Chapter Eleven #3
‘You take after her, then.’ It was hard to imagine a woman more capable in her art. Now Montague knew she was secretly Glenarm, he had to admit the whole family must have talent in spades. They had, after all, produced Calliope.
‘And my younger sister after our father. She’s the poet,’ Calliope said cheerfully. ‘I have no idea whether her poems are any good. To my shame, literature was never something I relished.’
‘But art is.’
Why was it, as they chattered about her love of art, how her mother had introduced her to it and how their move to London had facilitated her visits to many art galleries, that Montague found himself utterly transfixed by this woman?
She was not wealthy. She was not noble. She had no great connections. Oh, the Duke of Glanyrafon, to be sure, but that was such a recent marriage.
On paper, Calliope could hardly measure up to half the young ladies in Brighton who Montague was certain would be more than willing to throw their hats into the ring to be considered the future Marchioness of Laidley.
Yet she was superior to every woman Montague had ever met.
‘—and one day…’ Calliope’s voice trailed off as her cheeks flushed.
Heat rushed through Montague. He was beginning to become fluent in Calliope’s flushes. They all meant something slightly different, after all, and the more he saw them, the more recognisable they were becoming.
This was a very particular sort—the ‘I am not supposed to think this so I won’t say it’ sort of flush.
‘Go on,’ he said quietly, nudging her with his elbow. ‘I want to know.’
Calliope raised her eyes to his and there was uncertainty pooled in her pupils. ‘It is silly.’
‘It is not,’ Montague said confidently.
That gained an eye roll that made his pulse skip a beat. ‘You do not even know what it is. How can you know if—’
‘It is a thought you have had and therefore it cannot be silly. It simply can’t,’ said Montague, knowing it was true and wondering how on earth she could not see it.
She swallowed, wetting her lips before she spoke again. He most certainly did not stare at those glistening pink lips for too long.
‘I…well, I would like to truly be respected for my art,’ Calliope said in a rush.
‘Not just encouraged by my family who mean well but have no idea what they are talking about. I… I want to see my name, Miss Calliope Oliver, in an art gallery—not as a patron, but as an artist. I want to see my paintings hanging on walls and for people to know I painted them. And to enjoy them. To see the beauty in them I put in there. Is…is that strange?’
Montague fought down the twin impulses to kiss her passionately and to reveal he knew she was secretly the artist Glenarm.
‘But that could never be, could it?’ Her voice was despondent now, with an air of resolution most painful to hear. ‘A lady should not desire such things. A woman would never be taken seriously within the world of art—it is a folly. Something that will never happen.’
No wonder she had taken such trouble to create the false identity of Glenarm, Montague thought with a pang.
Because she was right. Ladies were not appreciated in the world of art. They were not welcome in the Royal Academy. It was rare indeed that their work was ever even sold, let alone appreciated.
‘I hope one day, your dreams will come true,’ Montague found himself saying—and even more to his surprise, he found he meant it.
Calliope was flushing again. Ah, the embarrassed yet simultaneously delighted flush. ‘You cannot mean that.’
‘I have never said it before and meant it,’ he said quietly. He smiled as he saw her frown. ‘Until now, of course.’
Her laughter was like a reward, a blessing, and Montague fought down the instinct to make her laugh again.
‘No, truly, I am impressed,’ he said, turning the pair of them around so they started returning along the promenade where they had come.
‘There are few people in the world who ever admit, even to themselves, what their heart truly desires. You have done so, and more, you have worked towards that goal and you have shared it with someone. With me.’
Precisely why that mattered so much, Montague could not tell. At least, he was not going to allow himself to guess.
Calliope’s smile warmed him to the very tips of his toes. ‘You have shared with me. It felt only right to do the same.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say something dreadful, something earnest, and so Montague cleared his throat and reminded himself he was a rogue, and a rake, and a rascal. ‘Well, it is only right you share such things with me, your future husband.’
‘Future—’
‘Yes, when I win our competition and your unresisting hand,’ Montague teased, lifting her hand to his mouth for a teasing kiss.
Somehow, between taking her hand and lifting it up, the kiss had transformed into something far more solemn.
Calliope looked at him with wide and untrusting eyes. ‘You are a cad.’
‘Probably,’ Montague said cheerfully, forcing down the reminder that he was and that she deserved far better. ‘Now, let me take you home to bed.’
‘Montague Donovan—’
‘Without me in it, obviously,’ he said with only a hint of regret. ‘Come on. Your aunt will be waiting for us.’