by Marlowe Mia
His wince was quick, but Grace caught it.
“Crispin will do,” he said.
“And yet,” she said with an arched brow, “I’ll call you Cris.”
He rose to his feet, leaning on the ivory-headed walking stick. “Come to my studio in the morning. Eight of the clock sharp. Keep me waiting again, and it will be the last time.”
He strode toward the door with a slight limp.
“Perhaps that hour will not suit me,” she said, fighting the urge to follow him. She wasn’t some lake trout to be reeled in for the hooking. “Are your patrons your slaves to be ordered about?”
“No, I am the slave, but not to you, by God.” His footman scurried to hand him a top hat. He popped it on his head and inclined toward her in the shallowest of bows. “My master is the light. And it will not wait. Not for all the Boston Brahmins on the Charles.”
He pushed the door open, narrowly missing Grace’s mother, who crouched at the keyhole.
“Good day, madam. You may rejoice. Your daughter has sufficiently impressed me. And without anything the least earthy having transpired.” A wicked grin split his face. “This time.”
He turned back to Grace. “Scrub off that ink stain before tomorrow.” Then he disappeared around the corner into the foyer.
Minerva’s mouth opened and closed like a carp out of water. “What did you do, Grace?”
“I don’t know, Mother. He doesn’t seem to like me a bit.”
“Perhaps not, miss,” Wyckeham said before he followed his master out. “But you interest him. And not much does.”
* * *
As Wyckeham held the door of the curricle for his master, he leaned to whisper, “Did you notice—”
“Yes, damn it, I’m not blind.” Crispin climbed into the conveyance, stepping up with his left foot and lifting his right leg with a hand beneath his thigh. He tucked it in quickly so as not to attract undo attention to his debility. “It means nothing.”
“The way you stared at her tells me it’s not nothing. They’re as like as two peas.”
Crispin seized his servant by the cravat and brought him nose to nose. “Wyckeham, if you value your position, you will shut your mouth and refrain from speech for the rest of the day unless you can present a different topic of conversation. This one is closed.”
And so was Wyckeham’s mouth.
Chapter 2
Pygmalion loved the human form, but hated mankind in general.
And mistrusted women on principle.
Crispin woke with a jerk. He’d had the dream again. The woman’s face had plagued him for a month. Now that he had a name to put with her deceptively angelic features, the vision was even less welcome.
He dragged himself from bed and limped toward the window. He pushed open his bedchamber shutters and let silver light bathe his face. Crispin inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of sweet heliotrope and spicy jasmine from the interior courtyard below.
Seen from the outside, his home was an ugly stone block, but inside, the three stories wrapped around a central atrium, topped by exposed girders and dozens of octagonal skylights. His garden flourished year round. The fragrance distracted him a bit from the throb in his thigh, but didn’t ease the deep ache.
The moon’s face was slipping past the edge of the last skylight. Dawn wasn’t far off. There was no sense in going back to bed. If he slept, he’d just dream of her again and he didn’t want to puzzle over what that meant.
He decided to find his walking stick. He refused to think of it as a cane. Out on the narrow balcony overlooking his enclosed garden, he’d prop his leg up on the balustrade and wait for the coming day.
Crispin always slept in the nude, but in case one of the maids was up and about, he donned a banyan and knotted the belt at his waist. He didn’t want to impose his nakedness on them.
The life of a serving girl was difficult enough without fearing she’d have no choice but to bed her master. Crispin had buckets of contempt for the ton, even though they were the ones who drooled over his art and paid his exorbitant fees. But he respected the laboring class and tried not to add to their burden.
Especially those who labored to make his life easier.
Besides, Crispin had plenty of well-born women ready to welcome him to their beds. He wondered sometimes if becoming his lover, for however brief a time, was part of some initiation ritual for an ‘Unhappy Wives of Inattentive Husbands Club.’
But he never spent long enough with one of them to ask. Besides, when there was bed-play in the offing, talking wasn’t high on his list. There was nothing like a good hard swive to take an edge off the infernal pain in his thigh.
