Chapter Six #3
‘Is…is that true?’ she whispered, her large eyes catching his gaze and refusing to let go. ‘Would you like to rile me, my lord? Would you like to…touch me and excite me in that manner?’
Montague croaked, but no words came out as his mind whirled with a myriad of possibilities. ‘I… I…’
‘Because I think you do. I think you have wanted to do so since the very first moment you laid eyes on me,’ said Miss Oliver in a low, sensuous tone.
Her eyes flickered to his mouth and Montague’s whole body stiffened.
‘I think riling me up, as you say, is the very least of the things you’d like to do to me. Is that not correct?’
Montague could not help it. The tempting, erotic way she was speaking, her proximity, the way her attention glanced at his mouth, the suggestive things she was saying—
‘Oh hell,’ he said in dismay, looking down at his breeches.
It was not ideal and he did not blame Miss Oliver for laughing.
‘Oh dear,’ she said lightly, taking a step back to a more appropriate distance. ‘It appears you have had a little accident, my lord.’
He had indeed. Montague’s whole body had been so attuned to Miss Oliver’s highly suggestive murmur that his grip had tightened firmly around the tube of cerulean blue paint.
The tube that had been squeezed beyond its limits and had exploded, pouring blue paint all over his waistcoat and breeches.
‘It appears you have become…too excited,’ Miss Oliver said breezily. ‘And such a waste of good paint, too.’
‘You minx,’ Montague could not help but say with a laugh. ‘You did that on purpose!’
The woman who was swiftly driving him beyond distraction lifted an imperious eyebrow. ‘Me, my lord? I’m but a simple woman who—’
‘Don’t give me that, you’ve never been simple in your life. You’re complex and marvellous and—’
‘Oh dear, my lord, what a thing to happen!’
Montague cleared his throat as he turned to greet Mrs Gower, who evidently felt her niece had been left alone with a marquess for long enough.
‘Yes,’ he said helplessly, looking down at his breeches, which were completely ruined. Though now a rather nicer shade of blue, it had to be said. ‘My valet will never forgive me.’
‘Neither will your laundry maid, I’ll be bound,’ Miss Oliver’s aunt said with a laugh. ‘Dear me. And the cerulean blue, too!’
Montague helplessly looked over at Mr Haversham, who shrugged.
‘I spoke the truth, my lord, we are completely sold out of cerulean blue, save for what you have not…ahem, spilled upon yourself,’ the shop owner said helplessly. ‘But if the two of you would like to return together in a few days, we can—’
‘No,’ Miss Oliver said inflexibly.
Montague was surprised to find he was disappointed in how swiftly Miss Oliver declined the opportunity to spend time with him again. Even in public.
Perhaps she too had noticed just how swiftly she had retorted, for her smile was conciliatory—directed, sadly, towards Mr Haversham and not himself.
‘Would it be possible for you to have the paint sent on to my aunt’s, Mr Haversham?’ Miss Oliver asked sweetly. ‘As you know, my family has been a loyal customer for many years and I would greatly appreciate the assistance.’
Greatly appreciate lowering the odds of seeing him again, Montague could not help but think darkly.
Which should not mortify him. And yet it did.
‘Of course, anything for the Olivers and yourself, Mrs Gower, so loyal in your custom,’ Mr Haversham was saying.
Montague moved gingerly, and cursed as the coveted cerulean blue paint managed to smear even further across his breeches. Hells bells, but this woman was provoking.
And stimulating.
Pushing the thought aside, Montague stepped forward eagerly and ignored the unpleasant squelch in his nether regions. ‘And I would be willing to cover the costs of—’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Oliver said sternly.
He gaped. Was a man no longer able to throw money at the woman he was attempting to marry?
Apparently not. The object of his affections—well, desire—sniffed. ‘My brother-in-law, the Duke of Glanyrafon, will be happy to pay for the paint and any other supplies I require. I am not some country chit, my lord, easily impressed by a few guineas.’
Ah. Well. That was him told, then.
All Montague could say was, ‘No… Right. Why don’t we look at canvases together, I would appreciate your opinion on—’
‘I think you need to clean yourself up. Inside and out,’ Miss Oliver said imperiously, though there was a twinkle in her eye suggesting she was enjoying this.
Montague’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Until the next time you ambush me,’ she said with a low curtsey. ‘Good day, my lord.’
‘Good—’
The doorbell had jangled in the swift moment between her last syllable and his first.
Montague stood there, punch drunk at being in Miss Oliver’s presence.
Someone cleared their throat. Montague looked to his left and saw Mr Haversham offering him a handkerchief.
‘You’re not the first,’ he said with a grim smile.
Montague tried to return it as he looked back at the door that had so recently permitted Miss Oliver to vacate his presence. No, he was almost certain he was not the first gentleman to be utterly dazzled by Miss Calliope Oliver.
But he would be the last.