Free Stroke of Genius by Mia Marlowe Page A

yes. That’s the reason.
    He lofted a silent prayer of thanks to whatever horned deity listened to the prayers of the lascivious. It was good to be a man when women no longer enhanced their figures with cork bum rolls and wire panniers.
    I don’t care if Bonaparte is a madman, God bless the French.
    The Frogs led the charge toward the current classical fashions in women’s gowns. Simple. Honest. Nearly naked in the right light. When he was dusting off Grace’s derriere, his fingertips brushed the sweet curve of her bottom with such intimacy, it was almost as if she were bare as Eve.
    She was as soft and rounded as he’d imagined.
    His cock cheered this information with a standing ovation.
    But since Grace was walking away from him, not toward him, he forced his attention to other things. Besides, she was still not his type. Virgins had never interested him.
    Of course, he hadn’t realized what fun they were to play with before now.
    So long as a man keeps his head—both of them—where they belong.
    It had drained every ounce of willpower he possessed not to take the mouth she so sweetly offered. But it was worth his sacrifice to see the spit-fire in her eyes when she realized she’d been duped.
    He’d string her along a bit and hopefully teach the little minx something in the process. She needed not to be so trusting. If he were a different sort of man, he’d have had her maidenhead already. She was fortunate that he possessed a few scruples.
    Very few.
    Pity she was so gullible. So kissable. So swive -able.
    When they reached the fashionable part of the park, she stopped and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, peering this way and that. She stood tiptoe a few paces ahead of him, trying to see over the heads of the crowd. Even though Grace was tall for a woman, the sea of top hats and the even more outlandish feminine headgear blocked her view.
    Crispin was tall enough to locate Grace’s mother without straining. Minerva Makepeace was seated in one of the best-placed supper boxes. He assumed the bewhiskered gentleman next to her was Grace’s father.
    “I believe your parents are over there to the right,” he said pleasantly from behind Grace.
    She startled and then turned around to face him. “I didn’t know you were following me.”
    “Following you? Nonsense,” he said.
    “Then you must be here to rub shoulders with your betters.”
    “If such exist,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “My status as an acknowledged genius makes it hard to find even my equal.”
    She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “I’ve heard rumors that your origins are humble, Mr. Hawke. Pity it didn’t take root in your character.”
    “Humility is impossible when brilliance is hung about my neck by others at every turn.” He was delighted she’d decided to play. A verbal joust was no fun if the other party refused to pick up the thrown gauntlet. “But even we salt-of-the-earth types like to crawl out from our hovels from time to time to see how the upper crust lives.”
    “Well, I suppose it’s to be expected. You did warn me Vauxhall admits all manner of riffraff.”
    He chuckled and put a hand to his chest. “ Touché , mademoiselle.”
    “I think I’ve heard enough French from you for one night,” she said irritably.
    Clearly, she was still smarting from being called ‘Miss Cow.’ He wondered if he could turn it into an endearment of some sort. Ma petite vache, perhaps.
    That should curdle her cream good and proper.
    “I can’t see anything in this crush.” She turned away from him, gave a little hop, but landed with a disappointed squeak. “My parents, do you see anyone with them?”
    When he didn’t answer right away, she turned back to face him again.
    He glanced toward the supper box. “A lady in a green gown and ridiculous feathered turban.”
    “That’ll be my mother’s cousin.” She shrugged. “My cousin too, I suppose, another time removed. But I seriously doubt