His thoughts drifted to the clumsy Miss Makepeace sprawled with her cheek on the Kurdish carpet. The female form held no mysteries for him. He’d seen enough naked women, in his capacity as both artist and lover, to know precisely how she’d look without her maidenish gown.
Her skin is like ivory, pale and smooth. At the base of her spine, she has dimples above her buttocks.
Crispin grinned at the thought that Grace Makepeace might have dimples on both sets of cheeks. He decided he’d pose her in his mind, as if he were doing a study of her.
Perhaps you’d like a pillow under your head. That carpet is deucedly rough and skin as soft as yours should be protected.
Now wasn’t that gallant? She’d thank him politely, as if she weren’t naked as a hatchling. Then he’d tell her to pull her knees toward her chest, so her bottom would be tipped up to greet him.
Like this? she asks, all innocence.
Exactly.
It wasn’t the most orthodox of poses for a nude, but it certainly appealed to him.
Should I tie her? he wondered. He’d heard that virgins especially enjoyed the act more if they could indulge in the female fantasy that ecstasy was forced upon them.
No, he decided. This was his fantasy. He preferred a willing partner to pleasure.
Of course, he’d give her pleasure. He’d never take a woman unwilling, so somehow without her saying a word, he’d know she was as hot for the carnal adventure as he. Even in his fantasies, Crispin prided himself on being a considerate and generous lover. His groin stirred to life beneath the silk banyan.
Her bottom pinks with pleasure under my gaze, but I won’t start with those lovely round globes.
And of course, they’d be round. This was his fantasy, after all.
Or her glistening cleft, trembling to receive me.
There was no need to rush. She wasn’t going anywhere. He’d start at her nape.
I draw my finger along her hairline. She sucks her breath over her teeth. Then my lips follow. Her skin ripples with gooseflesh. Pleasure from my touch.
Then he might strip out of his clothes.
Even though she doesn’t move—no artist’s model does unless instructed to do so—her amber eyes widen at the size of my cock. Her pink mouth forms a soundless “oh!”
This was his fantasy. It suited him for her to remain silent.
I’m tempted to let her take me in, to suckle the tip of me and flick her little tongue around that sensitive spot near the head, but that might be more than a man could expect of a virgin.
He really couldn’t say since he’d never had one.
Perhaps later.
His cock tented the dressing gown and he almost reached in to give it a hard stroke. But he was exposed on his balcony to the eyes of any servants who might be working in one of his palazzo’s garden-facing rooms. Gas lamps winked on down in the kitchen.
If he didn’t want to inflict his nakedness on the help, he certainly shouldn’t let them catch him in a game of yankum. Still, the ache of his erection eased the ache of his thigh. He returned to his musings.
Then I draw my hands and lips along the indentation of her spine. She mews with pleasure. I reach beneath her to cup a full breast.
Of course, she’d have full breasts, plump and soft, with aching, hard nipples. And she’d make helpless li
ttle noises when he circled them with his thumbs. Maybe a satisfying squeak or two, if he gave her pinch.
This was his fantasy, after all.
Then I finally turn my attention to her delicate secrets, all soft and quivering and incredibly wet. I part her like the petals of a lily. Her whole body trembles. The room fills with the sweet musky scent of her arousal. She tastes like heaven, but I put her through torments with my lips and tongue.
She’d pant and squirm and finally she’d beg him to release her from her suffering.
Not until you admit you want me, I say.
I want you.
If she had to speak at all, this was a good thing for her to say.
He shifted on his chair so the nubby fabric of his dressing gown chafed him just right. He was so close. He hadn’t spilled his seed on the strength of thought alone since he was a lad of about twelve. His fantasy of Grace Makepeace was so potent, so real, the skin on his cock drew tight and his balls bunched in a tight mound, near to bursting.
I want you.
But a woman might say that to any man. Suddenly, he knew what might send him over the edge without a touch.
My name. Say my name. I want you, Crispin. Say it.
