Stroke of Genius

by Marlowe Mia

  “Surely you jest. No one goes to St. James Park with the goal of not being seen.” He reached over her shoulder to uncurl her fingers and found that her hand trembled. “What’s really troubling you, Grace?”

  “You, you big dolt!” She bunched her fingers into a fist again, turned on her stool and punched his shoulder with it. “How could you . . . do what you did to me in the modiste’s shop and then go visit a courtesan?”

  She was jealous of Olympia! Crispin suppressed the urge to laugh, but she must have seen the twitch of a smile all the same. She punched him again.

  This time he caught her fist and held it as he walked around to stand before her. “Steady, my dear. Just because I’m in your pay, it doesn’t give you leave to pummel the help.”

  “Fake humility doesn’t fool me.” She snorted and pulled her hand away. “The day you feel yourself in my employ, I’ll walk naked down Fleet Street.”

  “Careful, Grace. You tempt me to real humility. You might be surprised what I’d dare to see you walk naked anywhere.” His voice was passion-rough.

  He trailed his fingertips from her cheeks, down the column of her throat to the tops of her breasts. His body roused to her nearness. And to the fact that she’d stopped whacking away at him.

  He fully expected her to bat his hand away, but she didn’t. Just as in the modiste’s shop, Grace went still as a hare. He traced the lace at the top of her bodice, letting a finger slip into the hollow between her breasts. Her lips parted softly and her eyes closed.

  Crispin hadn’t been able to kiss her at the dress shop, with her mother and the other women so perilously close, but nothing stopped him now. He lowered his mouth to capture hers.

  And—miracles!—her lips parted beneath his. He tongued her gently and she groaned softly into his mouth. Crispin gathered her in a snug embrace and she surprised him by molding her body to his. Her hands ran over the crown of his head and smoothed his wild hair while her tongue began a game of chase with his.

  His hands found her breasts again. No light touches this time. He cupped them both, massaging and lifting. He tried to slide his hand into her bodice to touch her satin skin, but his hands were too big and her bodice too tight.

  She broke off their kiss, staring at him breathlessly.

  “Wait a moment. You’ll tear something,” she said simply. Then with Yankee practicality, Grace began to undo the buttons that marched down the front of her gown.

  Chapter 17

  Pygmalion could never be certain when the transformation occurred, but in his striving with it, somehow, the stone began to shape him.

  Surely she’d still be a virgin even if cloth was missing from the equation.

  So long as she was clothed from the waist down, Claudette assured her, she would remain in the same happy state of purity she now enjoyed. And she wanted to feel Crispin’s hand on her breast again with a desperation that bordered on obsession.

  What did it matter if Crispin Hawke frequented a courtesan? It wasn’t as if her heart were engaged, goodness knows! She only needed him to complete her investigation of this strange new phenomenon.

  How is it a man’s hand on a woman’s breast makes her warm all over? Makes her feel more tinglingly alive than a brisk ride across Boston Commons? Makes her insides melt like a lump of sugar in a steaming cup of tea?

  Grace had it all planned out. It was the essence of empirical inquiry. Once she had the answers to those burning questions, she could dismiss Crispin Hawke and set him back to work on her sculpture.

  A man took pleasure where he wished. Why shouldn’t a woman?

  Of course, her mother would be totally horrified by what Grace was doing, but what Minerva Makepeace didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her daughter one bit. Actually, the whole forbidden quality of the experience added some extra spice.

  I’m a modern and independent woman. I don’t need anyone’s permission, she assured herself.

  But her claim to modernity and independence would be more convincing if her hand didn’t shake while she unbuttoned her gown.

  “Let me,” he said softly.

  Her hands dropped to her sides. Crispin’s big ones worked the tiny buttons with surprising ease.

  Probably practiced ease. “About that woman . . .” she hated herself for broaching the subject, but it was like a pesky fly buzzing in her brain. The courtesan’s gilded door simply wouldn’t go away.

