Chapter Three #2
‘—had a passing acquaintance with his sister, in fact,’ Aunt Louise was saying proudly. ‘I have met the Marquess of Laidley above three times—’
‘Four times?’ Calliope murmured, despite all her efforts to hold her tongue.
Her aunt looked a little put out as she sipped her rapidly warming wine. ‘Well. Yes, four times, as it happens. He was very pleasant to me and I do believe I can secure an introduction through our admittedly brief acquaintance—if you should wish it.’
Calliope swallowed.
An introduction with a marquess. Delightful for some, certainly, but she and her sisters had been outside of Society for so long, poor as they were, that she was almost certain to offend.
Besides, she had no wish to enter polite Society, not really. Female artists were rarely treated well there, she had heard.
Perhaps a year ago, she would have eagerly accepted her aunt’s offer. A marquess, after all, and a gentleman with means…
But that would have been to secure her family’s position.
Ditty had worked hard as a proposal planner to finance the family but now she was married, and to a duke who owned an unexpectedly impressive goldmine, Calliope could wave happily goodbye to all marital prospects and instead focus on what truly mattered—her art.
Thank goodness Ditty’s attempts to marry her off had come to nothing. Oh, it wasn’t that Calliope was ungrateful—quite the opposite. She had told her sister firmly that eligible bachelors should be reserved for clients. That was how the family made money.
She’d never let Ditty know just how aware she was of their precarious financial situation.
Calliope had overheard Ditty weeping once, a few years ago, over a stack of bills she had thoughtlessly run up.
The guilt had gnawed at her all night. Returning the art supplies had hurt, but that hurt had been swiftly washed away when two days later, Ditty’s mood had lifted.
The bills had been rescinded. There were no more tears.
Calliope swallowed. She was not here, in Brighton, to dwell on such memories: she was here to paint. Painting must be her sole focus.
‘I have no need for such an introduction,’ Calliope said firmly, ignoring the swoop of her stomach at the very idea. ‘Thank you, Aunt Louise, but—’
‘Ah, there he is now. My lord—my lord, it’s your sister’s friend! Look, he’s coming over now,’ beamed Aunt Louise with pride in every syllable as she waved at someone behind her niece.
Calliope inhaled slowly. Well, it appeared that the introduction was going to be made and, knowing her mother’s sister, there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent it.
And why not be introduced to a marquess?
He was surely a polite, refined, elegant man.
There was no harm in it. He might well fall head over heels in love with her, she thought with a twisting smile as she slowly turned. Now wouldn’t that be a turn up for the…
Her jaw dropped as her aunt’s fan fluttered all the faster.
No. No, it couldn’t be.
Mr Donovan. The irritating, rude, abominable man who had suggested she return with him to his lodgings to do something utterly unspeakable…
The Marquess of Laidley?
It was impossible not to grin.
‘Ah, my hansom cab friend,’ Montague said grandly, bowing low to the woman he vaguely recognised as part of his sister’s set before she had got married. ‘And how are you finding our fair town?’
‘I—I…you…you are…’
And to think, he had almost not been able to attend the Duchess of Knaresby’s ball because it fell on the same night as a card game at his club, Montague thought with delight. Thankfully he had sent his apologies and his place in the game had been kept for another week.
How easy it might have been to completely miss the chance to see this delectable woman again!
And she was delectable. He had thought her beautiful yesterday, when he had seen her standing there in the dusty road with red cheeks from the sun and clear fatigue from great travel.
But now?
Oh, now he could quite well see why he had made the, what had perhaps been unsavoury, suggestion that she come with him to his lodgings and he take all his clothes off.
The woman was tall, with elegant brows and lips surely begging to be kissed.
Her form was beautifully filling out the gown, which only accentuated the flush now tinging her cheeks.
And those hips were surely there only to be held and—
‘So wonderful to see you here, my lord,’ trilled the older woman beside her. ‘And how is your sister?’
Desperately wracking his brains to remember the name of the woman, Montague treated her with a beaming smile that made her simper.
As such a smile always did.
‘Why, Mrs Gower, how delightful to see you again,’ he said smoothly, bowing low and noticing with a grin that the young woman looked if anything, even more unsettled. ‘My sister is doing very well, as of her last letter. She is in Rome.’
‘Ah, Rome! How wonderful for her. I was saying only this morning to my niece—oh, may I make the introduction, my lord?’
‘You may indeed,’ said Montague graciously, flashing the older woman a smile. ‘In fact, I insist.’
The tittering delight of Mrs Gower was rather wonderful.
He’d spent that morning awkwardly welcoming his solicitor, who had lived up to his profession and spouted nothing but trusts and wardships and legal terms Montague had never heard of, and a small child, who appeared to have no words whatsoever.
He’d been so fatigued by the whole thing, so desperate to make the child feel welcome but with no idea how to do it, that Montague had almost considered not attending the Duchess of Knaresby’s ball, despite accepting the invitation.
How glad he was that he had not stayed at home.
‘My lord, may I introduce to you Miss Calliope Oliver, my niece,’ said Mrs Gower grandly. ‘Miss Oliver, his lordship. Montague, Marquess of Laidley.’
Montague made sure to bow low, delighting in the frisson rushing down his chest.
Miss Calliope Oliver. It made sense that a woman that beautiful would have such a name—and to meet her here, who would have guessed it?
When he straightened, it was to see Miss Oliver make as small a curtsey as she evidently could possibly give.
Interesting.
‘Miss Oliver and I have already had the pleasure,’ Montague said with a grin, allowing the silence to elongate just beyond what was appropriate before adding, ‘of meeting.’
Miss Oliver glared. ‘I wouldn’t call it a pleasure.’
‘You wound me, Miss Oliver!’ Placing a hand on his heart, Montague made a pained expression. ‘My dear Mrs Gower, would you believe there was a misunderstanding between us yesterday about a hansom cab?’
Mrs Gower trilled something, but Montague wasn’t listening. He was too busy looking at Miss Oliver.
If looks could kill, she would have buried him already. Goodness, it was invigorating, to see so much disdain dripping from one person’s expression. How did she do it? How did she look at him so fiercely and in a gown that deep a colour?
It was wonderful, seeing precisely just how he could get under her skin. He hadn’t flirted like this in ages—except for yesterday, of course. How did this woman do it?
‘—and I said Calliope, there will undoubtedly be many eligible young men—’
‘Aunt Louise!’ Miss Oliver hissed, her cheeks now a crimson to match her gown.
Montague inclined his head with what he hoped was a measured, yet charming, smile. ‘I quite understand, Mrs Gower. As you know, I have so recently married off my sister. It is a trial and yet a delight, is it not, to ensure that the young ladies in our charge find…the right partner?’
He was most definitely not looking at Miss Oliver as he spoke, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her flush, inexplicably, deepen.
She was truly an innocent, then. He had wondered, a young woman on her own, standing by the roadside attempting to hail a hansom cab without any male assistance. She had either been entirely na?ve and rash to the extreme, or well versed in the ways of the world.
Much to his surprise, Montague saw that it was the former.