Chapter Four #2
The third thought came as the sun came out for a moment and blazed down, and it reminded her of when the Marquess had asked—nay, demanded—that he dance with her.
A demand she had refused. And although it had delighted her to so irritate him, it also had caused a thrill of confusion through her body.
A red-hot sparking one that made absolutely no sense.
And the fourth thought came…now. As she was thinking about how much she was not thinking about the Marquess of Laidley.
Calliope sighed as she examined the progress she had made.
In truth, it was not quite as impressive as she had hoped. There was something missing, something lacking perhaps in her this fine morning that made it impossible to get the colours or the perspectives correct, and stopped the whole thing from coming together in a cohesive manner.
It was exasperating to the extreme.
Calliope sighed as she dropped down onto the stones. She had come all this way on the understanding that Brighton offered the artist true inspiration. Something that would flow through her, perhaps, though she knew it was a foolish idea.
Something that satisfied in a way that life in London simply…had not.
Something was wrong. Something was…out of balance. Was there too much red on her canvas? Not enough?
‘It’s not quite there is it?’ came a painfully familiar voice.
Miss Oliver
It was most definitely her. He had seen her but twice before, but already Montague had memorised the contours of her body, the way she held herself, the self-possessive way that she appeared to be utterly in control of every situation.
She was bold, and beautiful, a heady combination for a marquess to whom no woman had ever said no.
Montague had managed to walk up to her without the woman seeming to notice him. He tried his best not to be offended—she was painting, after all—but it was a touch humbling to realise she was not there to attract attention, but rather to focus on the painting at hand.
Which was…good. Montague prided himself on his artistic knowledge and was starting to become known as a connoisseur, beyond the fact that he was a dab hand with a paintbrush himself, and he could tell when an artist had a real grasp of their craft.
She did. But it was eluding her; he could sense it in the squaring of her shoulders, the way she was seated on the beach and glaring up at the canvas. Precisely what was not behaving he could not tell—the piece looked damned impressive, to his eye.
Miss Oliver looked disgruntled and Montague found a flicker of pleasure soar through him at the sight. It was pleasant indeed to find the woman who so often had the upper hand over him to be finally at a disadvantage.
Which was perhaps why he felt so perverse as to say, ‘It’s not quite there, is it?’
It had been the wrong thing to say.
Miss Oliver struggled hastily to her feet, scattering sand and pebbles everywhere…including onto her canvas.
‘Oh God, in—’ The curses that would have swept from her lips would have been impressive indeed, Montague was certain, but she managed to curtail her oaths as she glared. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh no, Miss Oliver, the pleasure of our meeting is all mine,’ Montague said genially, sweeping himself into a low bow.
When he straightened, Miss Oliver had crossed her arms. ‘Go away.’
It was not the warm welcome he had hoped for.
A small part of him, and only now could Montague admit this, even to himself, had hoped Miss Oliver’s distance at the ball last evening had been because her chaperone was still with her.
Get her alone, a dark part of him had hoped entirely without evidence, and she would swiftly melt into his arms…
Miss Oliver did not look as though she would melt any time soon. ‘You are unwanted and unwelcome,’ she snapped.
Montague flinched.
Unwanted and unwelcome.
She could not have known—there was no possibility she would know just how deeply those words would injure him. How deep those scars went.
Unwanted and unwelcome. The unwanted child who had turned up as a dependent. The unwelcome drain on his uncle’s finances, something Montague was reminded of daily.
The sense that he did not belong, could never belong, would never be enough to make this new family love him.
‘My…my lord?’
When Montague blinked away the haze of painful memories, it was to see Miss Oliver staring with something that could have been concern, if she had liked him in any way.
‘I… I wanted to look at your art,’ he said lamely, unequivocally wrongfooted.
Miss Oliver was still sparking in anger, her gaze darting about as though concerned they would be seen together.
Which, now he came to think of it, was rather shocking. They were together, after all, in public and without a chaperone. Which begged the question why Mrs Gower had permitted Miss Oliver to wander about in public.
‘My art?’ Miss Oliver snapped. ‘I thought you just said it wasn’t quite there?’
Clearly he had hit a nerve. Montague would have found the whole thing amusing if he had been teasing his sister, whose temper was renown and whose forgiveness was, thankfully, swift.
But this felt different. Montague had quizzed pretty young things at dinners and basked in their laughter but it had been hollow. Not truly earned.
Even a passing smile from Miss Oliver would eclipse it by a magnitude of thousands.
‘Just because a piece is not finished does not mean it does not show promise,’ he said quietly, stepping towards the easel and risking her wrath.
As it was, his statement appeared to have calmed the hackles of the irritated woman. Miss Oliver glared, then looked at her canvas, then returned her attention to him in a much calmer manner.
‘It is not finished,’ she said stiffly.
‘I can see that,’ said the idiotic Montague before he added quickly, ‘though it is shaping up well.’
More than well. Now he was so much closer, he could see the power in the perspective, the confidence in the brushstrokes. This was a woman who was a true artiste, he did not need to be a connoisseur to see that.
He also did not need to be a connoisseur of women to notice how Miss Oliver’s breath caught in her throat as he now stood beside her. But he was. And he did.
Fascinating…
‘It is rather impressive,’ Montague said cheerfully, finding to his delight that he did not have to lie to praise her. ‘And it’s most odd…it reminds me of something…’
Something just beyond the reaches of his memory. Which was strange in itself; he was not usually one to struggle with recollection. The swirls of the paint, the way the colours jutted against each other, the boldness of the palette…
‘You know, you’re really rather good,’ Montague found himself saying.
It was, once again, the wrong thing.
This time he could actually see Miss Oliver bristle.
‘Well I don’t care for your opinion, nor did I ask for it!
Why is it that a man always considers himself an artistic expert—why is it that I have spent my life being lectured by men who wouldn’t even know the correct end of a paintbrush!
What do you want, my lord? It might just be quicker for you to tell me, then I can decline and deny you, and then we can both be getting on with our morning! ’
She was breathing a tad heavily, Montague tried not to notice.
This was ridiculous. He was apparently a parent now, suddenly solely responsible for a child. He needed to find a wife, get her with child as soon as possible, and make sure his cousin’s heir did not inherit his own title.
That was what he had decided yesterday. Somehow, just a few minutes with Miss Oliver was sufficient to derail all conscious thought.