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Long ago, when the
world was dewy fresh and ever so much younger than now, there lived
an artist whose sculptures lacked only breath to give them life.
The artist’s name was
Pygmalion.
Chapter 1
Starting from the
well-formed foot and ankle, the long line of the man’s muscular leg
ended in a disappointingly small fig leaf.
How typical,
Grace Makepeace thought as she squinted at the illustration.
Psyche must cavort about without a stitch, but Cupid’s most
bewildering parts are always covered. And since whatever it is fits
so neatly behind that tiny leaf . . . really, one wonders what all
the fuss is about.
“For heaven’s sake,
Grace, you must hurry or he’ll leave!”
“Mother, calm yourself.”
Grace didn’t lift her
nose from her new copy of Rev. Waterbury’s Mysteries of Mythology,
but she did flip quickly to the next page. If her mother had the
slightest inkling of the number of scantily-clad gods and goddesses
the good reverend had included in his scholarly tome, she’d have an
apoplectic fit on the spot.
“Why should I care if
the fellow does leave?” Grace asked.
Minerva Makepeace put an
astonished hand to her ample bosom. “Because darling, Crispin Hawke
is the best. Simply the best and we dare not settle for less. Why,
the man is a bona fide genius with marble. The world is watching,
dear, all the time. If we set so much as one foot wrong—”
“We may as well go home
to Boston,” Grace finished for her for the umpteenth time. She
closed the book with a resigned snap.
“Precisely,” her mother
said. “Oh, I’m so glad you understand how essential this interview
is, dearie.”
Minerva either didn’t
hear the sarcasm in Grace’s tone, or chose to ignore it. She never
scolded or became cross, but when her mother set her heart on
something, she wore her family down as surely as a determined drip
leaves a dent in stone. Minerva’s heart was set on a titled husband
for her daughter. And if acceptance by the ton of London
hinged on having the fashionable artist Hawke ‘do’ Grace’s hands in
marble, then Minerva Makepeace would move heaven and earth to see it
done.
Her mother shepherded
Grace down the hall from the light-kissed library to the
heavily-curtained parlor.
“I don’t see why we need
meet Mr. Hawke’s approval. We’re paying him, Mother,” Grace reminded
her. “That means he’ll work for us.”
Minerva shushed her.
“Which means I’ll
be the one doing the approving,” Grace finished as they neared
the parlor door. But she didn’t say it loudly enough for her mother
to hear.
Minerva swept into the
parlor with a theatrical flourish, bunching the small train of her
pale muslin gown in one hand. Grace followed, steeling herself to
settle this as quickly as possible so she could return to the
library.
“Mr. Hawke, we’re
delighted, simply delighted that you’ve come.” Minerva swanned
across the room with the borrowed elegance of the nouveau riche
and extended her bejeweled hand to the man who rose from the settee.
His footman, resplendent in mauve livery with silver buttons, stood
at attention in the corner.
Now I see what has
the ton in a tizzy, Grace mused.
Broad-shouldered and
tall, Crispin Hawke didn’t seem the sensitive, artistic
type. His raw, angular features didn’t fit the current vogue for
male beauty, which called for a man’s eyes, nose and mouth to be
smaller and more refined, almost pretty.
No one in their right
mind would call Mr. Hawke that. Arresting, certainly. Rough-hewn,
yes, but not pretty. Strong jaws, firm, well-shaped lips, unusual
pewter-gray eyes beneath dark brows—if he didn’t redefine the word
‘male’ Grace didn’t know who would.
Crispin Hawke was like a
total eclipse. Dangerous. The backs of Grace’s eyes burned just
looking at him.
If his person exuded a
feral masculinity, his dress suggested utter civility. Grace would
have guessed Mr. Hawke a duke at the least if she’d seen him on the
street. His coat was cut in the first stare of fashion, draping over
his lean hips in a Brummel-esque inverted “U.” His brocade waistcoat
was in rich midnight blue.
Grace glanced at his
skin-hugging buff trousers.
Bet he’d need a much
bigger fig leaf.
His outfit was completed
by Hessians glossed to a spit shine. Crispin Hawke might have
stepped directly from a fashion plate. But Grace noticed he leaned
more heavily on his walking stick than one would on a mere accessory
and in a time when most men affected a Caesar-like cropped look, his
curly dark hair was unstylishly long. Lines gathered at the corners
of his gray eyes, though she’d bet her best brooch he hadn’t seen
thirty winters.
Those pale eyes widened
in what looked like recognition, but the expression was gone so
quickly Grace decided she’d imagined it. Besides, if they’d met
before she’d have remembered. No one would forget Crispin Hawke. His
image was already burned in her mind alongside other wonders of the
world.
His unhurried gaze
traveled over her. The almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth gave
her the distinct impression she’d been weighed in the balance. She
couldn’t tell whether he found her sadly wanting.
“Such a pleasure to
finally meet you, sir. Grace, this is Mr. Hawke. Mr. Hawke, may I
present,” her mother indicated with a wave of her hand, “my dear
daughter, Miss Grace Makepeace?”
