Stroke of Genius (20 page)

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’ve already informed me they aren’t my best feature.”

She certainly had a long memory for his casually expressed observations. He’d have to bear that in mind in the future.

“By and large, people see what they expect to see,” Crispin said. “The gossips have proclaimed your hands exquisite. People will find them beautiful.”

“Unfortunately they are attached to the rest of me,” she muttered, the spark of apprehension returning to her amber eyes.

“Which is their great good fortune, Grace,” he said. “Here’s what I want you to do. Be yourself. Say whatever you like. Dance with whomever the patronesses assign to you, but keep moving. Don’t speak with one gentleman to the exclusion of all others.”

“I only hope I don’t trip on the dance floor.”

“No danger of that. This night you are a goddess and goddesses float.”

She laughed. “I suppose goddesses don’t ever spill tea on themselves either.”

“No indeed, especially since you’ll want to pass on the tea in any case. You may try the punch, but only if you’re absolutely parched. The refreshments here are so execrable their very awfulness is the stuff of legends.”

 She smirked at him. “Good thing I ate at home, then.”

 “Quite. And for heaven’s sake, stay as far away from your family as possible.”

 “There is nothing wrong with my family.” She glowered up at him.

 Good. A bit of spirit was much better than showing fear. And it gave her a fiery glow as surely as if she’d been thoroughly kissed. The thought of kissing her made his soft palate ache to taste her lips again, but he shoved it aside. There’d be time enough for that once she was a full-fledged member of his
Unhappy Wives of Inattentive Husbands Club
.

“By family, I mean your cousin the baron,” he said. “I’m your beater, remember. We’re hunting only the big game this night.”

She bristled at him. “I’m not hunting. I’m flirting.
Politely
flirting. Hopefully, with the man who will one day be my husband and the father of my children. I will not let you cheapen this night for me.”

For one heartbeat, he almost wished she was flirting with him. Politely or otherwise.

“I’m not trying to cheapen anything. My goal is to see you get exactly what you want,” Crispin said. Then he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “What you deserve.”

Mollified, she took his arm when he offered it. “Thank you, Crispin.”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him and he felt himself sinking into their depths.

“This night would be impossible without you,” she whispered.

“What a nice change. Usually you seem to feel things are impossible
with
me. But truthfully, this night is your doing, Grace.” He restrained himself from reaching out to cup her cheek, but it required serious effort. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you right now. If you did, you’d stop being afraid you’ll trip or spill something. You’d never slump again. I wish you had the slightest notion how lovely you are.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“Grace, in the time that you’ve known me, have I ever said or done anything with another person’s feelings in mind?”

“Good point.” Her smile was genuine now.

He started walking her toward the door, holding out their voucher to the old fellow minding the portal. Grace was given her dance card, pre-filled with all the dance partners Crispin had arranged for her in consultation with Lady Hepplewhite.

Once inside the great hall, Grace tightened her grip on his arm. He’d never thought of Almack’s as especially thrilling. In fact, the assemblies were known for their respectability and general dullness, but he felt Grace’s excitement in the pressure of her fingertips.

The assembly room was awash in a swirl of color. Gentlemen and ladies were executing an intricate quadrille, a flash of stylized courtship, an orgy of civilized coupling. Crispin suddenly wished he could dance with Grace, that he could guide her around the room on the wings of music and feel her heart hammering when his hand brushed her ribs.

He leaned toward her. “I apologize.”

Her mouth twitched. “You’re still not forgiven, Crispin.”

“Then I’ll have to try harder.”

“A genius forced to work at something? I should be able to charge admission to that,” she murmured while her smile stayed firmly in place.

“Agreed, but only if you’ll do impressions of your mother as a side-show.”

A laugh exploded from her lips. “In that case, Crispin, I’m forced to forgive you.”

Her first dance partner appeared and whisked her away. Crispin watched with only a smidgeon of resentment in his chest as they took the floor.

She’d forgiven him.

Thank you, Grace.

Chapter 21

The private sorrow of an artist is that once his creation is complete, he is forced to share it with the world.

“In addition to her obvious gifts, Grace Makepeace is extremely well read and witty,” Crispin said to the small gathering of matrons in the corner. “Her ideas are fresh and entertaining. She’d be an ornament to any dinner party conversation.”

Several lorgnettes rose to perch on the assembled haughty noses. They were trained as one on Grace and her current dance partner. The matrons nodded thoughtfully. Crispin could almost hear the invitations being mentally composed for Grace to join them for some grand folderol or other.

Crispin had broadcast his seed. Grace’s future social calendar was filling quickly whether she realized it or not. His work with this group of on-lookers was finished, so he bowed more politely than usual and moved on to the whist tables.

Crispin had committed Grace’s dance card to memory, so he knew Lord Beverley was due to partner with her soon. Once the viscount excused himself to collect her, there’d be two unattached earls and a marquess left at the table.

Definitely the trophy bulls.

He waited till he overheard the first grumble about the interruption of their play.

“My lords.” Crispin favored them with a quick bow. “I understand you all have a dance with Miss Makepeace coming up. Perhaps I may assist by sitting in for each of you in turn. In that manner, your game can continue, and of course, I shall make good any wagers I undertake on your behalves.”

The marquess frowned at him for a moment. “Do I know you, sir?”

“Probably not, Lord Dorset,” Crispin said with a slight inclination of his head. The marquess was studying him with intensity and with a slight curl to his noble lips. Crispin wondered if a carbuncle was about to erupt on his nose.

“This is Hawke, milord. Surely you’ve heard of him,” one of the earls piped up. “Devilishly talented, beastly expensive sculptor—”

“And frequent loser at games of chance,” Crispin finished.