And yet, I’ll call you Cris.
Where the hell had that come from? He heard her voice in his head as clearly as if she were actually there.
Cris. His belly roiled and his erection shriveled. His thigh screamed at him.
Grace Makepeace was pure trouble. Couldn’t even be counted upon to be biddable in his imagination. She was an implacable bit of Plymouth Rock come calling. She wouldn’t bend, much less let herself be tied up, to play any of his games.
That’s the last time I invite Miss Makepeace to my fantasy.
Then he sat in perfect stillness, waiting for the sky above his garden to lighten to pale gray.
Finally, the door to his chamber creaked open.
Wyckeham appeared with a silver tray. “You’re up, sir. You should have called for me.”
“Then we’d both be awake.” Crispin massaged his thigh. “No need for you to lose sleep, too.”
“It’s bad, then?”
Master and servant, they’d been together long enough to develop a verbal shorthand.
“Bad enough.” Crispin rose and stretched, flexing and pointing his toes. He circuited the room to begin his daily ‘unstiffening.’
Wyckeham’s room was directly beneath Crispin’s. If he’d started his laps earlier, his servant would have heard his footfalls and felt obliged to come, no matter the hour. Crispin preferred willing service, so he spared Wyckeham when he could.
“The tea is ready.” His servant poured three fingers of brandy into a separate jigger.
“No, better make it only two,” Crispin said, grasping the bedstead and lifting his right knee as high as he could. “I need a steady hand today.”
“You’re sure she’ll come.”
“Of course.” Crispin gritted his teeth and paced the room without his walking stick, forcing the long bone of his thigh to bear his full weight. Then he sank onto the chair Wyckeham held for him beside the small table. There was a breakfast room down on the garden level, but Crispin rarely used it. No need to tackle the stairs more often or earlier than necessary. “And I’m certain Miss Makepeace will be on time.”
Wyckeham arched a questioning brow.
“I did some checking around. Her father made his fortune in textiles. Seems he made some patented improvements to the mechanical spinning process. Punctuality is next to godliness for industrial men. Whole towns live by the factory whistle.”
Crispin tossed back the brandy and then took a sip of the piping hot tea. “Besides, I’ve an ally now. Her mother is sufficiently terrified of me to make certain her appearance will be timely.”
“Good. That shipment of marble from Italy is due today.”
“Let me know when it arrives.” Crispin sopped up his eggs with the toast. “Perhaps you should send the boy down to the corner to direct Miss Makepeace here.”
“And protect her from pickpockets.”
“That, too.”
Crispin could have lived in Mayfair, but he liked the liveliness, the seediness, even the stench of Cheapside. It wouldn’t do to forget where one came from, after all.
The large muscle in his thigh was beginning to knot, so he stretched his leg out and pressed his fist into it. His hands ground marble into submission. He ought to be able to subdue his own rioting flesh.
“You know, laudanum would ease the pain better than brandy.” Wyckeham uncovered a fragrant dish of apricots and quartered pears.
“And once the laudanum ceases working, what’s left? No, brandy will suffice for now.” Crispin’s thigh muscle shivered under his skin. “It’ll have to.”
* * *
The Makepeace’s hired carriage drove east, toward St. Paul’s tremendous dome. Grace’s new French maid, Claudette, was dozing beside her, her neatly coiffed head bobbing and dipping as the carriage bumped over the cobbles.
Grace’s mother had assured her that everyone who was anyone knew French maids were the best. Claudette did seem to know her way around a rouge pot, but Grace convinced her the day was far too young to resort to paint. So she coiled Grace’s unruly brown hair into as fashionable a look as she could wring from her mistress’s uncooperative locks. Now Claudette was overcome by the early morning effort.
Fine chaperone she makes, Grace thought. As if I need one to keep me from foolishness with the likes of Crispin Hawke.
At the thought of him, her belly stirred as if someone had loosed a jar of fireflies inside her. Foolishness, indeed, but she couldn’t will it away.
