Free Stroke of Genius by Mia Marlowe Page B

Miss Mary Washburn would wear anything that could be termed ridiculous.”
    “Wait till you’ve seen it before you defend it, Grace. I do believe some poor peacock must be running around naked,” he said.
    Since swiving Grace was not a viable option, irritating the fool out her was the next best thing he could think of to keep his mind off the pain in his thigh. He had to up the ante in their game.
    “Come. Let us not keep your aristocratic cousin or her formidable plumage waiting.”
    She shook her head at him. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation to sup with us.”
    “My dear Grace, Vauxhall is a place for folk to meet and become better acquainted without all that social folderol.” Crispin shot her a wicked grin. “After all, there were five fellows on the Dark Walk who seemed quite anxious to make your closer acquaintance.”
    “Can we please dismiss that unfortunate incident? I believe I thanked you already.” Her tone was brittle as blown glass.
    “No, you only offered to thank me with a kiss, but I declined for your own good.” The gas light diffused around them bright enough for him to see a livid blush heat her cheeks. “However, a little Vauxhall ham should settle your debt nicely.”
    She glared at him. “You rank my virtue low indeed.”
    “On the contrary, my dear Grace,” he said with a parody of a courtly bow. “You’ve obviously never had Vauxhall’s ham.” 
    He thought he detected a wisp of steam escaping her ears. How delicious. It was time to unleash his big gun.
    “Your mother will think me rude if I don’t at least say hello.”
    “All right, but not until I find my other cousin.” She lifted her chin and gave an injured sniff. “He’s a baron, you know.”
    “Which explains why he’s lost,” Crispin shot back. “Most noblemen haven’t sense enough to come in from the rain.”
    “He’s not lost.” Her teeth were clenched so firmly, her jaw looked permanently locked. “I meant to say I just haven’t met up with him yet.”
    Crispin snapped his fingers. “So that’s what you were doing on the Dark Walk. Looking for your cousin the baron. Well, that shows intelligence,” he said with an arched brow. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I daresay most of the fellows grunting in the bushes were earls at the very least.”
    “Must you be so vulgar?”
    “Usually,” he admitted, raising his gaze over her head, presumably scanning the crowd for the missing fellow. “What does your cousin the baron look like?”
    “Will you stop saying that?”
    “Stop saying what, Grace?
    “‘Your cousin the baron.’” She dropped the pitch of her voice in a fair imitation of him.
    “Suit yourself,” he said, pleased that she’d decided to take another swipe at him. It would make the game last longer if they both continued to play. “You’re the one so taken with titles. I thought you’d appreciate that I’d taken such careful note of his. So, how will you know your cousin the—I mean, how will you know him?”
    “I’ve never actually met Lord Washburn,” she stressed his name and title, “though we corresponded a few times. We share a passion for mythology.”
    “My faith in human nature is restored. Contrary to popular belief, Bostonians are capable of passion.”
    “From an Englishman, that’s scarcely a low blow.”
    “There’s a myth I can happily debunk,” he said, taking one of her hands between both of his. “Let me assure you, Grace, some Englishmen are very passionate.”
    He’d meant to awe her, to catch her in his gaze like an adder does a hare. He intended to watch her squirm uncomfortably in his heat. More than one of his past amours had told him his intense gaze was like a lover’s hands on her body. But Grace didn’t seem to feel a thing.
    Instead, a strange thing happened.
    When her mild amber eyes widened, he was the one who was caught. 
    Her lips parted softly and the wicked fantasy he’d concocted about her that morning