by Marlowe Mia
“Suppose I undertook to fund such an effort,” she offered.
Jasper almost could have kissed the old bat. “That is an enterprise I would heartily approve.”
“I’m so gratified to hear it, Lord Washburn.” Her eyes turned toward his sister, who was chatting with Cousin Minerva in the corner. Jasper followed the line of her gaze with a sinking sensation in his gut. “I hadn’t remembered your sister being so amiable when I met her last year. She really is quite fetching. Your sister Mary isn’t spoken for, is she?”
Jasper’s mind leapt to follow her quid pro quo in an instant. He sighed.
“When one dances with the devil, one must expect to be stuck with the piper’s bill,” he muttered. At least the pound of flesh required to satisfy this unholy debt wouldn’t come from him.
“I beg your pardon. I don’t believe I heard you properly over the music,” the viscountess said. “Could you repeat that?”
“I was just thinking that I believe my sister Mary would be charmed to meet your nephew Manfred,” Jasper said, a trifle over-loudly. “With your permission, I’ll go collect her and introduce them.”
Lady Sheppleton’s face contorted into a smile that would curdle cream. “Why, Lord Washburn, how very perceptive of you.”
* * *
The dance ended and Crispin escorted Grace back toward her waiting family. She leaned toward him to whisper, “I don’t know why I agreed to that.”
“Why, because you wanted to see if I could dance after all,” he said in a louder tone, then dropped his voice and tugged her closer. “The music is ended for the evening and there’s nothing to cover our speech now. I made a suggestion. You accepted and I expect to honor it.”
“But the risk—”
“—will be worth the reward,” he promised.
The last thing he wanted her to do was think better of leaving her window open for him. Of course, he wasn’t sure yet how he’d make it to an upper window, but between him and Wyckeham they’d think of something. They always had.
“Oh, look,” Grace said. “Isn’t that Lord Dorset talking to my father?”
She clutched his arm tighter and he laid a hand over hers. How right it felt. Then in the next instance, he was mentally kicking himself over how maudlin he was becoming.
What was wrong with him? At this rate, I’ll launch into a bloody sonnet before the evening’s out, he thought with disgust.
He focused on their destination and tried not to need his walking stick, though his thigh screamed in protest. In addition to Lord Washburn and his sister, Lord Dorset had condescended to join the Makepeace party. Along with Lady Sheppleton and her pudgy nephew. The marquess stood stiffly next to the wall, but he nodded when Grace’s father said something. Crispin bit back a curse.
“The biggest trophy bull in the room. Score one for your hunting hound.”
Grace laughed. “How like you to take the credit. Yours are not toes he trod upon during our reel.”
“Fancy that. A commoner with a cane can outdance a lord.”
“Indeed, he can,” she said, her eyes sparkling in the lamplight.
Crispin had to look away. This was not going according to plan at all. He was supposed to see her safely wed so he could console her once her titled husband tossed her over for a mistress or his pressing matters in the House of Lords.
Crispin was not supposed to get caught by her eyes.
Or have his chest tighten over the way Lord Dorset was looking at her.
“Oh, Grace, dear, there you are.” Her mother fanned herself excitedly. “We really must be going, darling. We’ve been invited for tea tomorrow at Lady Hazelton’s and we don’t want to have puffy eyes.”
“Rest easily, madam,” Crispin said. “Tea comes very late in the day.”
“But we have so much to do, if we accept half the invitations I’ve had this evening, we’ll be hopping till the end of the Season.”
“That won’t do, cousin,” Lord Washburn spoke up. “You promised to visit my country estate.”
The marquess made a noise of derision. “You haven’t room for a party of any size in that little manor of yours, Washburn,” he said. “My ancestral seat butts up against your holding. Mr. Makepeace, why don’t you and your family come to Clairmont instead?”
“But—” Grace’s cousin the baron began.
“You too, Washburn. There’s plenty of room for you and your charming sister.”
