to push himself forward to welcome her.

Overcame his distaste for trade with astonishing speed
, Crispin thought.

Grace looked beautiful, but pale and when her gaze flitted over Crispin, there was a glint of nervous apprehension in her eyes. Washburn claimed her hand and tucked it into his elbow, but was forced to stop before they reached the door.

He turned and glared at Crispin.

Crispin waggled the tickets before him for a moment. “Oh, yes, you’ll need these, won’t you? Mrs. Makepeace, here’s your voucher. And sir, this one is for you.” He handed the coveted tickets to Grace’s parents, but held hers back. “A word before you go in, Miss Makepeace.”

“We’ll meet you inside, dear,” Minerva said and clutched her cousin the baron’s arm. “Come along, Jasper. Oh, isn’t this exciting, Homer?”

“Almost as much as a three day belly ache,” came the grumbling reply from Grace’s father.

Crispin watched with amusement as Lord Washburn was swept along in Minerva’s inexorable tide. Crispin couldn’t have managed matters better if he’d arranged them himself.

“Well done, Mrs. Makepeace. Someday, Grace,” he said in all seriousness, “I’m going to have to kiss your mother right on the mouth.”

“And you’re just conceited enough to believe she’ll think that a good thing.” Grace folded her arms beneath her breasts and tapped her toe. “What do you want?”

“I just want to be sure you were aware of our strategy before we go in.”

“Strategy, of course. How silly of me.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I thought you called me aside because you wanted to apologize to me like a normal person.”

“Would it do any good if I did?”

“No,” she whispered furiously. “What you said was unforgiveable.”

He nodded. “As I thought. Then it would be foolish to waste time on an apology, wouldn’t it? Now, Grace, when you—”

“You are impossible,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

She balled her gloved fingers into fists at her side. Her gaze darted at the other well-garbed people pouring up the staircase. If they’d been alone, Crispin suspected she’d have beaned him right on the nose with one of those curled fists.

“Now, now. Your hands are your ticket to success this night as surely as this voucher in my pocket.” He took one of her hands and worked her fingers straight. She was wearing a lovely pair of lace gloves that suited her long fingers perfectly. “Your hands have already acquired a reputation for otherworldly beauty.”