Free Stroke of Genius by Mia Marlowe

through her body and a delicious shiver tickled her spine.
    Actually, if she were being fair, Crispin had rescued her on the Dark Walk and even if he wasn’t the right sort to be named a hero, he still deserved a small reward. She hadn’t actually thanked him properly yet. A chaste kiss should do the trick.
    The principle was clearly stated in all the best sorts of books. 
    Her eyelids fluttered closed and she waited for his mouth to descend on hers, warm and demanding. Her belly turned a slow flip.
    Would it be as shockingly delicious as that first kiss?
    She waited.
    Would his tongue slide between her lips this time to search out her secrets? That’s what happened in the more wicked books.
    She still waited.
    What the devil was keeping the man?
    She slitted one eyelid to find him smirking down at her.
    “No, Grace,” he said softly. “You don’t know when a man is about to kiss you.”
    Embarrassment and fury vied for first place in her heart. Fury won. Grace hadn’t wrestled and rough-housed with her older brothers as she was growing up for nothing. She pulled her arm back, ready to slap him into next week.
    He caught her wrist without effort.
    “So predictable.”
    Grace wrenched herself away from him and stood.
        “Good bye, Mr. Hawke,” she said through clenched teeth, meaning every word. She never wanted to lay eyes on Crispin Hawke again. Somehow, she’d convince her mother that she didn’t need a sculpture of her hands to be accepted by the ton . No title, no adoring husband, not even satisfying her mother was worth putting up with this insufferable man. 
    She stomped away in the direction of the statue of Handel, but Crispin Hawke fell into halting step with her.
    “One moment, Grace.”
    “What now?” She stopped, hands fisted at her waist.
    “You don’t want to rush back to your family just yet.”
    “I don’t?”
    “No, trust me, you don’t.”
    “Trusting you is not something I’d remotely consider doing.” She sighed. Then bald curiosity made her ask, “Why don’t I want to return to my family now?”
    His lips twitched with amusement. “Because . . . how does one put this delicately?”
    “Mr. Hawke, you wouldn’t know delicate if it bit you on the ar—” she caught herself before one of her father’s favorite naughty sayings flew out her mouth.
    “Ah, that’s it. You’ve hit the nail right on the . . . arse, as it were,” he said. “The back of your gown is dusted with . . . well, see for yourself.”
    She twisted around and saw that grass clippings and leaves were clinging to her derriere. “Oh!”
    “Indeed,” he said, removing his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “If I may?”
    Before she could protest, he pulled her off the path behind a large lilac bush. Then he turned her around and brushed her bottom with his white hanky in long, hard strokes.
    Grace had never been paddled by her parents. It was humiliating to be swatted on the backside by this man. Especially since her bottom warmed strangely under his intimate touch.
    “There,” he said, giving her derriere a final dusting with his handkerchief. “That should do it. There may be a grass stain or two, but nothing discernable in this light. Your appearance, and thus your honor, is once again unimpeachable.”
    “The gown is probably ruined,” she said with a scowl. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
    “Not yet, Grace,” he said with a wicked grin. “But you do show promise.”

Chapter 8

     
    Occasionally, Pygmalion saw what he called ‘ghosts in the stone.’ The figures were there already, encased in marble, just waiting for him to free them.
    Then one day, one of the ghosts began to free herself.
     
    Crispin wasn’t exactly sure why he continued in Miss Makepeace’s wake once she stalked from their lilac-scented bower and back to the path. She strode away from him with single-mindedness, with determination, with her little bottom twitching beguilingly beneath that thin silk.
    Ah,