Chapter Seven #2
Leaving her children never seemed to stop her. No, her mother was always seeking the next thrill, the next scene to paint, and Calliope had grown accustomed to seeing the back of her.
Not that she should be saying such a thing aloud, however. And to a stranger!
‘And I resent the implication I would cheat to win your silly little competition—’ Calliope added, firmly putting her mother out of her mind, ‘—when I am almost certain to win it anyway on pure talent!’
‘Is that so?’ Quite curiously, the Marquess of Laidley had also taken a step forward.
They were now mere inches from each other. That had to explain why Calliope was feeling penned in, and hot, and somehow tingling all over.
What was going on?
‘Y—Yes, that is so,’ Calliope said, holding her head high.
‘You are incensed, aren’t you?’ His voice was a whisper, though there was no one else around them.
Incensed? Her?
Calliope tried to laugh. ‘I would not flatter yourself, my lord. You are so far beneath me that at times I struggle to notice you.’
There it was again. The momentary pain that was pushed away and aside as swiftly as it had come.
Someone had hurt him.
The thought did not make sense—how could anyone hurt this man, insults just bounced off him! Yet that was how it appeared. That he had once been greatly injured and perhaps by someone using words not dissimilar from what she had used.
Calliope hesitated, but did not repeat herself. She might find the man irksome, but she was not cruel.
‘Somehow I do not think that is true,’ the Marquess of Laidley said quietly. The wind had died down, the only sound in the air the waves below, the birds above…and his voice. ‘Somehow I think I bring a passion out in you no one has ever brought out before.’
It was ridiculous, what he was saying. Calliope had opened her mouth to say so, but was distracted by the way his attention was caught by the movement of her lips.
Warmth was flooding into her body, moving down, settling between her thighs. None of this made sense. He was irritating, he was exasperating, he was—
‘Call me Montague.’
Calliope stared. ‘I—I beg your pard—’
‘I think I would like you to call me Montague,’ the Marquess of Laidley said slowly, a teasing smile lilting his lips. ‘We are to be married, after all.’
‘We are not,’ she said firmly, despite the twist of thrill within her. ‘I—’
‘You are passionate, Miss Calliope Oliver, and I like that,’ Montague—the Marquess of Laidley said, his smile still teasing but with a sense of honesty flowing through his tone. ‘I like that very much.’
Why was breathing so difficult? Why was air, usually so plentiful, suddenly in short supply?
‘I…’ Calliope swallowed, ‘…I do not care what you like.’
They were standing so close. His hands were just inches from hers. His focus on her lips, and the heat of the day and the heat within her—
‘I do not think that is true either,’ murmured the handsome man before her who appeared to be somehow transfixing her with his eyes. ‘I think you would like what I like very much. Why don’t you let me show you?’
There was no doubting what Montague, the Marquess of Laidley, was referring to. He wanted to kiss her, Calliope knew. She could sense it in the air, taste it on her tongue.
And for a moment, just a moment, she considered it. Well, he was handsome. He would certainly know how to kiss and Calliope had always hoped her first would be with a gentleman of some expertise. To make the moment pleasurable, to extract every tingling iota of bliss from—
There was a triumphant flash in the man’s face.
‘N—No,’ Calliope stammered, staggering backward and almost tipping to the right.
‘Miss Oliver!’
It was swift, the fall over the cliff—or at least, it would have been, if she had fallen. It was a tad difficult to do so at present, for Calliope had found herself most surprisingly held fast within Montague’s arms.
Pulse beating frantically, she looked up at the man who had perhaps just saved her life.
‘Calliope Oliver,’ Montague said raggedly, his face suddenly stern. ‘Never, but never, frighten me like that again. I thought I’d lost you.’
Her fingertips were grasping his lapels and the strength in his arms was surprising for such a lean man. Calliope’s head was spinning and his lips looked so devastatingly inviting…
A person’s body shouldn’t thrum with this much need. Her eyes shouldn’t be noticing the detail of his genuine fear for her in his eyes, the ragged breathing, the way he clung to her and the way she wanted him to.
Oh, God, she revelled in the way he clung to her. As though she were the only thing keeping him from spinning off the earth. As though he needed her, wanted her, craved her as a dark part of her craved him.
He saved her life. The man had saved her life and he didn’t even have the good manners to kiss her!
Wait a moment. That wasn’t right.
Calliope straightened up, tugged herself out of the marquess’ embrace and cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, I’m sure.’
Something flared in his eyes. ‘You are sure?’
‘Yes. I am sure.’ She was sure of many things. Sure he had somehow orchestrated the whole thing. Sure he adored having her in his arms just as much as she enjoyed being in them.
Calliope swallowed. But she was sure of other things too. That any man who could come into her life could leave—would leave, for why wouldn’t he?
If her own mother did not love her enough to stay in Brighton to see her, what hope had she of capturing the true attention of a gentleman?
And this gentleman in particular— He was flighty and passionate and arrogant and all the things she had always detested.
When Calliope’s gaze met Montague’s, it was not with detestation.
She had to get away from here, from him. ‘Well, as this is your place to sketch and paint, I shall be going.’
‘Calliope—Miss Oliver, don’t—’
‘Good luck with your painting, Montague—my lord,’ Calliope hastily corrected, hating herself and him and everything in the world. ‘Good day.’
It was difficult not to grin as Montague stepped through the door. ‘Careful there, Draveham!’
His butler was, indeed, careful as he brought in the canvas from the carriage. ‘I was perfectly happy to carry the easel, my lord.’
‘I know, but you’re not getting any younger—ouch, and apparently neither am I.’ Montague rubbed his back where a twinge had reminded him it had been a long time since he had leaned over an easel. ‘But there we go.’
Placing the easel to the left of the front door, Draveham placed the canvas upon it and Montague beheld it with delight.
Well. Mostly delight. It was not his best work.
Strange, how swiftly one lost the ability to manipulate a paintbrush in the way one wanted.
The cerulean blue was, as expected, brilliant to work with, but surprisingly difficult to manoeuvre on the canvas.
He would have to ask Calliope, Miss Oliver, at some point precisely how she did it.
But still—it was not bad.
Was it good enough to win her hand? Perhaps not. Not yet.
‘Very impressive, my lord,’ Draveham said dutifully.
Montague chuckled as Mrs Draveham stepped into the hall. ‘You don’t have to say that just to appease my ego, man, you can be honest.’
‘You know, I do not believe I can, my lord,’ his butler said seriously. ‘If you will excuse me.’
‘My lord, you are here!’ Mrs Draveham looked surprisingly delighted to see him.
Not that Montague was a particularly bad master, quite to the contrary, he had learned from a young age precisely how to treat his servants.
That was, he had learned to do precisely the opposite of what his uncle had always done.
‘Mrs Draveham,’ Montague said aloud, smiling at his housekeeper. ‘How can I—? Oh. Hullo.’
There was a small child tucked within the folds of her gown. So well tucked in fact, that Montague had not noticed John appeared to be his housekeeper’s shadow.
‘Hello,’ said the boy from the safety of Mrs Draveham’s skirts.
Montague looked helplessly up at his housekeeper, who looked just as helplessly back at him. ‘And how can I be of assistance, Mrs Draveham?’
‘Well, I… John, why don’t you go over there and look at the painting your uncle has created?’ Mrs Draveham said with a warm smile.
Montague watched as the child glanced over at the canvas, then mutely looked up at the servant to whom he had appeared to attach himself.
‘No, actually go over there. Go on, John. Go and have a look while I speak with your uncle,’ the kind woman said softly.
It was all Montague could do not to wince at the term. Uncle.