“I had intended to invite a few others,” Washburn said, his hapless gaze darting to Lady Sheppleton and her nephew.
“Consider them welcome,” Lord Dorset said magnanimously. “And I’ll round out the guest list with a few of my intimate friends. We’ll make a merry time of it.” He turned to Homer Makepeace. “Regretfully, it’s too early to hunt, but if you’re a fisherman, my lake boasts some fine trophy trout.”
For the first time that evening, Mr. Makepeace’s smile was genuine.
“Trophy trout. How fitting,” Crispin muttered. Grace’s elbow dug surreptitiously into his ribs.
When Dorset turned to look at Grace, his pale eyes darkened. Crispin’s fingers curled into fists at his side.
“I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of your social whirl here in London, Miss Makepeace,” the marquess continued. “Shall we say one week?”
“Actually,” Crispin said. “I’m not yet finished with Miss Makepeace’s casting. I fear a week is insufficient time and I would hate to rush perfection.”
“Oh, no. We wouldn’t want that,” Minerva said.
Crispin reaffirmed his conviction that Grace’s mother deserved a kiss.
“You can work at Clairmont just as well as here, can’t you?” the marquess said, a pair of deep grooves appearing between his brows.
“Marble dust makes an awful mess. I’d hate to soil your tapestries, my lord,” Crispin said. “Perhaps Miss Makepeace should stay in London.”
“We’ve a cottage on the grounds that will serve as a studio, Hawke. Bring what you need or send a list of your requirements and I’ll see the place equipped for your use,” Lord Dorset said with finality. He narrowed his gaze at Crispin. “And as long as you’re there, I’ve commission in mind for you as well.”
“I’ll consider whether my schedule and interest in the project allows me to accept,” Crispin said with the casual disdain the ton had grown to expect from him.
Dorset seemed less charmed by it than most.
“That’s settled then. My equipage will be sent around to collect you all in a week.” The marquess bowed to Grace. “Miss Makepeace, I look forward to our further acquaintance.”
Grace dipped a low curtsey in return.
Minerva Makepeace barely restrained her joy. Homer smiled indulgently.
Grace’s cousin the baron looked as if he’d just swallowed a pickled herring that had turned.
Crispin never expected to side with Washburn about anything, but like it or not, it appeared they were on the same losing team. Then he remembered Grace’s promise to leave her window open for him.
The marquess didn’t know it yet, but the games were about to begin.
And Crispin wasn’t about to play fair.
Chapter 23
It was beyond folly for Pygmalion to conceive feelings for his creation, the work of his own hammer and chisel. Unfortunately, he had much less control over himself than his work and no amount of tinkering would alter matters
“It’s the far left window,” Wyckeham said under his breath. Crispin and his servant crept from the alleyway through the tiny courtyard garden behind the Makepeace’s townhouse. The hinges in the iron gate squeaked as Wyckeham latched it behind them. They both froze, listening for sounds of alarm.
Crispin heard only the slow clomp of hooves on the next street over and the lazy song of crickets in the rose beds.
“You’re certain which window is hers?” Crispin asked. “More than one seems to be open.”
“Claudette told me herself, didn’t she?”
“Does the maid kn
ow our plans?”
“Not unless her mistress told her. She suspects something’s afoot, I’m sure. There’s no way to be cagey about that sort of thing,” Wyckeham whispered. “I mean, there’s no reason for me to need to know which room belongs to Miss Makepeace. No respectable reason, in any case. But with that Claudette, everything’s a wink and a nod. She knows how to keep her own counsel and no mistake.”
“Which is what I suggest you do right now,” Crispin whispered back. “If we’re discovered, it’s ruin for us all.”
But most especially for Grace.
Where had that come from? Crispin prided himself on possessing almost no conscience at all. A man made his choices and paid for them . . . if he were caught. This was a deucedly inconvenient time for a moral compass to rear its pointy little head.
