Chapter Six
‘I’m sorry, you are going to have to explain that to me again,’ murmured Aunt Louise as they walked arm in arm down Seafield Street. ‘You promised the Marquess of Laidley you would what?’
‘Marry him if he can paint better than me,’ Calliope said awkwardly as they waited to cross the street.
Well, it sounded ridiculous when she put it like that. But there was no dressing this up for her practical aunt, who had been able to tell there was something amiss the moment she had returned home yesterday.
It had not taken Aunt Louise more than five minutes to cajole Calliope into telling her what had happened. It had taken her several hours last night, and over an hour this morning, to attempt to understand it.
‘So…so you are engaged to be married to the Marquess of Laidley!’ said her aunt brightly as a carriage rattled past at high speed. ‘That’s wonderful!’
Calliope sighed. How many times would they have to go over this? ‘No, Aunt Louise, I’m not engaged to be married to the Marquess of Laidley and I never will be.’
How could she fail? The man had probably held a paintbrush a few times in his life, true, but he could have no real talent.
The entitlement and bravado poured off him.
No, she would win this competition, earn a thousand pounds, which was not to be sniffed at, and perhaps most wonderfully, be declared the winner and the better artist. And by a marquess, no less.
A glow flickered in her stomach. Calliope had never been one to demand attention. Being the middle sister between an artistic eccentric and a highly organised practical leader meant she had spent most of her childhood not precisely ignored, but rarely attended to.
To be declared the superior artist… The mere thought was enough to warm her.
Aunt Louise tugged her arm and Calliope blinked. The street before them was clear.
As they started to walk across to the other side, her aunt said in a low voice, ‘And you are quite sure you know what you are getting into?’
Calliope snorted. ‘Oh, yes. Men like the Marquess of Laidley only know how to posture and puff up their own pride. I half wonder whether he expected me to accept the challenge at all.’
The fact he had proposed the day before, on the beach, had been inadvertently left out of her story to her aunt.
Well, there was no need to get the woman even more excited about a marital match that was most definitely not going to happen.
Not going to happen and yet Calliope’s thoughts had most inconsiderately meandered in that direction on at least seven occasions now.
The Marquess of Laidley’s wife. His wife.
Walking on his arm, laughing at his ridiculous jests, painting side by side, dining together, sitting on a sofa hand in hand, feeling his kisses on her—
Calliope cleared her throat. Her thoughts had almost got away from her!
Almost.
‘And so that is why we are going to Havershams?’
Calliope nodded, excitement rising. ‘I’d heard about Havershams even when I lived in London. Mama mentioned once that it was where she sourced the cerulean paint I so like and I cannot imagine their wares are limited to such a colour.’
The very idea of entering an artist supply shop was rather thrilling. There had never been much funds spare in the Oliver family until this year. Their painfully low income at odds with their previously extravagant lifestyle, before her father had died.
But now Ditty was married to a duke, of course, funds had been provided. Her reticule was heavy with such funds and Calliope could not wait to spend it.
‘And the best part is—’ she said triumphantly as they drew up to Havershams and Aunt Louise opened the door, ‘—the Marquess of Laidley probably has absolutely no idea what he’s doing…’
Calliope tried not to stare, but it was almost impossible.
There he was. The Marquess of Laidley.
Her body responded before her mind could prevent it, which was another irritating consequence of the man.
But the most irritating thing—at least in this moment, she was certain he could become more irritating at any moment—was that he was standing right by the door and talking to a man who had to be the proprietor.
‘—oil blend,’ the Marquess of Laidley was saying cheerfully. ‘On the linen canvas, as I’m sure you know, one hardly notices the difference, but I tend to find with the higher oil count the drying time is— Ah, Miss Oliver and Mrs Gower. How lovely. Come to pick up some paint?’
Calliope burned with indignation.
The gall of the man!
To be sure, there was no actual law against marquesses entering art shops and purchasing painting supplies, but she had never actually considered there to be any risk of running into him. Did he not have servants, a butler, a footman, to do that sort of thing?
And worst of all, he actually sounded as though he knew something about paint supplies. Botheration.
‘I thought you said the Marquess of Laidley knew nothing about art?’ her aunt whispered in her ear.
Calliope shrugged off the question with burning cheeks. It was never pleasant to be proven wrong, but to be proven wrong by such an irritating man. It was beyond belief!
