Stroke of Genius

by Marlowe Mia

  Wyckeham made a small noise of surprise when he discovered the pile of Grace’s clothing near the piece Crispin had been sculpting. He wisely refrained from asking any pointed questions.

  His manservant gathered up the ruined gown, the stays and chemise, pantalets, and stockings into a neat bundle and carried it over to Crispin. Grace’s warm scent still clung to them.

  “What do you want me to do with all this?”

  “Burn it,” Crispin snarled and stomped away. “A marchioness never wears the same gown twice.”

  Chapter 33

  Love is not love unless it is chosen freely.

  So why did Pygmalion regret giving Galatea a will of her own?

  “You never rise before I ring you, Claudette,” Grace said as she picked her way around the duck pond. Dodging sheep droppings and goose poop at least gave her something to focus on besides the wreck of her life. “What made you check on me so early today?”

  “Truth to tell, mam’selle, I was only returning to my little room and thought to see if you were sleeping well before I found my bed.”

  “Returning? From where?”

  Claudette blushed, something Grace had never seen her do before, not even when explaining the mechanics involved in losing one’s virginity in lurid detail.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Mr. Wyckeham is quartered in the main house, would it?”

  “His name, it is Brice, mam’selle,” Claudette said with a sigh. With her French pronunciation of the ‘r’ so deep in her throat, the name sound almost like “Bwice.”

  Grace stifled a giggle.

  “Brice, now is it? Never say you’ve caught yet another footman’s eye,” Grace said. Whatever else her maid was, her love life was always entertaining and gave Grace a welcome diversion from the thorns in her own.

  “Non, mam’selle,” she said. “What kind of girl do you take me for? Brice is Monsieur Wyckeham’s name. It is beautiful, n’est-ce pas? A saint name, it is and yet I will not hold that against him so long as he does not make to act like one.”

  “Then you and he are reconciled, I take it?”

  Claudette smiled again and wiggled her little finger in the air. “Here is where I have him, all wrapped about. And where he will be pleased to be kept.”

  “And what of Mr. Allen?”

  “Oh, la! Him, I forget to remember so long as Brice behaves himself.”

  Her maid had no trouble taking charge of the men in her life. Grace wished Claudette would lend her a bit of whatever enabled her to consistently arrange her affaires du Coeur to her liking.

  Grace saw her father and Lord Dorset strolling across the exercise yard between the stables, long poles strung over their shoulders. They were headed in Grace’s direction. If she’d delayed leaving Crispin by only a few minutes, they’d have reached the duck pond and would have seen her leaving the cottage in the pearly dawn.

  A perverse part of her thought that would’ve been no bad thing. At least, it would have taken the question of how to tell her parents she couldn’t marry the marquess out of her hands. Lord Dorset wouldn’t want her after he learned she was not the virginal bride all men of good breeding sought.

  Yet, she couldn’t shame her parents. Last night had been a terrible risk. But a terrific reward as well. Crispin made her feel things no mortal should this side of paradise. And she’d done the same for him, despite her inexperience.

  She couldn’t hurt Crispin by delaying matters. His face was a veritable storm cloud when she left him, but surely he realized the situation called for some delicacy.

  He hadn’t made things easy for her. There had been no offer of marriage. Now that she thought about it, there hadn’t even been a declaration of love between them.

  But he wouldn’t have done those deliciously sinful, adoring things to her if he didn’t love her.

  Would he?

  Thoughts swarmed in Grace’s brain like a hornet’s nest, angrier and more uncertain by the minute. How difficult would it have been for him to say ‘I love you?’ Even this morning, he could have stopped her from leaving with the right words. But he simply asked her what she was going to do without even presenting her the option of choosing an honorable life with him.

  Perhaps his intentions weren’t honorable.

  From the moment she first met him, Crispin Hawke had played games. Was that all she’d been to him? When she sought him out and gave herself to him, had she lost one of his games along with her maidenhead?

