Chapter Ten
‘—Such a handsome man, cannot believe he married that wallflower—’
‘—heard he would be returning to London soon, though I cannot—’
‘—hem simply won’t do. I told you the modiste hadn’t finished it correctly. Oh Mama—’
Calliope smiled to herself as she stood dutifully beside her aunt and listened to the chatter in the ballroom.
It had been her aunt’s idea. Naturally it was.
She herself had intended to dedicate the evening to a particularly difficult part of her sketch to work on.
She hadn’t relished the idea of being primped and prepared by Aunt Louise’s lady’s maid, and paraded out at the Brighton Assembly Rooms for tonight’s ball.
But she was her aunt’s guest and it was only polite to accept her… Well, Calliope wanted to call it an invitation, but it had been more of an order.
‘A young lady simply cannot spend all her time sketching. It’s not decent!’ Aunt Louise had declared only that afternoon.
Calliope had blinked up at the woman who had snatched her sketchbook from her hands. ‘But surely flirting with unknown gentlemen at a public ball is far less decent?’
Apparently not.
But Calliope really shouldn’t complain. The place was beautiful, she had to admit, all soaring columns and impressive ferns.
She’d become transfixed for a few minutes at the way the fern fronds soared through the air, creating shadowy miracles in the candlelight, before Aunt Louise had grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the ballroom.
The wine was pleasant and no one had bothered her.
Which was, in fact, bothering her.
It wasn’t that she wanted to be hounded by a thousand and one men, Calliope thought stiffly as she watched a gentleman approach their corner, then ask another young lady to dance. It wasn’t even that she wanted gentlemen to be fighting over her, desperate to win her favours and affections.
Not that it sounded particularly terrible.
No, what was truly upsetting her, it appeared…was that Montague, Marquess of Laidley, was not here.
Ridiculous, Calliope thought darkly. You don’t like him, remember?
It was certainly getting more and more difficult to remember.
‘Do you want to stay and watch me sketch? Rogue that you are, I mean.’
‘Yes please.’
‘Are you quite all right, my dear?’ asked Aunt Louise with concern etched across her face.
Calliope forced a smile. What had she done? Shivered, perhaps, at the thought of the cold reception that poor child Montague had been had long ago received? Frowned, perhaps, that anyone could be made to feel so unwelcome, so unloved?
‘Quite well, thank you, Aunt Louise,’ was what she said aloud.
What else could she say? That she had experienced a sudden rush of dread at the thought that the teasing, irritating man who had challenged her to a marital art competition and had saved her from falling off a cliff was, perhaps, one of the strongest men she knew?
And that she was furious with him for teasing her, taunting her, taking all her cerulean blue and…for not attending this public ball and teasing her again?
Calliope cleared her throat. Ridiculous. She was not going to think about him.
‘I have heard your bet is not going well,’ said her aunt gravely.
‘It’s not a bet,’ Calliope responded automatically.
She should never have told her aunt about it. That had been her first mistake.
Well. Her second mistake.
Her first mistake had been accepting the wager in the first place…
‘I notice your gentleman is not here this evening,’ said Aunt Louise, fluttering her fan.
Calliope swallowed, her stomach twisting unpleasantly. ‘He may not wish to attend public balls. He may prefer private ones. He might be out of town. Perhaps he’s working on his art, as I should be, by the way. And, besides, he’s not my gentleman.’
‘Hmmmm,’ said her aunt.
Calliope did not like the sound of that but what could she say?
That she had not felt the deep and intense desire to kiss him, out there on the clifftops, and had only been prevented from doing so from…
rage? That she was finding her thoughts meandering to him at the most inopportune moments?
That she had taken his hand in public and now her hands felt empty?
Foolishness!
‘Well, I don’t suppose you would have much to say to him even if he was here,’ continued her aunt, fluttering her fan happily. ‘I suppose if he were here, you wouldn’t even want to see him.’
Calliope nodded firmly. ‘That’s right.’
‘If he were here, you certainly wouldn’t want to talk to him.’
This was more like it. ‘Definitely not.’
‘And you wouldn’t be piqued if, for example, he was leading a completely different young lady onto the dance floor to join the next set,’ said Aunt Louise conversationally.
Calliope raised herself up and congratulated herself on not caring a whit for the infuriating man. ‘Not at all.’
‘That’s nice,’ said her aunt cheerfully. ‘Because that’s precisely what he’s doing.’
