Stroke of Genius (9 page)

A soft gasp escaped her mouth.

Instead of their usual burnished pewter gray, his eyes had gone dark as he looked down at her. Black as the most wicked sin. Memories of his kiss flooded through her body and a delicious shiver tickled her spine.

Actually, if she were being fair, Crispin had rescued her on the Dark Walk and even if he wasn’t the right sort to be named a hero, he still deserved a small reward. She hadn’t actually thanked him properly yet. A chaste kiss should do the trick.

The principle was clearly stated in all the best sorts of books. 

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she waited for his mouth to descend on hers, warm and demanding. Her belly turned a slow flip.

Would it be as shockingly delicious as that first kiss?

She waited.

Would his tongue slide between her lips this time to search out her secrets? That’s what happened in the more wicked books.

She still waited.

What the devil was keeping the man?

She slitted one eyelid to find him smirking down at her.

“No, Grace,” he said softly. “You don’t know when a man is about to kiss you.”

Embarrassment and fury vied for first place in her heart. Fury won. Grace hadn’t wrestled and rough-housed with her older brothers as she was growing up for nothing. She pulled her arm back, ready to slap him into next week.

He caught her wrist without effort.

“So predictable.”

Grace wrenched herself away from him and stood.

    “Good bye, Mr. Hawke,” she said through clenched teeth, meaning every word. She never wanted to lay eyes on Crispin Hawke again. Somehow, she’d convince her mother that she didn’t need a sculpture of her hands to be accepted by the
ton
. No title, no adoring husband, not even satisfying her mother was worth putting up with this insufferable man. 

She stomped away in the direction of the statue of Handel, but Crispin Hawke fell into halting step with her.

“One moment, Grace.”

“What now?” She stopped, hands fisted at her waist.

“You don’t want to rush back to your family just yet.”

“I don’t?”

“No, trust me, you don’t.”

“Trusting you is not something I’d remotely consider doing.” She sighed. Then bald curiosity made her ask, “Why don’t I want to return to my family now?”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Because . . . how does one put this delicately?”

“Mr. Hawke, you wouldn’t know delicate if it bit you on the ar—” she caught herself before one of her father’s favorite naughty sayings flew out her mouth.

“Ah, that’s it. You’ve hit the nail right on the . . . arse, as it were,” he said. “The back of your gown is dusted with . . . well, see for yourself.”

She twisted around and saw that grass clippings and leaves were clinging to her derriere. “Oh!”

“Indeed,” he said, removing his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “If I may?”

Before she could protest, he pulled her off the path behind a large lilac bush. Then he turned her around and brushed her bottom with his white hanky in long, hard strokes.

Grace had never been paddled by her parents. It was humiliating to be swatted on the backside by this man. Especially since her bottom warmed strangely under his intimate touch.

“There,” he said, giving her derriere a final dusting with his handkerchief. “That should do it. There may be a grass stain or two, but nothing discernable in this light. Your appearance, and thus your honor, is once again unimpeachable.”

“The gown is probably ruined,” she said with a scowl. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Not yet, Grace,” he said with a wicked grin. “But you do show promise.”

Chapter 8

Occasionally, Pygmalion saw what he called ‘ghosts in the stone.’ The figures were there already, encased in marble, just waiting for him to free them.

Then one day, one of the ghosts began to free herself.

Crispin wasn’t exactly sure why he continued in Miss Makepeace’s wake once she stalked from their lilac-scented bower and back to the path. She strode away from him with single-mindedness, with determination, with her little bottom twitching beguilingly beneath that thin silk.

Ah, yes. That’s the reason.

He lofted a silent prayer of thanks to whatever horned deity listened to the prayers of the lascivious. It was good to be a man when women no longer enhanced their figures with cork bum rolls and wire panniers.

I don’t care if Bonaparte is a madman, God bless the French.

The Frogs led the charge toward the current classical fashions in women’s gowns. Simple. Honest. Nearly naked in the right light. When he was dusting off Grace’s derriere, his fingertips brushed the sweet curve of her bottom with such intimacy, it was almost as if she were bare as Eve.

She was as soft and rounded as he’d imagined.

His cock cheered this information with a standing ovation.

But since Grace was walking away from him, not toward him, he forced his attention to other things. Besides, she was still not his type. Virgins had never interested him.

Of course, he hadn’t realized what fun they were to play with before now.

So long as a man keeps his head—both of them—where they belong.

It had drained every ounce of willpower he possessed not to take the mouth she so sweetly offered. But it was worth his sacrifice to see the spit-fire in her eyes when she realized she’d been duped.

He’d string her along a bit and hopefully teach the little minx something in the process. She needed not to be so trusting. If he were a different sort of man, he’d have had her maidenhead already. She was fortunate that he possessed a few scruples.

Very few.

Pity she was so gullible. So kissable. So
swive
-able.

When they reached the fashionable part of the park, she stopped and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, peering this way and that. She stood tiptoe a few paces ahead of him, trying to see over the heads of the crowd. Even though Grace was tall for a woman, the sea of top hats and the even more outlandish feminine headgear blocked her view.

Crispin was tall enough to locate Grace’s mother without straining. Minerva Makepeace was seated in one of the best-placed supper boxes. He assumed the bewhiskered gentleman next to her was Grace’s father.

“I believe your parents are over there to the right,” he said pleasantly from behind Grace.

She startled and then turned around to face him. “I didn’t know you were following me.”

“Following you? Nonsense,” he said.

“Then you must be here to rub shoulders with your betters.”

“If such exist,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “My status as an acknowledged genius makes it hard to find even my equal.”