Even though the mystery
of Crispin Hawke commanded her full attention, Grace would always
blame what came next on the upturned corner of her mother’s new
Oriental rug. As she approached to offer her hand, palm down, as her
mother had taught her, Grace caught the toe of her slipper under the
carpet and fell headlong onto the Hakkari weave.
“Grace,” the footman
murmured. “Aptly named.”
“Wyckham, I usually
appreciate your scathing wit,” Mr. Hawke said over his shoulder to
the footman as he knelt to help her rise, “but perhaps you might
save it for a more deserving subject.”
Cheeks aflame, Grace
tried to pull away from his grasp, unwilling to meet his gaze. But
he didn’t let her go.
When she raised her eyes
to him, he was looking down at her with such intensity, her belly
clenched. A whiff of his scent, a brisk, clean soapy smell with an
underlying note of maleness, crowded her senses. His piercing eyes
narrowed in scrutiny.
Grace was accustomed to
slumping since her mother constantly reminded her that her height
might be “off-putting” to potential suitors. Now she straightened
her spine, but Mr. Hawke was still able to look down his fine nose
at her.
The footman Wyckham
cleared his throat and the spell was broken. Mr. Hawke released his
grip on Grace’s arms.
“I trust you’re now
capable of remaining upright, Miss Makepeace.” One corner of his
mouth curved into a crooked smile.
“Oh, please do sit down,
sir.” Her mother made a distressed little noise and fluttered over
to a chair across from the settee like a wounded sparrow. “Come,
dear and mind your feet,” she said in a half-whisper to Grace as she
patted the chair next to her before turning her attention back to
the artist. “I fear we’ve kept you waiting, Mr. Hawke.”
“Nonsense, madam.” He
lounged on the settee, filling the space with his larger-than-life
presence. “If you feared keeping me waiting you wouldn’t have done
it.”
“Oh!” Minerva blinked
hard at his bluntness. Grace sank into the chair next to her,
wishing she could disappear into the red velvet. Or better yet, back
into the books she loved so well. “Well, as I was saying, this is my
daughter, Grace, the one whose hands you’ll be sculpting—”
“That, madam, has yet to
be determined.”
Grace’s head snapped up.
What sort of artisan was he, picking and choosing his commissions as
if he were doing his patrons a favor by accepting their money?
He was still staring at
her with single-minded intensity, his dark brows drawing closer
together over his nose. Fashionable or not, all his features blended
together to form a most harmonious face, even when frowning. He
might have stepped from Rev. Waterbury’s pages as Mars, the god of
war.
Her skin tingled under
his intrusive gaze. She disliked the sensation. It was almost as if
he knew more about her than he ought, as though he’d read her secret
journal or sneaked into her dreams some night.
“Mr. Hawke, I’m newly
arrived in your country, so perhaps you might clarify something for
me.” Grace raised her chin slightly. The ton might be
delirious over Crispin Hawke, but she didn’t have to be.
“Is rudeness what passes for genius in England these days?”
Mr. Hawke made a noise
somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. He flicked his gaze toward
her mother. “Leave us.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I didn’t tell you to
beg, madam, though it may come to that if you cannot follow a simple
directive. I told you to leave.”
“Oh, I couldn’t
possibly,” Minerva said. “It wouldn’t be proper—”
“Mrs. Makepeace, we’ve
only just met, but I perceive in you a very earthy imagination.” He
arched a knowing brow. “What do you think I intend to do to
your daughter in your absence?”
Grace’s mother erupted
in a coughing fit.
“My man Wyckham will
remain with us. The proprieties will be observed at all times, but
if you wish me to accept your commission, you will allow me
to speak to Miss Makepeace without your presence.”
“Oh, oh, . . .” Minerva
was rarely at a loss for words, but the unconventional Mr. Hawke
nearly reduced her to incoherence. “But how will I explain to Mr.
Makepeace?”
“If you need tell him
anything, tell him you succeeded in acquiring my services. At half
my usual fee.” He raised a cynical brow. “That should suffice.”
Grace watched in
surprise as her proper mother rose and abandoned her to Mr. Hawke.
“Kindly close the door
behind you,” he said, his rumbling tone more pleasant now that he
was getting his way.
“Mother!”
“I won’t be far, dear,”
Minerva said through the narrow slit in the door before it latched
behind her with a loud click.
Crispin Hawke chuckled
softly. “Dear me, Miss Makepeace, I do believe you mother thinks
I’ll throw you to the floor and swive you right here in her very
proper parlor.”
Grace gaped at him. She
wasn’t completely sure of all the details involved in swiving
but she knew a casual obscenity when she heard one. She stood in
shock. To cover the fact that she couldn’t bear looking at him—even
unpleasant as he was, he was still too striking to consider for
longer than a blink—she began pacing the room.
“Why did you bully my
mother like that?”
“Because I could.” He
propped his arms across the back of the settee, claiming the space
as if by right. “Mind the rug, Grace. If you end up on the floor
again, I might be tempted over-much and I almost promised your
highly-esteemed mother there’d be no swiving today.”
“Stop saying that word.”
She shot him a glare that should have reduced him to cinders, but he
only laughed. “You manipulated her for your own amusement.”
