Chapter Eleven #2
‘I’ve never seen seagulls before I came to live with Uncle Laidley you know,’ John chattered away to her aunt as the pair of them started along the promenade. ‘Yesterday I saw one in the garden. Cook said I may have some bread and I went out into the garden with the bread…’
Calliope smiled fondly at the child. ‘He will be fine.’
She, on the other hand, might not be. She turned to see Montague standing a mite too close to her and with a piercing look in his eye that reminded her of three things.
Firstly, he was a ridiculously handsome man.
Secondly, if she did not improve her art, and soon, she would end up marrying him.
Thirdly, she could most definitely think of worse things…
‘Why Miss Calliope Oliver,’ said Montague with a grin, ‘you almost look worried about being left alone with me.’
Alone was a relative term. The beach of Brighton was full of people.
Children rushing about, ladies under parasols, gentlemen with their breeches rolled up and their feet in the ocean.
There was an elderly lady seated in an actual armchair, goodness knows how she had managed to bring it here, and a pair of older gentlemen approaching them on the promenade, deep in conversation.
And Calliope was blushing.
‘Alone with you?’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m never worried about being left alone with you. I am not afraid.’
But perhaps she should be, Montague could not help but wonder. After all, he was the one having entirely unsuitable dreams about the delectable young woman. He was the one who had been forced to prevent himself from kissing her before the audience of the Assembly Rooms.
He was the one hoping to marry her.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said aloud. ‘Will you walk with me?’
Calliope had taken his arm before she stiffened. ‘Walk to my aunt’s house, you mean?’
‘Of course,’ Montague said brightly. She relaxed. ‘Eventually.’
As he had expected, Calliope attempted to remove her hand from the crook of his arm. ‘If you are just going to—’
‘Oh, walk with me, Calliope and do not think so much,’ he said in a low voice, stepping forward and pulling her along with him. ‘You never know. You might actually enjoy it.’
He certainly hoped she would. It was strange, finding himself more concerned for the enjoyment of another than himself, but whenever he was with Miss Calliope Oliver, it was her comfort he found himself focused on.
Most inexplicable.
But the point was, Montague reminded himself as they walked slowly arm in arm along the promenade, that he was spending time with her and she had not whacked him, berated him, or strode away.
Not yet, at any rate.
‘I won’t marry you, you know.’
Montague tried not to smile as he saw the determined expression on the young woman’s face. ‘You will, if I win our little art competition.’
‘Which you won’t. I’m certain my piece will be far superior to your own,’ Calliope retorted, her confidence seemingly high and only slightly undermined by the way she was worrying her bottom lip. ‘Even if you continue to steal my paint.’
‘You don’t own the rights to cerulean blue,’ he pointed out, the temptation to tease her only a little overpowering his good intentions. ‘The artist Glenarm, after all, is renowned for using cerulean blue.’
Montague carefully examined Calliope’s complexion as he spoke. Would she give herself away? Would she colour, as she so often did? Would she realise he had guessed her little secret?
Quite unlike the woman he believed he knew, Calliope did not blush at all. In fact, she said lightly, ‘Yes, my aunt and I were just discussing Mr Glenarm. Apparently his paintings are quite sought after.’
Mr Glenarm, indeed!
Montague would have applauded her for her clever little deceit, if he had no wish to let go of her hand.
Well, she might have the rest of the world fooled, but he was not. He knew Miss Calliope Oliver and the mysterious Glenarm were one and the same, and he would have her, one way or another.
A rush of emotion flooded through Montague. He would have her, his Calliope, to love and to cherish and to care for and—
Montague halted, just for a moment, as the tidal wave of affection crashed over him. Since when did he care so deeply about this woman? Since when was he so easily overcome for concern for her?
‘Montague—my lord?’
He blinked, and his vision wavered back into view. Calliope had taken a half step forward but had clearly been unable to progress any further as her arm was still pinned within his and he had ceased moving.
This was getting out of control and he had to put a stop to it now. Right now.
Yes, he wanted to marry Calliope, Montague told himself sternly, but only so she could take care of John and provide himself with heirs. And he would enjoy getting heirs on her, dear God yes, but that was a physical response. Nothing more.
Absolutely nothing more.
‘Montague?’ Calliope repeated, her voice thick with concern.
Montague shook his head, as though ridding water from his ears. ‘What? Yes. You have two sisters, I think? Tell me about them.’
She looked utterly bewildered. ‘My sisters? Tell you about them? Why?’
‘Because,’ he said firmly. ‘Because I want to know.’
Because it is a neutral topic, and then I won’t be so distracted by the weight of your arm in mine and how you’re leaning on me and how I want you to lean on me in everything.
‘Oh, there’s not much to tell. Not really,’ said Calliope with a wry smile as they started walking once again down the promenade. ‘My older sister Ditty—’
‘Ditty,’ Montague could not help but interrupt. ‘Truly?’
Calliope’s smile broadened, became warmer even as the sun battered down upon them. ‘Aphrodite, really, but she hasn’t gone by that name in a long time.’
‘Aphrodite and Calliope.’
Her laughter was a balm upon his spirits.
‘And Thalia, yes. My parents visited Greece for their honeymoon, a rather unusual destination, and…well. They were inspired. My father was a gentleman with a poetical interest, the Iliad, you know, the Odessey, and my mother was, still is, someone who sketches.’