Still the tiny accusing voice almost convinced him to turn back till he saw a shadow pass by Grace’s window. She was waiting for him.
The knowledge spurred him to a quicker pace.
“At least, they don’t seem to keep a dog,” Wyckeham said as they neared the corner of the courtyard where the stone enclosure abutted the townhouse itself.
“Thank God for small favors,” Crispin said devoutly. He signaled for Wyckeham to give him a leg up and he hoisted himself up to the top of the stone hedge. Along the upper storey, there was a ledge about two feet wide just outside the row of windows. Someone had placed a grouping of geraniums along the center of the ledge, but nothing adorned it otherwise. And since Grace’s chamber was on one end of the house, he wouldn’t have to work his way around a bunch of flowerpots to gain entrance through her window.
The ledge was edged with an iron railing designed to discourage precisely what he was attempting. But it also provided good purchase for his grip. He grasped a couple rails and used his upper body strength to pull himself up, then threw his good leg up over the ledge. Soon he was standing upright with his feet between the rails on the outside of the railing.
The waist-high railing topped with spikes.
“Faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” he muttered.
What idiot first came up with that? Crispin bet whoever the nameless bard was, he wasn’t facing a way to emasculate himself.
While Crispin tried to figure out how to maneuver around this obstacle, he peeled off his jacket. A little padding should help. But only a little.
He laid his jacket over the sharp points knowing he’d never be able to think of a story to explain the holes that would satisfy his tailor. Then he grasped the top of the rail and lifted his body up, stiff-armed. He pointed his toes and swung his legs back and forth, trying to gain some momentum. If he could swing his legs high enough to clear the rail, he might vault over it.
He was almost there when Grace stuck her head out the window.
“What on earth are you doing?” she whispered frantically.
He lowered himself back down on the outside of the railing, upset that he’d have to start all over. “What does it look like?”
“Like you’re about to damage yourself permanently,” she hissed and pointed to the far end of the ledge. “Use the little gate.”
When he looked down the row of townhouses, he saw that they all had little spiral staircases leading to their gardens from the right end of their narrow walkways. The Makepeace staircase had been removed, probably to make room for the thick stone enclosure below, but the gate was still there.
Frustrated and more than a little humbled, he moved along the outside of the rail to the gate which opened easily and—Thanks be to God—silently.
Then he tiptoed along the narrow ledge, past the other open window. Stentorian snores rumbled within and he figured he’d discovered where Mr. Makepeace slept. Crispin was barely able to squeeze past the congregation of geraniums in the center. He retrieved his impaled jacket from the points of the railing. Finally, he signaled to Wyckeham that all was well, and ducked into Grace’s open window.
“What is so important that you take such a risk?” she demanded in a furious whisper.
She was wearing a perfectly virginal wrapper with a nightshift that tied under her chin, but she was bathed in moonlight. And that made her creature of night and desire.
Her face glowed luminously, her eyes enormous. Even her long plait was kissed by the shaft of liquid silver spilling into the room after him.
It left her looking almost exactly as she did when she visited his dreams. Barring the virginal wrapper and nightshift, of course.
“Well?” She fisted her hands at her waist and might have tapped her toe at him if she hadn’t been trying to keep quiet.
He swallowed hard. Why had he come? The moonlight made it hard to remember exactly.
Oh, yes. To see if she’d allow him to.
The game was always the same at its heart. He’d played a variation of it with her mother at their first meeting. Strip away a person’s wealth and power and what’s left? Only their principles.
Would Grace surrender her principles for him?
Evidently, she would. He was in her bedchamber, wasn’t he?
The muscle in his thigh began to cramp. “Climbing up here is not as easy as I made it look,” he whispered. “May I sit?”
She gave him a grudging nod and pulled out the chair from her dressing table. He plopped on the end of her bed instead and ground his knuckles into his thigh, hoping she wouldn’t notice his discomfort.