  “What woman?” Crispin unhooked her stays and pushed the supportive undergarment aside.

  Grace silently thanked Claudette for suggesting the stays that fastened in the front to go with her button down the front gown that morning. Her mother was right about one thing. French maids do know best when it comes to fashion.

  Then Crispin took one end of the ribbon that held her chemise neckline closed and gave it a tug. The delicate lace and muslin fell away. Crispin laid back the dress bodice, her stays and chemise till her nipples peeped from behind the fabric. The fierce look of hunger on his face made her breath catch.

  A deep heaviness pulled at her groin, a low ache. Not at all unpleasant, but an ache nevertheless. It was a puzzlement how something could be classified as pain and pleasure at once. Definitely a mystery worthy of further study.

  “What woman?” he repeated, spellbound by her breasts.

  What woman? She struggled to recall. When was the man going to touch her breasts instead of just gawk at them? Blood roared so loudly in her ears, it was hard to remember. Had she asked about a woman?

  “Oh! That courtesan on St. James Park—do you visit her often?”

  “Not as often as she’d like.” His smile was wickedness itself.

  Conceited swine.

  She nearly reached up and closed her gown. But then his head dipped and he began to kiss her breasts.

  This was even better than the touch of his hand. Little tingles chased along behind his lips. His warm breath feathered over and between her breasts. The stubble on his chin rasped the valley between her peaks and set her skin dancing. He nuzzled a circle around one nipple and it drew so tight, she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

  Then his mouth covered her nipple and she couldn’t stop a strange sound from escaping her tightly-pressed lips. It was a cross between a whimper and a moan. A small sound. A distressed sound. And yet it encouraged Crispin to suck gently, then roughly. And swirl his tongue around her areola and flick that needy bit of skin as if it had been naughty. As if his tongue was the paddle needed to bring discipline to her wicked little nipple.

  And he kept at it till she made the noise again.

  He straightened to grin down at her. “Liked that, did you?”

  She moistened her lips with her tongue. “It was . . . tolerable.”

  “Just tolerable?”

  He caressed both breasts with his big hands, thrumming her sensitive peaks. Her belly clenched and she was much definitely warmer and moister down there than when she’d first entered his studio.

  “Perhaps I might rate it as ‘mildly diverting,’” she said through clenched teeth. Couldn’t the man feel her heart galloping? She certainly could, both in her chest and between her legs.

  He snorted like a stallion. “Mildly diverting? That’s a challenge no fellow can withdraw from without a severe dent to his manhood. I can damn well do better than ‘mildly diverting.’”

  Before she could admit she was teasing, he scooped her up and carried her toward the fainting couch in the corner.

  “Crispin, your leg!”

  He surely shouldn’t put so much extra weight on it and he couldn’t even use his cane with her in his arms.

  “Never mind about my leg,” he growled.

  Even though his step was canting, his chest and arms were like iron. Grappling with stone had made him unusually strong. His muscles appealed to her far more than the current notions of male attractiveness, which called for a man to be slim and graceful. She landed on the tufted couch with a plop and he dropped to one knee beside her.


  He kissed her again, all trace of gentleness gone. There was no teasing exploration. His tongue demanded and received entrance and he claimed her mouth with it.

  This was no longer an experiment, an intellectual enquiry. This was a lover’s summons, a command she felt powerless to deny.

  Instead of being fearful, she was moved. She met his fierce kiss with one of her own.

  One hand cradled her head and the other roamed over her bare breasts, squeezing and caressing. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and she writhed under him. When he gave it a firm tug and a little twist, she tore loose from his kiss, panting and gasping.

  He gave no quarter. Crispin trailed his mouth along her jaw, her neck. He paused to suck for a moment at her clavicle, then kissed his way down to her breasts.

  This time he nipped and played with them. Teasing her nipples with the nearness of his mouth, while denying them relief.

