Chapter Eight
Brighton was not exactly shaping up to be what Calliope had thought.
Firstly, she had been told it would be cooler here by the sea rather than in sweltering London, she could not help but think as she walked slowly along with her aunt down a street. Yet it was somehow hotter here, and every day that passed appeared to bring higher temperatures.
‘Oh, look at that bonnet! I won’t be a moment,’ said her Aunt Louise cheerfully, slipping her arm out of Calliope’s and striding into the boutique.
Secondly, thought Calliope as she stood outside the shop, watching people walk by her, she had believed London to be the busiest place in the world. And yet here she stood, buffeted about by people who were clearly in a hurry to get somewhere—but precisely where, she could not conceive.
Thirdly, she was finding her thoughts lingering on one person in particular, no matter how much she attempted to redirect her thoughts.
Troublesome as he was, infuriating as he was, it was the Marquess of Laidley’s face who appeared, time after time, at the most inopportune moments.
While taking tea with one of her aunt’s elderly friends, for example.
Or when she was supposed to be falling asleep. Or in the bath…
Yes, he was handsome, but it was the words his lips uttered rather than the lips themselves that so distracted her. The way he had caught her, prevented her from slipping over the cliff to her almost certain doom—
It was giddy indeed.
Fourthly, Calliope thought ruefully, the man she was absolutely not thinking about seemed quite in earnest when it came to making her his wife. Which was a strange thing in itself.
She was not idiotic, she knew she was passably pretty, but a marquess with a fortune and seemingly no problems in life did not propose matrimony to ladies he barely knew from a family outside of polite Society.
And he was persistent. And he was…genuine.
Which begged the question: what on earth did a marquess need with her?
And fifthly—
‘Ah, Miss Oliver,’ said the Marquess of Laidley, as though she had been waiting for him there. ‘We meet again.’
And finally, Calliope thought ruefully, one did not appear to be able to avoid unruly gentlemen in Brighton at all.
‘My lord,’ she said stiffly, inclining her head and looking past him as though waiting for someone.
Which of course, she wasn’t but it wouldn’t do for the man to think he could stand there and talk to—
The Marquess of Laidley stopped beside her. ‘You are waiting for someone.’
Well, it wasn’t exactly incorrect. Calliope nodded.
She had purposefully not looked at him, so it was most odd that her gaze kept being drawn inexorably to the nobleman.
It was because he was handsome. That had to be the reason. Only because she was interested in his proportions and how one might sketch him if she were so inclined, which she was not. Obviously.
Heat blossomed up her chest and Calliope was relieved she had decided to wear a gown with a high lace neck that morning, even if her skin beneath it was prickling under the heat. It would never do for the Marquess of Laidley to think she was actually affected by his presence.
And yet the teasing quip she expected never came.
Much against her better judgement, Calliope glanced at him. He wasn’t grinning at her, wasn’t flashing her a smile. He wasn’t even looking at her. All the easy air and laughing smile had gone.
What on earth had happened to him since that wild encounter on the clifftops?
Despite telling herself she was absolutely not going to get involved with the marquess who had no manners, Calliope found herself saying, ‘Do you feel quite well, my lord?’
‘What?’ snapped the Marquess of Laidley.
Calliope glared. ‘I said—’
‘I know what you said. I’m fine,’ the man said shortly.
And yet still he did not walk away.
Calliope glanced in at the window of the boutique. Her aunt was taking an extortionately long time, but she hoped the older woman would not exit the place and see her standing here with the Marquess of Laidley. Aunt Louise might get entirely the wrong idea.
But that did not explain why the man was standing here beside her in mute irritation, it appeared, when she had not invited his company nor welcomed it.
Not in the slightest, Calliope told herself sternly, quite ignoring the flutter of delight that of all places, he had chosen beside her to stand.
The man was…intriguing.
Oh, not as a subject for a portrait. Everything about the Marquess of Laidley was very obvious. He was handsome, in an obvious sort of way, and his emotions—whatever they were—played out across his face in a very open manner.
For example, she could tell in this moment that the Marquess of Laidley was irritated, angry and in a storming bad temper.
Why?
‘My lord,’ Calliope began, lowering her voice and going quite against her own better judgement. ‘I—I wonder if you are quite well.’
The Marquess of Laidley looked at her with a dark expression. ‘Why on earth do you say that?’