“You’re remarkably
astute for a spoiled little rich girl from Boston,” he said,
managing to compliment and berate her in the same breath. “I bullied
your mother because it interests me to learn how much value people
assign to my work. As you deduced, it’s only a game, but a game with
purpose. Money is nothing. But if someone surrenders their
principles, that’s something. How else can I know my services are
sufficiently appreciated for me to extend them?”
“That’s despicable. This
game of yours is thoroughly unappreciated.” She
flounced back onto her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Don’t expect me to surrender anything for your services.”
“Of course not.” He
leaned forward and reached toward her. “Give me your hands.”
“What?” Was this another
of his games?
“Your hands, Grace.”
She might have found his
smile charming if he’d not behaved so abominably, first to her
mother and then to her. Throw me down and swive me in the parlor,
indeed, you conceited swine.
There was a
disconcerting flutter beneath her ribs at the thought of sharing the
Hakkari carpet with Mr. Hawke.
“I must see your hands,
Grace. How shall I sculpt them otherwise?”
She thrust them toward
him, but made a great show of looking away, staring with complete
absorption at the Ormolu clock her mother had recently installed on
the fireplace mantle.
“Square nails, an ink
stain, a bit of a callus on your third finger.” He catalogued her
hands’ attributes as if they were inanimate objects somehow
disconnected to the rest of her. “You favor your left hand.”
“What of it?”
“I do too, which makes
us a pair of rare birds. I perceive you are either a writer of
wicked penny novels or you keep up a lively correspondence with a
number of distant friends and relations.”
She glowered at him, but
couldn’t fault his skills of observation. When she wasn’t reading,
Grace was secretly writing what she hoped would be her first
published work.
“You should know that I
don’t flatter my models.”
“How very surprising.”
“I only mean to warn you
that your hands are not your best feature.” Despite his words, he
continued to massage her wrists and hands with his rough, thick
fingers. When he followed her lifeline to its end at the base of her
thumb, pleasure licked her palm. “Would you like to know what is,
Grace?”
“You are engaged to
sculpt my hands. I care nothing for your opinion on the rest of me,”
she lied.
He was outrageous and
vulgar and totally impertinent. But she burned with curiosity about
what he might find most pleasing about her. Asking, however, would
only allow him to play yet another game.
“You should call me Miss
Makepeace, you know.”
“Yes, I really should.
And yet, I’ll call you Grace,” he said pleasantly as he traced
between her fingers and turned her palms down to draw his thumbs
over her knuckles. A little faerie of pleasure danced up her arm.
“And you’ll call me . . . Mr. Hawke.”
“I certainly will not.”
She pulled her hands away, her imaginary pleasure faerie
disintegrating in a righteous puff of indignation. “If you insist on
informality between us, it will go both ways, Crispin. Or should it
be Cris?”
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
tomorrow. 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,”
Wyckham said before he followed his master out. “But you interest
him. And not much does.”
* * *
As Wyckham 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. “Wyckham, 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 Wyckham’s
mouth.
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photo: Fortin & Sanders |
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BEHIND
THE
STORY
Some authors
choose popular actors as an aid to modeling their
characters' appearance. I've never done that. My cast of
characters live in my head and sometimes spring to life
fully formed.
That's why it
was such a shock when I strolled through Club RT at the
Romantic Times Convention in Orlando and saw my hero,
Crispin Hawke at the Fortin & Sanders booth! I had already
conceived my tortured artist and his dangerous brand of
masculine beauty. Half the story was already written. I
couldn't believe how closely this picture matched the
Crispin in my imagination.
And the
ironic thing is that in
STROKE
OF
GENIUS, Crispin dreams of Grace, has
already seen her in his mind, before he meets her as well.
Sometimes,
life does imitate art.
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STROKE
OF
GENIUS is
now available.
Sign up for
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newsletter!
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Order
STROKE
OF GENIUS
from these fine stores!
Reviewers say:
"Georgette Heyer with ripped
bodices! Emily's latest story is simply charming - Crispin
Hawke is awkward, dashing, self-assured, rude, everything
you'd expect from Georgette Heyer, or even Jane Austen.
Emily Bryan is the mistress of saucy historical romances.
Stroke of Genius
is pure delight."
~
BooksMonthly
"This amusing historical
romance is a classic gender war tale of the irresistible force meeting
the immovable object. Fans will enjoy the love between the Charles and
the Thames as Grace proves Crispin the genius is a dope when it comes to
love."
~ Genre-Go-Round
Reviews |
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There are lots
of types of intelligence.
What kind of
Genius are YOU?
"Emily Bryan
does it again. Stroke of Genius sparkles and
crackles with whip sharp dialog and characters to cheer for.
Historicals have never been such fun."
~
Barbara Vey, Beyond her Book, Publishers Weekly
"Wickedly
enjoyable!"
~ RT BookReviews
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"Stroke
of Genius by Ms. Emily Bryan is a delightfully
witty romance smoldering with red hot passion!
Crispin IS Regency’s answer to “House”. I
loved this book and can’t wait until Ms. Bryan’s
next one is out!"
~ Romance
Reader Connection. |
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