If it were possible to trip over one’s one feet merely by standing still, Calliope would have managed it. ‘What—where?’
‘Over there,’ pointed her aunt placidly with her fan. ‘I must say, he cuts a very dashing figure, does he not?’
He did indeed. Not that Calliope was about to admit to such a thing.
She was far too angry with him for agreeing on this wager with her.
Too angry with him for taunting her to accept it.
Too angry with him for spilling out his heart and making her realise that deep inside the arrogance, the bravado and the teasing was a small boy who had felt lost.
Calliope swallowed, her mouth dry, as her gaze watched Montague join the ever-growing set with a most beautiful woman opposite him. He said something she could not catch from this distance. The woman simpered. He grinned.
Breathing was becoming difficult, though it was from anger, surely, no other emotion. Nothing else could possibly be rushing through her veins, Calliope told herself, other than frustration at the man’s utter gall.
What did he think he was doing, coming to a ball where she was in attendance and not dancing with her!
No, that wasn’t quite right…
‘He dances well,’ Aunt Louise remarked as the musicians struck up and the dancers moved in unison. ‘But then, the Marquess appears to do all things well.’
Calliope glared at the provoking man. ‘Yes. I suppose he does.’
And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? She had been so sure, so certain her artistic skills would be far superior to the blustering Marquess she had accepted his wager without even looking at a single one of his paintings.
A foolish thing. He had goaded her into it and she had fallen into the trap completely. Lord, she had thrown herself in.
Calliope’s eyes raked over the man as he turned, taking his partner’s hands, and watched as the woman flushed most prettily.
Their conversation was too far away, with all this music, to hear what they were discussing, but Calliope would put money on her guess that the woman was not castigating the Marquess of Laidley for his every word.
As she had done.
Discomfort nestled within her, and by the time the dance was over and the audience genteelly applauded, Calliope had made up her mind.
She was going to win this bet. She would never marry him, never allow herself to be at the whim of a man who could go about dancing with other people! It was not to be born.
‘I’m going home,’ she said decisively.
Her aunt’s eyes widened. ‘But my dear, it’s only just past ten. What will people think if—’
‘They’ll think I have a headache, which would be the truth,’ Calliope said darkly. Not that she was going to admit that her headache was walking about right now in a fashionable suit and jacket with a roguish smile on his face. ‘Please, Aunt Louise.’
After only a moment, her aunt nodded. ‘You do look a little pale and your mother would never forgive me if I did not take care of you. Come on, then. We’re a few streets from home, we can walk. Perhaps the cool air will do you good.’
With a great sense of relief, Calliope took her aunt’s arm and half walked, half marched, the older woman towards the doors. Just a few more steps and they would be free—
‘There you are,’ said Montague cheerfully as he stepped into the way and forced the two ladies to come to a halt. ‘I thought I’d never find you.’
Calliope glared at the man who had dared to prevent her from leaving by speaking to her. Never mind that the only reason she was leaving was because he was there, and not speaking to her.
Oh, why did this man make her tie herself in knots!
‘Oh, my lord, how pleasant to see you,’ smiled Aunt Louise, curtseying low and dragging Calliope down with her, arm in arm as they still were. ‘I’m afraid we were just leaving. My niece Calliope—’
‘Feels fine. Perfectly fine,’ Calliope found herself saying swiftly. She studiously ignored the knowing smile on her aunt’s face.
‘Fine. Fine is good.’
Was it just her imagination or did Montague look… Nervous?
Calliope had never seen such an expression on the man’s face before, so perhaps she was mistaking it for something else…but no, he certainly seemed nervous. Worried.
Did he think she had spilled his secrets to another? He had been most honest with her, after all and Calliope could not help but feel that what he had told her on that bench had been spoken to no other.
‘Oh, Aunt, I completely forgot to mention,’ Calliope said brightly. ‘His lordship and I exchanged a few words two days ago, in the Royal Pavilion Gardens. You remember, when you left me sketching? Well, his lordship and I spoke for a brief moment.’
She was half afraid to lift her gaze to Montague’s eyes, but when she did so, it was to see an answering look of relief.
Yes. I haven’t told. I would never break your confidence.
Thank you.
‘And a very pleasant conversation it was, too,’ said Montague, perhaps too brightly. ‘I had hoped to continue it—or at least, continue our acquaintance. Will you dance with me, Miss Oliver?’