  “Halloo!” her father called out to her. “You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.”

  Grace blinked back the foolish tears she’d allowed to gather and closed the distance between them with as quick a trot as her narrow column gown would allow. She stood tiptoe to press a kiss to her father’s whiskered cheek. Here at least was someone she was sure loved her.

  “Good morning, Papa. My lord.” She dropped a curtsey to Lord Dorset.

  “Now, Grace, I thought we settled on you calling me Richard last night,” he said with an easy smile.

  Oh, yes. How could she forget such gracious condescension from one so highborn? “You’re right. Forgive me. Good morning, Richard.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” he said with mock severity. A friendly wink softened his words. “Your father and I are off to drown a few worms. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

  The marquess was such a fine gentleman, mannerly and well-spoken. With his title and wealth, he was everything her mother ever dreamed for her. As he gazed expectantly at her, Grace couldn’t help wondering if the butterflies she was missing in her stomach would have been fluttering for the marquess’s benefit, if only she hadn’t met Crispin Hawke first.

  “No, the girl never cared a bit for fishing,” her father answered for her. “If she stays, we’ll be forever baiting her hook and listening to her squeal if she gets a nibble.”

  Perhaps that was her real problem. Other people had been answering for her all her life and she let them. It was high time she answered for herself. Even if she risked answering incorrectly.

  “Thank you, Richard,” she said with a forced smile. “I believe I will try my hand at fishing.”

  “Splendid! You, girl.” Richard commandeered Grace’s maid as if by right. “Run up to the stables and find Jeremy. Tell him to bring another kit and tackle box down for your mistress. Off you go and step lively, now.”

  Grace nodded at Claudette and she hurried away.

  While she listened to the marquess explain the finer points of fishing, Grace strained to keep the smile on her face. Her cheeks hurt after only a few minutes. She wondered what happened if one allowed artificial smiles to live on one’s face for long periods of time.

  Would a real smile ever grow in its place?

  Or would the face merely grow accustomed to the false one?

  When she heard the first clang of Crispin’s hammer echoing over the little valley, she had her answer.

  * * *

  Mr. Makepeace showed himself an admirable sportsman, casting with a practiced rhythm and flinging his fly into the quiet eddies, places sure to entice a bite. His stringer of lake trout was filling quickly. His daughter, however, was having less luck.

  Richard watched Grace fidget with her pole for a good quarter hour. He’d decided to fix her a simple hook with a bobber instead of trying to teach her to cast properly. He doubted the tight little sleeves on her morning gown would allow the range of arm motion needed for a fly cast.

  Grace was trying, bless her, but her heart wasn’t in the sport. She frowned down at her bobber with furious intensity. Once or twice, he caught her glancing toward the sounds of labor coming from the cottage. Hawke was going at something hammer and tongs.

  Richard sighed and tamped down the resentment that welled in him. The past couldn’t be undone. He must look to the future.

  A unique opportunity had presented itself and though the thought had soured his belly when it first came to him,
it had taken firm root in his mind since then. He was Dorset. People depended upon him. He could not in good conscience indulge his own vanity. He’d swallow his gall long enough to see this plan through.

  He’d marry Grace Upshall and for her dowry, he’d demand a working version of her father’s improved thread spinner. He’d have a dozen replicas made and his estate would prosper for the next generation, producing both the wool and the finished yarn. It was an elegant solution that would provide steady work for his crofters and a chance to corner a goodly piece of the textile market for the marquessate.

  And then with an heir, the estate would flourish for generations after him.

  As for Grace, he’d treat her well. She’d have his name, his wealth, his protection. He’d give her no cause for complaint. She seemed intelligent and even-tempered. In time, they might even come to be friends.

  Richard glanced down the hill toward the cottage and then forced his attention back on his casting. He couldn’t seem to find the right rhythm for fishing this morning, but his other plan was proceeding nicely.