At that admission, he was welcomed at the elite table immediately. He lost a couple hands in quick succession on purpose. No point in making them surly before they took a turn on the dance floor.

Lord Beverley returned and Crispin moved obligingly to the next empty seat.

“Charming girl,” Beverley said. “But a bit long in the tooth, I fear.”

“Really?” Crispin said incredulously. “In my experience, women are like fine wine. They need a bit of age before they become interesting. I can’t imagine a man wanting to turn over the running of his household to one of those spoiled children in petticoats. I find most debutants so insipidly girlish. Miss Makepeace is a refreshing change.”

Beverley cast a reassessing glance in her direction. “Pity she’s an American.”

“Only half.” Crispin deliberately overbid a losing hand. “Her mother is descended from the Washburns, a venerable English family. Why, I believe she can trace her lineage back to the time of the Conqueror.”

Thank you, Cousin Jasper for that little tidbit.

Heads nodded approvingly. A few more hands were played and Crispin made sure to win only small pots while losing bigger ones. Each time a dancer returned to the table he was able to maneuver the conversation back to Grace.

“It’s all well and good that her mother’s English,” Lord Middlesex said. “But what about her sire?”

Sire. It’s a wonder these oafs don’t refer to Grace’s mother as the bitch and her as the whelp. It’s all about the bloodlines . . . unless it’s about the coin.

“Quite the industrialist there. I believe Mr. Makepeace owns a patent on a cotton spinning machine. It’s revolutionizing the trade,” Crispin said casually.

The card players digested and calculated that information in silence. Lord Dorset stared at him across the table, his brows beetling over his nose. 

“I don’t wish to be indelicate but . . .” Middlesex began.

When people preface a remarks with that, they fully intend to continue on their present course, delicacy be damned.
The set-down danced on Crispin’s tongue, but he clamped his lips shut for Grace’s sake. 

“I understand her father has settled a startlingly large dowry on her,” Middlesex finished. “Have any of you heard the amount?”

Crispin named the obscene sum. A princely sum.

Why on God’s earth should any of these three inbred popinjays expect to be paid to marry a gem like Grace?
Crispin bit his tongue so hard, he tasted blood, but he had a job to do and he intended to do it.

“Surely you’re mistaken,” Lord Dorset said.

“I assure you, that is the amount. I have it on the highest authority,” Crispin said. Wyckeham had wangled the information from Grace’s maid, and the help always knew everything, so Crispin felt confident in the accuracy of the intelligence. “And I wouldn’t doubt more is in the offing in the future. Homer Makepeace dotes upon his daughter. His
only
daughter.”

He glanced around the table and it seemed as if each set of pupils reflected the curling ‘L’ shape of the pound sign.   

The marquess, Lord Dorset, gazed toward the dancers for the first time. He’d been quiet for much of the game, but Crispin knew he was gathering information about his cohorts with every hand, like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. He was a rather ordinary-looking man, sandy-haired and with pale blue eyes, presentable, but unremarkable.

If Crispin used him for a model, he’d be a goat-herd rather than a god.

However, a marquessate carries its own gravity. Lord Dorset radiated the power of his title. Prestige dripped from every line of his rich suit of clothing. His heavy signet ring glinted in the lamplight.

“Miss Makepeace is rather on the tall side,” he observed.

“Indeed she is,” Crispin said. “Isn’t exceptional height an admirable trait for a man to bequeath to his sons?”

Dorset didn’t respond. He laid down his cards and went to claim his dance. He didn’t return to the table immediately when the music finished.

Crispin studied his cards till his vision blurred. He resisted the urge to look for Grace and wondered why his gut suddenly writhed like bucketful of eels.

* * *

Grace hadn’t felt this giddy since she was a child of twelve and her father let her visit his factory. She’d been accepted by the
ton
of London! She’d danced every dance without feeling the least bit blown. She’d managed to have brief, witty conversations with her partners while not treading on a single one of their toes. Her parents beamed from the corner.

“Your name is on everyone’s lips,” her mother confided in excited whispers during the brief intermission. “We’ve received three invitations to dine already.”

“That’s lovely, Mother.” She stood on tiptoe, peering over the crowd. Crispin would be so proud of her. “Have you seen Mr. Hawke?”

Her success was his doing. She wanted him to know she was appreciative.

“When you find him, ask him if he has anything that would make this punch more bearable,” her father grumbled. Her mother elbowed him. “What, Minerva? The lad strikes me as the practical sort. I’m just thinking Mr. Hawke might have a flask in his pocket. For medicinal purposes, of course.”

“I don’t believe spirits are allowed here for any purpose at all, Papa, but I’ll ask when I find him.”

Grace spotted Crispin near one of the tall Palladian windows. He leaned on his walking stick and surveyed the milling press with an expression of total boredom on his handsome features.

She started toward him and when his gaze fell on her, his face lit up. Grace’s belly fluttered. She should have been immune to his brand of animal attraction since she’d spent so much time with him and knew him for a prickly, difficult man.

But his sheer masculine beauty was splendid enough when his face was at rest. When he smiled, it was blinding. She almost felt she should float toward him, borne up by the heat of his gaze as if she were in the gondola of a balloon.

Crispin started toward her and she narrowly resisted the urge to lift her skirt and run to meet him.

“I say, Grace, have you saved a dance for me?” Her cousin Jasper caught her by the elbow.

“Oh, dear, I don’t know.”
Drat the man!
Crispin was right. Her mother’s cousin was more nuisance than help. She fumbled with the gilded card attached to her wrist by a thin cord. “I’ll have to check.”