Chapter Five #3
‘A competition. A challenge,’ Montague said, his mouth somehow concocting something that his mind was altogether too interested in her breasts to consider. ‘The two of us each paint something and it is then judged.’
Miss Oliver hesitated. Then she said, ‘Judged? Judged by whom?’
And he knew he had her.
Oh, Miss Oliver could play the part of the demure young lady who had come to Brighton for nothing but a little light sketching…but Montague knew the truth now.
She was Glenarm. She was one of the best artists in England, perhaps even farther afield than that.
She was fire to his water, the sun to his stars, and he would have her.
‘I’ll ask a gallery to display them. People can vote.
Ordinary people. People who dictate the tastes of Society,’ Montague said with a shrug, gesturing around at the people in the art gallery, who were definitely trying not to make it too obvious they were listening in on the Marquess of Laidley’s conversation. ‘The best painting wins.’
He’d almost had her…but not quite, as it turned out.
Miss Oliver narrowed her eyes, her breathing quickening—not that he was even noticing her décolletage. ‘And what will I win?’
Her confidence was intoxicating. God, did she know how alluring she was? Had anyone ever told Miss Oliver that she was the most wonderful prize of them all?
Ah. Now that was a thought…
‘If you win,’ Montague said slowly, ‘I… I will buy your painting for a thousand pounds.’ Yes, that was an excellent idea—secure for himself a Glenarm of his very own. ‘And I shall publicly declare you as the better artist.’
Yes, he had been right. It was Miss Oliver’s pride she wanted to preen. The money had sparked a slight interest in her face, but it was the public declaration of her artistic superiority that had caught her attention.
Montague wondered, just for a short moment, what it was to be a lady in this position. Talented beyond extremes, clearly knowledgeable in all manner of painting, poor Miss Oliver had to hide behind a false name to have anyone truly interested in her art.
Most strange.
‘And if you win? Which—’ Miss Oliver added primly, ‘—I think most unlikely, but for parity’s sake, I think we should agree a prize for you.’
Montague grinned. ‘You.’
‘We’ve already discussed a prize for me,’ said the enigmatic artist who clearly had no idea he had unlocked her secret. ‘What I meant was—’
‘Yes, I know what you meant. And I meant what I said,’ Montague said lightly. ‘If I win—if the public, that is, declare my painting the superior between us—I win you. You will marry me.’
Miss Oliver could not look more aggrieved at the suggestion, which could not help but prick at Montague’s confidence. ‘Marry you?’
‘You do not have to sound so disdainful. I am a marquess,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes but—’ Miss Oliver swallowed, wetting her lips in a most distracting way.
Think of paint, you idiot, think of paint and canvases…
‘Why on earth would you wish to marry me?’ asked Miss Oliver, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
Ah. Yes, well, probably best not to mention that.
‘Why wouldn’t a gentleman wish to marry an artist of superior skill!
’ Montague said with what he hoped was a winning smile.
‘And, if you are not confident in your ability to win, Miss Oliver, then I think it best that you do not gamble at all,’ Montague said smoothly with a bow. ‘Good day.’
He was almost certain, as he turned to leave the Shirley Street Art Gallery, that she would follow him and be back at his side within five steps. Absolutely certain.
He was wrong. It was three.
‘It is not a gamble, for I shall most certainly win this foolish little wager!’ said Miss Oliver haughtily, almost running to keep up with his long strides. ‘It is hardly even a bet!’
‘So we are agreed, then?’ Montague halted and stared into the eyes of the most entrancing, complex woman he had ever met.
He’d have her, if he could get her to agree. Either way, he would win. If she were Glenarm she would beat him and he would purchase a genuine Glenarm. If she were not Glenarm, and he couldn’t see how that could be true, then he would win and she would be his wife. What could possibly go wrong?
Miss Oliver, however, was glaring suspiciously. ‘You…you will paint your entrant yourself? You will not get another person to paint it for you?’
Montague placed a hand on his presumably wounded heart. ‘It pains me that you think I would even stoop to such a low—’
‘I have your word?’
For some reason, the earnestness in her eyes caused Montague to halt. She trusted him, in a strange way. If he said he would not cheat, she would believe him. It was a faith in him no one had ever had. Not within living memory.
His throat was inexplicably dry. ‘You have my word.’
Miss Oliver hesitated, then thrust out her hand. ‘You have a bargain then. If I win, you’ll pay me a thousand pounds for the painting and declare me the winner.’
‘And if I win,’ Montague said smoothly, trying not to notice the warmth of her hand, the flash of heat through him, the shiver, the need, the aching desire to bring it to his lips, ‘I will declare you my wife.’