  One way or another, Clairmont would gain an heir of rightful blood.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry. I’m just no good that this,” Grace finally conceded, pulling her line and the soggy worm at the end of it from the water. “Pray excuse me.”

  “Certainly, but I’m glad you stayed most of the morning, Grace,” Richard said. “The rest of the party is arriving today so this may be one of our last chances for a bit of peace and quiet. You will save me a dance this evening?”

  “Of course, my lor—Richard.”

  Even though they’d agreed to informality, she couldn’t stop the reflexive curtsey in time. There was no harm in that. He’d be happy to see her continue to do so even after the wedding. It was good for a woman to reverence her husband.

  At least publicly.

  “Do you play chess, Grace?” He caught her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a perfect courtly kiss to them.

  “Yes, though my father accuses me of over-using my queen’s rook.”

  “Then I’m forewarned. Perhaps we can steal away for a game at some point in the next few days.”

  Her hand stiffened in his, but she didn’t withdraw it. He wondered how she’d come by the reputation for such beautiful hands. They seemed perfectly ordinary to him, but once the ton got something in its collective mind, there was no turning it.

  “I should like that,” she said.

  “I’ll walk you back to the house, daughter,” Mr. Makepeace said. “Don’t want to take all his lordship’s trout the first day. Thank you, Dorset. That was fine sport, damn fine sport. Are you coming now, too?”

  “Not just yet. Till this evening, Grace.” He dipped in a shallow bow and then waved them on.

  After they’d wandered as far as the stables, Richard abandoned his fishing gear for one of the servants to retrieve later and marched down the hill to Hawke’s cottage.

  The artist was still hard at work when Richard pushed through the unlocked door. A female figure emerged from the tall stone before him. Long-limbed and graceful, she extended a bow arm, preparing to draw the string back. The tilt of her head and slant of her lips was unmistakable.

  Hawke was doing far more of Grace Makepeace than her hands.

  But then, Richard already knew that.

  “Diana the Huntress,” Richard said, walking toward the piece.

  Hawke turned and look at him with no deference in his gaze. Well, that was to be expected. Hard to respect the man one cuckolds.

  “Beautifully done.” Richard approached the statue in progress and ran a hand over the cold stone shoulder. “You have quite a gift.”

  Hawke nodded his acceptance of the compliment.

  “Miss Makepeace makes an admirable virgin goddess, doesn’t she?” Richard said.

  “Yes, my lord.” Hawke turned back to the marble and chipped away, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

  “So do you hope to make me think this is why she was here all night?”

  Hawke’s hammer stopped in mid-swing.

  “Do you really imagine I don’t know everything that goes on here at my own estate?”

  Hawke’s lips thinned, but he didn’t speak.

  Good. He could be discreet.

  “Walk with me, Mr. Hawke,” Richard said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  Hawke laid his tools aside and removed the leather apron he wore over his serviceable knee-length shirt and work trousers. He clapped his hands together and marble dust shimmered in the shafts of sunlight streaming into the cottage. Hawke retrieved his walking stick and followed Richard into the warm mid-morning.

  They climbed the hill in silence. It was refreshing. Usually people clamored around a marquess, offering favors or begging for one. Hawke merely walked beside him in his canting stride. As they neared the manor, Hawke slowed.

  “My lord, I’ve been working. I’m not fit to enter your house thus.”

  “You’re fit enough,” Richard said. “At least, I trust you are. Tell me about your limp. Does it cause you any special debility?”

  “If you call pain a debility.”

  “Have you sired any bastards?”

  He frowned in surprise. “None that I’m aware of,” Hawke said.

  “But not for lack of trying, I’m told. According to some counts, you seem poised to cuckold half the peers of England.”

  “It seems you take an interest in what happens off your estate as well,” Hawke said. “If you know my sexual habits, you know I favor married women, so any issue would, of necessity, not be bastards in the legal sense. I wouldn’t hang that label on a child.”