The Marquess of Laidley flashed a smile.
‘I was just saying to Mr Haversham here just how wonderful his collection was. I had considered a watercolour as my offering in our competition, but the more I came to think of it, the more I came to realise my natural style requires something a mite stronger in the brush. Don’t you agree? ’
Breathing was becoming difficult. The small shop was starting to feel smaller still the longer Calliope was forced to stand there and listen to the man.
‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped, before her good manners could catch up with her.
The Marquess of Laidley painted a look of genteel astonishment on his handsome, smug face. ‘I? I am merely procuring supplies in advance of our little competition. Are you not doing the same?’
Little competition, fumed Calliope, gripping her reticule tightly as though she could escape the man’s gaze. It was not a little competition!
To be sure, she was certain to win but she was gambling far more than he was. If the Marquess of Laidley lost, he would be out of pocket a thousand pounds. She should never have allowed her temper to get the better of her!
If she lost…well, her honour would insist she marry the blaggard.
And that was not going to happen.
‘I am indeed here for supplies,’ she said airily, as though she had not been forced to fight down her temper. ‘I have come for the cerulean blue oils for which Mr Haversham is so renowned, along with—’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Haversham awkwardly.
‘How very unfortunate,’ the Marquess of Laidley said gravely.
A prickle of foreboding crept up the back of Calliope’s neck. ‘Unfortunate? Unfortunate how?’
‘Unfortunately, I’m completely out of cerulean blue paint, Miss…’ The shop owner looked at her awkwardly.
Calliope swallowed. ‘Miss Oliver.’
‘Miss Oliver, I’m more than willing to order the paint for you, but it could be several days, mayhap weeks, before—’
‘You are completely out? You have completely sold out of all of it?’ Calliope asked in horror.
It had never occurred to her that such a thing could happen. Was the man not famous for it? Surely he would have sufficient supplies for…
A suspicion started to rise that was most unpleasant, but appeared to be confirmed when Calliope turned to the Marquess of Laidley, who was grinning. ‘You.’
‘Me, Miss Oliver?’ the marquess said innocently.
‘You. How much cerulean blue have you purchased?’ Calliope asked in a stern voice.
‘Calliope.’
Ignoring her aunt’s quiet warning, and ignoring all sense of propriety, Calliope stepped forward and jabbed a finger into the Marquess of Laidley’s chest.
‘Calliope!’
‘You have done this on purpose, haven’t you?’ She was so full of rage, so full of righteous anger, that she hardly knew what to do with herself. ‘You knew I depended on that colour for my artistic style and so you took it upon yourself—’
‘Calliope, really!’
She continued to ignore her aunt as her gaze fiercely bore into that of the man before her.
The Marquess of Laidley’s chest was far firmer than she had expected and the tip of her finger burned where it had made contact with his waistcoat. As it was, her jab appeared to have made very little difference to the man’s expression.
No, the Marquess of Laidley was still calm, smiling faintly and appearing completely at home in the art supply shop…which, Calliope was starting to realise, did not bode well.
‘I’m certain there are a great many other paints which you might like to—’
Calliope ignored the well-meaning shop owner. ‘I am certain there is. I am equally certain the specific palette I use, that I always use and I always have ever since I was first taught to paint, has been most recently purchased in its entirety by the Marquess of Laidley.’
She did not remove her focus from the infuriating marquess and there was hardly any movement in his expression except for a hint of a smile and a gleam in his eye.
Calliope turned to her aunt and the shopkeeper and smiled as broadly as she could manage. ‘You will excuse us, won’t you? The Marquess of Laidley and I wish to talk paint and we would not wish to bore you.’
Not waiting for Mr Haversham to say a word and firmly ignoring her aunt’s splutters, Calliope grabbed the tall, handsome—the looming, irritating man—by the cuff and dragged him to the other side of the shop where a number of different canvases were standing on easels.
Thank goodness the place was otherwise unoccupied. It would not do to completely ruin her reputation.
‘You,’ Calliope hissed, dropping the man’s sleeve as though it burned her. ‘You are a cheat and a blaggard and a rogue and a cad and a…a…’
The Marquess of Laidley grinned. ‘Run out of insults?’
The glare she gave him could have melted paint. ‘Only ones I permit myself to utter in public.’
His laughter was not the response she’d wished to hear.
‘You are infuriating!’