She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “I’ve heard rumors that your origins are humble, Mr. Hawke. Pity it didn’t take root in your character.”

“Humility is impossible when brilliance is hung about my neck by others at every turn.” He was delighted she’d decided to play. A verbal joust was no fun if the other party refused to pick up the thrown gauntlet. “But even we salt-of-the-earth types like to crawl out from our hovels from time to time to see how the upper crust lives.”

“Well, I suppose it’s to be expected. You did warn me Vauxhall admits all manner of riffraff.”

He chuckled and put a hand to his chest. “
Touché
, mademoiselle.”

“I think I’ve heard enough French from you for one night,” she said irritably.

Clearly, she was still smarting from being called ‘Miss Cow.’ He wondered if he could turn it into an endearment of some sort.
Ma petite vache, perhaps.

That should curdle her cream good and proper.

“I can’t see anything in this crush.” She turned away from him, gave a little hop, but landed with a disappointed squeak. “My parents, do you see anyone with them?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned back to face him again.

He glanced toward the supper box. “A lady in a green gown and ridiculous feathered turban.”

“That’ll be my mother’s cousin.” She shrugged. “My cousin too, I suppose, another time removed. But I seriously doubt Miss Mary Washburn would wear anything that could be termed ridiculous.”

“Wait till you’ve seen it before you defend it, Grace. I do believe some poor peacock must be running around naked,” he said.

Since swiving Grace was not a viable option, irritating the fool out her was the next best thing he could think of to keep his mind off the pain in his thigh. He had to up the ante in their game.

“Come. Let us not keep your aristocratic cousin or her formidable plumage waiting.”

She shook her head at him. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation to sup with us.”

“My dear Grace, Vauxhall is a place for folk to meet and become better acquainted without all that social folderol.” Crispin shot her a wicked grin. “After all, there were five fellows on the Dark Walk who seemed quite anxious to make your closer acquaintance.”

“Can we please dismiss that unfortunate incident? I believe I thanked you already.” Her tone was brittle as blown glass.

“No, you only offered to thank me with a kiss, but I declined for your own good.” The gas light diffused around them bright enough for him to see a livid blush heat her cheeks. “However, a little Vauxhall ham should settle your debt nicely.”

She glared at him. “You rank my virtue low indeed.”

“On the contrary, my dear Grace,” he said with a parody of a courtly bow. “You’ve obviously never had Vauxhall’s ham.” 

He thought he detected a wisp of steam escaping her ears. How delicious. It was time to unleash his big gun.

“Your mother will think me rude if I don’t at least say hello.”

“All right, but not until I find my other cousin.” She lifted her chin and gave an injured sniff. “He’s a baron, you know.”

“Which explains why he’s lost,” Crispin shot back. “Most noblemen haven’t sense enough to come in from the rain.”

“He’s not lost.” Her teeth were clenched so firmly, her jaw looked permanently locked. “I meant to say I just haven’t met up with him yet.”

Crispin snapped his fingers. “So that’s what you were doing on the Dark Walk. Looking for your cousin the baron. Well, that shows intelligence,” he said with an arched brow. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I daresay most of the fellows grunting in the bushes were earls at the very least.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Usually,” he admitted, raising his gaze over her head, presumably scanning the crowd for the missing fellow. “What does your cousin the baron look like?”

“Will you stop saying that?”

“Stop saying what, Grace?

“‘Your cousin the baron.’” She dropped the pitch of her voice in a fair imitation of him.

“Suit yourself,” he said, pleased that she’d decided to take another swipe at him. It would make the game last longer if they both continued to play. “You’re the one so taken with titles. I thought you’d appreciate that I’d taken such careful note of his. So, how will you know your cousin the—I mean, how will you know him?”

“I’ve never actually met Lord Washburn,” she stressed his name and title, “though we corresponded a few times. We share a passion for mythology.”

“My faith in human nature is restored. Contrary to popular belief, Bostonians
are
capable of passion.”

“From an Englishman, that’s scarcely a low blow.”

“There’s a myth I can happily debunk,” he said, taking one of her hands between both of his. “Let me assure you, Grace, some Englishmen are very passionate.”

He’d meant to awe her, to catch her in his gaze like an adder does a hare. He intended to watch her squirm uncomfortably in his heat. More than one of his past amours had told him his intense gaze was like a lover’s hands on her body. But Grace didn’t seem to feel a thing.

Instead, a strange thing happened.

When her mild amber eyes widened, he was the one who was caught. 

Her lips parted softly and the wicked fantasy he’d concocted about her that morning rushed back into him. Now that he’d actually felt her ripe bottom, imagining her with it tipped up to him was even more potent.

If he flipped her over, her sweet little mound would be slick and glistening. She’d smell like some exotic flower, spicy and pungent and the scent of her arousal would go straight to his cock. Grace would make a little helpless sound while she waited for him to claim her and then he’d—

    “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

She gave a little choking cough.

“There’s no need for profanity,” she said, breaking off their intense gaze. “I’m sure we’ll find my cousin if we keep looking. I can’t say what he looks like, but he’s wearing a red boutonnière.”

“How very imaginative of him,” Crispin said dragging in a deep breath to shake off the effects of his fantasy. Half the men milling around them sported a sprig of something red on their lapels.

Next to the pavilion decorated with murals depicting fauns and satyrs, Crispin noticed a boutonnière-wearing chap trying to hold the attention of an exquisite woman whose use of paint accentuated already phenomenal features. Not all courtesans were so beautiful, but this high flyer truly belonged to the top tier. While she laughed musically at whatever the man was saying, she flirted with her fan, but her gaze darted away, flicking over the crowd.