She began to pace back and forth on the heart-of-pine floor. Her wrapper was less virginal than he’d initially thought when the moon diffused through it. The throb in his thigh was replaced by a throb elsewhere.
“This is highly inappropriate,” she fumed.
“And you didn’t realize that when you agreed to leave your window open?”
“Of course I did,” she hissed. “But—”
“But you did it anyway.” He caught her by the elbow on the next pass. “Careful, Grace. If you should take a tumble this time, I can’t promise there’ll be no swiving on the floor.”
Her mouth flew open and her eyes went wide. “You mean to say that’s why you’re here.”
He pulled her down onto his lap and pressed a finger to her lips.
“Shh. The trick to a successful assignation is stealth.”
“I am not having an assignation with you.”
“Let’s consider the evidence, shall we?” He whispered in her ear. “There’s a man in your bedchamber. He’s sitting on your bed and you’re on his lap. Unless your Boston is a much livelier place than I’ve been led to believe, that doesn’t seem like your average tea party, does it?”
“But I thought this was about something important. Something that couldn’t wait.”
“It is.”
“What is it, then?”
“This.” He cupped her cheek and lowered his mouth to hers. If she’s going to bolt, she’ll do it now.
But she didn’t. Her breath hissed in a heartbeat before their lips met, but she didn’t fight him. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted under his and—wonder of wonders—her tongue darted in to explore his mouth.
He pulled her closer, taking more of her weight on his thigh. Warm and soft, her rounded bottom felt wonderful on the aching muscle. And his cock rose to press against her hip, swelling with another sort of ache.
Their kiss deepened and her hands were in his hair, untying the thong that bound it back and running her fingers through his unruly mane. Her hands blessed his scalp with their touch, cool and sure, smoothing his hair down.
There was something sweet, something indescribably comforting in letting her touch his head. None of his other lovers had spent much time above his waist. It made him feel strangely naked even though he was still fully clothed. As if she could read his thoughts through her fingertips or swirl her thumbs over his soul.
When she palmed his cheeks, he slanted his mouth over hers and turned the kiss in a wicked direction. Sweetness fled and left something darker and more potent in its wake.
Hot and
sure, his hand found her breasts. Through the thin layers of her nightshift and wrapper, her nipple hardened beneath his palm. He kissed her jawline and down her neck.
He took one end of the knot that closed her nightshift between his teeth and tugged it free. She didn’t object when he slid her wrapper off her shoulders or when he parted her nightshift to bare her breasts to his gaze.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her breasts. That fiery time on the fainting couch in his studio was burned into his brain. But he feared, being an artist who is accustomed to idealizing the human form, that he’d embellished her charms a bit in his memory. That he’d improved upon nature.
There was no need. Her breasts were just as he’d remembered. Just as he’d dreamed, classically proportioned, the perfect size to fit his hand and topped with tight little buds in the center of darker areolae. They rose and fell slightly with her shallow breaths.
She worried her lip for a moment. Then she took his hand and placed it on her bare skin.
She’d never done that in his dreams.
She was surrendering her principles. If a person surrendered their principles, it meant he was important.
To her.
He realized with a jolt that he was dangerously close to surrendering his principles as well. Never in his wildly experimental and varied life of the flesh had he pursued a virgin. It was almost an article of faith.
That meant Grace was important.
To him.
He fondled her breast. He’d fondled many breasts. But this was different because it was her breast.
He lowered his head to take her nipple into his mouth. It was perfect. Tight, hard, sweet. He flicked it with his tongue and she made a noise. An involuntary gasp of pleasure.
It sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. He sat up straight.
“Grace, we have to be quiet.”
She nodded.
She nodded, he realized in wonderment. That meant she was going to let him . . . His cock twitched in anticipation.
That small accusing voice rose up in him again. He was planning to take something precious from her. Something she would never have again. Something he had no right to.