Stroke of Genius (13 page)

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. New England decks itself in glory each fall. 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 deep sable 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 was 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, I was thinking 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 this 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 Maybud.

She gasped and he pulled his hand back as if she’d scorched him. Her eyes darkened and her breath came in short pants.

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
the two of you doing over there?” her mother’s voice broke the spell.

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

“We have made a minor discovery, I think,” he said as he snapped up that bolt of green serge Minerva had contemplated earlier and held it in front of his trouser front. “Grace, are you ready to show them?”

There was silence for a couple heart beats as she seemed to be thinking things over. Finally he heard a quiet “yes.”

“It’s not enough to follow fashion. If we want Grace hailed as an Original, she must take the lead.” He stepped aside with a flourish. “I give you the new color combination I predict will take the
ton
by storm.”

Grace had arranged the two swaths of silk across her bosom diagonally just as he’d shown her, tucking the ends under her arms. Minerva’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, my dear, that’s  . . . ”

“That’s genius,” the modiste finished for her. “Pure genius, Mr. Hawke.”

“I can’t claim the credit,” he said with atypical humility. “Grace picked the colors.”

“But you had a hand in it,” Grace said, coloring suddenly as she realized what she’d said.

Crispin shot her a complicit grin.
A hand in it, indeed.
His palm still itched to hold her.

“It’s lovely, dear,” Minerva said happily. “You’ll cut quite a figure for your come-out. So bold and unusual.”

“In a sea of sprigged muslin, she will stand out as a goddess, a lady of substance,” Crispin said with a deep breath. He hoped to be able to lay aside the serge soon, but his arousal was showing no sign of abatement. He didn’t dare glance at Grace. “And these are not colors every woman can wear, though I predict many will try.”

The modiste shot him her brightest smile. “I’d better order more immediately.” Then she scurried toward Grace, tape measure and pins flying.

When he finally dared look at Grace, she was staring back at him, her expression as inscrutable as Napoleon’s Sphinx.

Was she angry? Relieved that he covered for her so well? As moved as he by their stolen moment?

He couldn’t read what she was thinking.

All he knew was that his cock was still ready to play. If his body didn’t settle soon, he might have to actually buy that abominable bolt of green serge. 

Chapter 13

Most people have no idea what propelled them to their current station in life. But Pygmalion knew to the instant. And he’d never forget it.

Eighteen years earlier

Peel’s Abbey, a Cheapside House of Pleasure

“What do you think, Crispin?” the new girl named Olympia asked as she twirled before him in her fanciful gown. It had cost the earth. Every last cent she had. “Well?”

His mouth opened and closed but nothing would come out. She was a pink froth with feet, a delicate confection in the baker’s shop window and he could only press his nose against the pane.

Olympia was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life and ordinarily he’d rather talk about something beautiful than eat. But he couldn’t seem to make his voice work when she was around.

And even when it did, he couldn’t trust it to stay in one octave long enough to finish a sentence.

She laughed at him then. And chucked his cheek as if he were a child, even though he was as tall as she.

“I guess that’s a good answer,” she said gaily. “I only hope I render the duke speechless as well. Wish me luck.”

Then she waltzed out of the
Abbey
and out of his life as quickly as she’d come. She didn’t return that night. Or the next.

Evidently, the duke was robbed of the gift of speech as well and decided to keep her until he recovered it.

Madame was disappointed by Olympia’s sudden departure. She’d had hopes her new girl would raise the social standing of the
Abbey’s
clientel. Along with raising the fees could charge.

But the rest of the girls said “Good riddance.” Olympia was too old to work in the
Abbey
, they complained. Even though her previous soft life left her skin untainted and her teeth pearlescent, wasn’t she nearly twenty-five? And being well-born meant she thought she was better than the rest of them.

Yet didn’t it go to show that ladies could find themselves soiled beyond repair just as easily as washerwomen? And her thinking she was too good for the regular ‘gentlemen.’ Olympia didn’t belong there, the other girls at the
Abbey
said.

Crispin agreed. What did a swan have to do with a bunch of mudhens?

At night in the garret, he thought of Olympia and her snowy white shoulders. And he discovered the miraculous way his twelve-year old body could be tricked into believing she was right there with him, doing delicious, wicked things to him.

Even if she was the duke’s mistress now, he would love her forever. 

And she would be his every time the moon showed its silver face in the grimy garret window.

* * *

One day a few weeks later, Crispin was carrying in the case of wine Madam had bought to serve the ‘gentlemen’ before they chose their girl for the evening. She’d probably water each goblet to make it go further, but it gave the place a touch of elegance to serve a French vintage, she said.

Crispin doubted anything other than a lit brand could add elegance to
Peel’s Abbey
.

He no longer feared Madame would sell him to the molly house. He was big enough to help protect the girls now if one of the ‘gentlemen’ got rough, and Madame had taken several commissions for his chess sets. She even provided him with better materials for his carving, but he knew there was more he could do. More he wanted to do.

He just wasn’t sure what.

Crispin arranged the wine bottles on the dusty cellar shelves, laying them on their sides, a long row of borrowed elegance doomed to end their days fermenting in whoremongers’ bellies. Then as he climbed up the rotting stairs, he heard her voice in the front parlor.

Olympia.

He leaped up the steps, two at a time. And he never descended those stairs again. She’d come for him.

The only thing he retrieved from the attic to take with him was a scrap of linen embroidered with the initials CRS. And the only thing left to show he’d ever been there at all was a half finished set of chess pieces.

Chapter 14

Perhaps there was a unique element in this particular stone that made it harder than usual. Perhaps, there was a flaw, a deep cleft embedded in the marble that kept the stone from revealing its hidden form. Try as he might, Pygmalion couldn’t bend the rock to his will.

Which, of course, made him all the more determined to succeed.

“Don’t slouch so, Grace,” Minerva said as they rode along in their hired barouche. It was the most fashionable time of day to see and be seen in St. James Park. They were almost required to be there. “But perhaps you might manage not to sit quite so tall at the same time.”

If you didn’t want tall offspring, you ought not to have married such a tall man
, danced on the tip of Grace’s tongue, but she merely said, “Yes, Mother.”

It was pointless to argue. She compromised by leaning more heavily on the arm rest, listing a bit toward the outer edge of the carriage. That brought the bill of her shovel-shaped sunbonnet nearer to the level of her mother’s outlandish head covering. Grace wasn’t sure, but she thought she spied two dead turtledoves artfully arranged amid the lace flowers and other frippery on her mother’s hat.

The thing must weigh half a stone! 

“Smile, dearest. We must be seen to be enjoying ourselves.”

Claudette, who was seated opposite them, had no problem with that directive. She’d decked herself out in her finest second-hand frock and preened with the best of them.