‘Well.’ How did one say that it was obvious and yet at the same time not offend? ‘Well, I… I just guessed.’
His gaze raked over her and Calliope willed her cheeks not to burn. They ignored her. ‘You did, did you?’
‘I did. I am in fact an excellent judge of character,’ Calliope could not help but say. ‘And you, this afternoon, are in such high and hot dudgeon, I’m surprised little whisps of water are not evaporating from your brow.’
It was the wrong thing to say.
‘Look, I don’t have time for this flirtation,’ snapped the Marquess of Laidley.
Calliope’s eyes opened wide. The very idea! ‘This—this is not a—’
‘I have more important things to do,’ he retorted without even letting her get a word in.
The temper she knew was entirely beyond her flared once again. ‘Go and do them then!’
The Marquess of Laidley opened his mouth, glared at her, closed his mouth, then stalked away.
Which was precisely what she had wanted, Calliope tried to tell herself. She did not miss him. The very idea!
Flirtation. The very idea!
Montague glared at the gentleman who had the misfortune of passing him in the street. The elderly man stared, clearly shocked at the vehemence in the stranger’s eye.
Stomping on down the street, Montague marched up the trio of steps to his townhouse and slammed the door behind him, leaning up against it and closing his eyes.
The woman had no idea, no idea at all—but of course she didn’t. He hadn’t told her. He hadn’t told anyone.
What was there to say? That he had been treated cruelly as a child by his uncle and his cousin.
That the same cousin had dropped a boy into Montague’s lap and now whenever he saw him, all he could see in the boy’s face was the visage of the generations who had made his life a living hell after losing his parents?
Even worse. That the boy was now his heir, threatening to take everything Montague had, everything he was…making it belong to the very family who had loathed Montague merely for existing?
‘You look tired.’
Montague’s eyes snapped open.
The boy was standing halfway down the stairs. Or halfway up. Montague wasn’t entirely sure which direction John had been moving.
The boy looked nervous.
Montague scowled. ‘I am tired.’
How was a man supposed to sleep with such a responsibility hanging over his head?
The boy bit his lip. ‘I’m tired too.’
‘Then go and sleep.’ Montague had not intended to speak harshly, but dear God, he was not good with children. He had hardly acclimatised to the idea of being a guardian. What were guardians supposed to do, anyway?
The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Then don’t.’ Montague tugged a hand through his hair, tiredness pulling at his eyes.
He half hoped the boy would go. Disappear in a puff of smile ideally, but at the very least continue up the stairs and disappear into the guest bedchamber.
His stomach twisted. The boy’s bedchamber. He could hardly consider the room as belonging to a guest, could he?
‘Am I going to live here now?’
Gaze sharpening, Montague heaved himself away from the door and jerked his head. ‘Come here.’
Well, the boy was going to be with him for at least another few years, before he could find a school to take him. Christ, he needed to marry as soon as possible. Find a wife to take on this charge.
The boy—John, Montague reminded himself—stepped shyly down the staircase and hovered on the last step, as though unwilling to step any closer to him. Which was not something that bothered him. Not at all.
‘Yes,’ Montague said curtly. ‘You’ll be living here.’
He had not expected a whoop of delight, not after the boy had lost his father. But he had also not expected the look of relief that swept across the child’s face.
‘Good.’
‘Good? Why?’
Perhaps the question was too complex, Montague thought darkly. The boy’s forehead certainly wrinkled and there did not appear to be any sort of answer coming.
‘Well?’ prompted the irritated man. Go and do them then!
What did she know?
The boy shrugged, his gaze downcast. ‘I don’t suppose it matters where I live.’
The despondency in the boy’s tone was unsettling. Montague stepped towards him, but prevented himself from getting too close. He was just a child, yes, but he was his cousin’s child. He was of the line of Trefusis. There was nothing but discord to be found between them.
‘Perhaps not,’ he admitted quietly. ‘But I…well, we can see what we can do to make you comfortable. What do you like?’
The boy did not look up. ‘Like?’
Montague breathed out a sight that was at the end of his rope. ‘Yes, like! Horses? Any particular games? Books? Food?’
He had to like something. Did not all boys have their fancies? The things they liked to do beyond all other things?
The boy just stared at his feet. He shook his head mutely.
‘Nothing?’
It wasn’t possible, which meant the boy was either being contrary, or John truly thought he was not permitted to share an opinion.