  Grace threaded her fingers through his hair.

  “Please,” she whimpered and his lips finally covered her taut peak.

  He sucked. He scraped his teeth over the sensitive flesh. Jolts shot from her nipples to her womb and a nameless longing made her back arch, thrusting her breasts up to him. Her brows drew together.

  Want. Need. Must have.

  What?

  With only a dash of shame, she realized she wanted him to touch her. Down there.

  Surely that wasn’t normal. Was it? A virgin shouldn’t want a man to venture below her waist.

  Not if she wanted to remain a virgin. Which she surely did. Didn’t she?

  The throb between her legs made it hard to think.

  * * *

  Not the actions of a genius, Crispin told himself, but his cock was in no mood to listen. He was playing with fire. Teasing a virgin, a marriage trap with feet.

  Oh, but what a delectable little virgin. Her breasts were so responsive, all rosy and quivering. They were even lovelier than he’d imagined them and he thought he’d endowed them with every possible grace in his mind. Firm, round, skin like satin, and topped with a love button so tight and sweet. Like a ripe berry between his lips. His imagination had failed him for the first time in his life.

  Reality was so much better.

  And she made the most cock-alluring sounds. Desperate, needy sounds. She wanted him.

  Far be it from him not to come to a lady’s aid.

  He swelled so, his trousers were fit to burst. His cock was primed and ready. And in the heat of lust, his thigh didn’t pain him a bit.

  She did it again, that distressed little sigh. She covered her mouth with one hand to stifle another.

  He wondered if she was as ready as she sounded. Without conscious thought, his hand pulled up her hem and began to caress her knee through her thin pantalets. Then he reached the spot on her upper thigh where the pantalets stopped. Crispin sent silent thanks to the French once again for designing the open-crotched garment that left a woman’s secrets so easily accessible. The skin of her inner thigh was as soft and tender as her breasts.

  He kissed her into delicious incoherence again as his hand moved north.

  Only another inch or two.

  He’d be fingering her damp curls before she knew it.

  He caught sight of Hector and the green serge in the corner of his eye. Sanity finally raised up a huge roadblock in his head. He stopped.

  Grace Makepeace is a virgin. A virgin! And you, my lad, are well on your way to being leg-shackled for life if you continue down this path.

  Crispin jerked back both his hands, released her mouth and scrambled to his feet.

  “Why are you stopping?” she asked sitting upright. “Am I not as pleasing to you as that courtesan?”

  Not pleasing? Her nipples were swollen and reddened from his rough ministrations. He had to look away from those luscious breasts spilling out of the front of her gown.

  And he was not going to discuss the relative merits of her body. Not and remain sane.

  “You’ve misconstrued my relationship with Olympia Dove. She’s my mentor, my supporter, nothing more.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “I’m glad, Crispin. Then what’s amiss?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said, grinding his teeth and turning his back to her completely. He didn’t dare look at her or his will to stop would evaporate. “Has it escaped your notice that you’re about to surrender your purity to me?”

  “Nonsense,” she said. Her tone was breathy and quavering. He heard fabric rustling behind him and hoped to heaven she was tucking her charms back behind their fabric prison. “I have it on good authority that a man may touch a woman’s breasts without any damage to her virginity. I’m still fully clothed, from the waist down at least.”

  He laughed without mirth. “My dear Grace, it’s entirely possible for me to violate you without removing a stitch of your clothing.”

  “Really? How?”

  His groin ached to show her. “Is your education that incomplete?”

  He heard her slippers hit the floor and figured it was safe to turn around.

  “In the subject of the carnal arts, yes,” she admitted. “My education is a bit thin, but that’s a failing easily remedied. I know swiving is an activity one does with gusto on the floor and that’s about it. But I’m a good pupil and dedicated to increasing my knowledge in all areas.”

  “That’s what Eve said, you know.”

  “Her sin was seeking the knowledge of good and evil, not knowledge in general.”