  Richard nodded. “How touching. Such a noble sentiment probably comes from bearing the name of bastard yourself.”

  Hawke bristled. “Have a care, my lord. I don’t suffer insults.”

  “Since when is the truth an insult? Besides, I’ve always believed the fault lies with the bastard’s father, not the bastard himself.”

  They passed through the neatly manicured gardens. Richard preferred the well-ordered French style to the helter-skelter mayhem that passed for an English garden. When they reached the breakfast room door, Richard waited for Hawke to open it for him. Since he didn’t seem inclined to honor either his host or his host’s title, Richard opened the door for him. Hawke shrugged and preceded him in.

  Sometimes, it was necessary to stroke an adversary’s ego in order to turn him for one’s purposes. Richard would lull him into complacency before he revealed his plan.

  “This way, Hawke.” Richard quickened his pace and forced Hawke to keep up with him as he moved through the public rooms of the manor. If it pained the artist to move quickly so much the better.

  The pain Richard anticipated causing was undoubtedly greater.

  Finally, he threw open the door to the portrait gallery and stalked down to the larger-than-life painting at the far end.

  “I’d like you to meet someone, Hawke.” He waved a hand toward the last portrait in the long line of over-blown art works. “Christian Sinclair Royce, 7th Marquess of Dorset. He was my father.” Richard paused for effect. “And, I believe, yours.”

  Chapter 34

  While he waited for Galatea to choose him, Pygmalion was forced to wrestle with a few unpleasant truths. About himself.

  Crispin gaped dumbfounded at the painting.

  “The likeness is striking, isn’t it?” the marquess said. “You see now why I stared a bit rudely when we first met at Almack’s. It was as if I’d met Hamlet’s ghost.”

  For Crispin, it was almost like looking into a magic mirror and seeing himself a decade or two in the future.

  “Of course, there’s no way to positively prove paternity—” the marquess began.

  “I have proof,” Crispin said woodenly as he reached to trace the monogram beneath the painted figure’s booted foot. CRS.

  Cris. Just when he thought he’d given up wanting to k
now.

  “The only thing I have from my mother is a handkerchief with these initials embroidered in gold.” Crispin could have drawn the florid curling decoration around the letters with his eyes closed. “It’s the same unique embellishment. The same monogram.”

  “Careless of him to leave a hanky lying about where one of his doxies could nick it.”

  The punch was thrown before the urge to do it even passed through Crispin’s brain. It connected with Dorset’s jaw and sent the marquess sprawling on the thick Turkish rug.

  Crispin didn’t care if Dorset was a peer of the realm. He leaped onto him, straddled the man’s chest and rained a storm of blows on him, which the marquess managed to barely fend off by covering his face with his forearms.

  “Pax!” came the muffled shout. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have insulted your mother.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” Crispin rolled off him and struggled to his feet, his thigh throbbing. “She didn’t deserve what he did to her.”

  “Which was?”

  “After he begot me? Nothing. Nothing at all. He never gave her a bit of help. She died alone . . . in a whore house, old at twenty-five.” He was tempted to spit on the painting, but he’d already trounced the marquess. Defacing his family’s heirlooms would add insult to injury and Dorset couldn’t help who his father was any more than Crispin could.

  The marquess rose shakily to his feet. He evidently wasn’t going to call for his servants to restrain Crispin and turn him over the magistrate, even though he’d be within his rights to do so. However, Crispin noticed Dorset was careful to maintain a healthy distance between them.

  “If it’s any consolation, you were fortunate not to know him,” Dorset said. “He was charming and urbane and unspeakably cruel. I think he drove my mother a little mad.”

  Crispin was silent, eyeing the marquess. “It would have been a simple thing to keep me from seeing this portrait. Even now, I have no claim on you or this estate. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Your leg is twitching and I suspect you’ve loosened a couple of my teeth. Come, Hawke. Let us sit like reasonable men and discuss how we may help each other.”