The carriage hit a pothole and Grace’s head nearly bumped against the ceiling. Claudette wakened with a string of French curses. The maid drew back the carriage curtains.
“Oh, la! Where does he live, this Crispin Hawke?” Claudette said with a curl of her lip. “Vraiment, this is . . . how you say . . . the armpit of London!”
Grace agreed. The buildings leaned against each other in tangled rabbit warrens of rickety fire traps and decaying courts.
Knots of squabbling fishwives and a bawling chorus of stall-holders hocked their wares. The fishy reek of the wharves wafted up through dank alleyways.
Armpit, indeed. She lifted a scented hanky to her nose.
Then they turned a corner and pulled away from the Thames.
“This is more like it,” Claudette said. “You should give the driver the sack, mam’selle. A lady should not be forced to drive through such smelly places.”
“It’s all right, Claudette. It makes me grateful I don’t have to live in them,” Grace said. “A dose of reality never hurt anyone.”
The great dome of St. Paul’s loomed ahead of them. They rattled past the cathedral and turned down a narrow way. The coach shuddered to a halt.
Her footman opened the door. “Sorry, miss. This is as far as we can manage. Mr. Gustafson says the lane’s too narrow for the coach.”
“That’s fine, Allen. We must be close by,” Grace said as she stepped from the coach with the aid of her footman. Then he helped Claudette as well with as much solicitude as he’d given Grace. Footmen were always hired for their pleasing appearance, but Claudette paid Allen little heed.
“Shall I come with you and Miss Claudette?” he asked hopefully.
“I’ll show ‘em the way, guv,” a boy called out as he came bolting down the narrow alley and skidded to a stop before her. “Ye must be Miss Makepeace. Mr. Hawke sent me to wait for yer.”
The boy dropped the ‘h’ from his master’s name, pronouncing it ‘Mr. Auk,’ as if Crispin were some great, flightless bird.
“Indeed, and how did you know I was Miss Makepeace?” Grace was still dying to know which of her features Mr. Hawke found most pleasing. Perhaps he’d let it slip to this lad.
“Well, ye’re tall as a lamppost, ain’t yer? And ye talk like one o’ them Yanks.”
“W
hen your master sets himself to charm, he does go all out,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “Very well, if you’re to be my guide, I need to know who are.”
“Me name’s Nate. No more. No less. Come, then. Most o’ the light-fingered chaps hereabouts are still abed.”
“And how would you know that?”
“‘Coz I used to be one o’ them.” A gap-toothed grin split his face and he beckoned them to follow him into the alley. “One at a time, now. Kind of cramped quarters, y’ see. Best not to keep Himself waitin’, ye know.”
“I doubt it would hurt Himself to wait, but since we’re already here . . .” Grace eyed the narrow lane and suddenly wished she’d taken Allen up on his offer to come with them, but she didn’t want to show any hint of weakness before Crispin Hawke.
Her maid’s presence was enough for propriety’s sake. Besides, it wasn’t as if any member of the ton would be up and about at this hour.
Or in this neighborhood.
“Allen, please tell Mr. Gustafson to collect us here in time for tea.”
The footman’s lips twitched as if he wanted to say something else, but all he managed was, “Very good, miss.”
“The door we’re wantin’ is about half-way in,” her pint-sized guide said over his shoulder. “On the left hand side. Oh, and I wouldn’t speak to no one we meet, if I was you.”
Drawing a deep breath, Grace left the wider lane and stepped into the sunless cold of the dank, little alley.
Chapter 3
No one knew for certain why Pygmalion hated people so, but there was undoubtedly one thing he did love. His art.
Why on earth would an artistic genius bury himself here like a fox gone to ground?
“Careful, mam’selle.” Claudette lifted her skirts to keep them from touching the suspect cobbles and her lips formed a moue of disgust.
The alley turned sharply and Grace glanced back to the main street where Allen stood beside the carriage. He was still looking after them, so she waved him on.
“Not much farther now.” Nate shot her an encouraging grin over his shoulder.