  “Some things you’re better off not knowing, at least until you have a husband to instruct you.” Crispin couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth. He sounded downright Toryish. “I hope you don’t intend to flaunt yourself before members of the ton like this.”

  “Of course not,” she said. Her skin was still flushed and her lips red and juicy. “I’d earn a reputation for being shockingly fast. But since I have no intention of marrying you, I thought you’d be the perfect man to instruct me in what I ought not do.”

  There was a twisted sort of logic in her argument and Crispin’s cock cheered the line of thinking. His head still tried to sort through it.

  “So you came here this day with every intention of dallying with me?”

  She chuckled. “Dallying. What a lovely expression. Yes, I suppose I did. Would you like to dally some more?”

  “No!”

  His cock called him twelve times a liar. If he took her maidenhead, he’d be honor-bound to wed her. And even if he didn’t feel compelled to do right by her, he was sure Homer Makepeace would see to it Crisping walked the aisle with Grace whether he wanted to or no.

  Unless Mr. Makepeace learned of Crispin’s true background. No gentleman would saddle his daughter with a nameless bastard.

  “I want to complete your casting,” he said gruffly and stomped back to his workbench, his thigh throbbing more than ever.

  Grace sighed and glided back over to pull on the opera gloves and assume the pose.

  It occurred to him that Olympia might have been right after all. He needed to see Grace safely wed as quickly as possible. Then they could ‘dally’ to their hearts content with no threat to his independence.

  “You know,” he said, testing the idea, “if you’re going to wed a titled gent, you’ll need a bit more subtlety.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  He winced at the word. It was exactly what he wasn’t prepared to do.

  “I’m only suggesting that you need to be less forward, less blunt, more sophisticated in your flirting.”

  “Is that what you’d call it? What we were doing was a type of flirting?”

  Flirting with the deep end of the ocean. Now if he could teach her merely to dabble her toes in the shallow surf.

  “In a manner of speaking, but not the sort of flirting acceptable in Polite Society, you understand.”

  “Perfectly. I’m not wholly ignorant of the world, you know.” She frowned. “Flirting is rather
looked down upon in Boston, the Polite Society sort or otherwise.”

  “I could teach you, I suppose,” he offered.

  “Oh, would you?” she said with enthusiasm. “I’m particularly interested in knowing how you’d violate a woman without removing her clothing. It sounds quite aggressive. Violate. Even the word lacks a certain finesse. I take it the act is similarly crude.”

  Had her mother told her nothing? He swallowed hard. “We’ll leave that lesson for last, shall we? I was thinking more about how to flirt with your fan and what to say when a gentleman asks you to dance, how not to give offense. That sort of thing.”

  “I rather doubt you have much to contribute to the discussion if the topic is not giving offense.” She rolled her eyes. “You delight in offending others.”

  He conceded her point. “But just because I choose to be unconventional doesn’t mean I don’t recognize correct behavior when I see it. I’m a keen observer of the ton, Grace. I can smooth your way in.”

  “Very well. You may teach me about flirting,” she said as if she were granting him a favor. “Both kinds of flirting. Polite and impolite. What I ought to do and what I ought not.”

  His mouth went dry and his cock resurrected itself at the thought of more impolite flirting with Grace. He heard himself agreeing with her before he could stop the words from coming out his mouth.

  “But in the meantime, I have a commission to fulfill.”

  He worked in silence, trying to sink into the peaceful realm of light and shadow, form and line. He’d complete this sculpture and collect his fee. He’d school her in polite deportment and steel himself to educate her in fleshly matters up to the brink of consummation.

  He’d see her wed to a title. He’d exorcize the impishly seductive spirit that stole his sleep and now tormented his waking hours. Then he’d never have to see this infuriatingly unavailable cock-teasing New England miss ever again.

  Unless it was as a member of his “Unhappy Wives of Inattentive Husbands Club.”

  And his life would be his own again.