Chapter Twelve
‘And you promise—’ Calliope said suspiciously, ‘—you are not trying to abduct me?’
After all, was that not what notorious noblemen did?
Well, not her brother-in-law. The Duke of Glanyrafon was essentially a puppy, as far as Calliope could make out. He was devoted to her sister and quite happy to follow her about with a slightly dazed, slightly besotted look on his face.
He was precisely the kind of gentleman Calliope wanted joining the family.
The Marquess of Laidley, on the other hand…
Montague grinned. ‘Now why on earth would I abduct you?’
Heat scalded Calliope’s cheeks. He wasn’t going to actually make her say it… Was he?
‘You know,’ she mumbled, as they sat in the bouncing curricle together along the lane leading out of Brighton to the west. ‘Scandalous reasons.’
It was most unfair, she thought furiously, that a man like Montague was permitted to grin like that.
How her Aunt Louise had permitted this, she did not know. Calliope had been astonished, as the pair of ladies had sat quietly in the drawing room, to find Montague striding into it happily with her aunt’s footman racing behind him and had been even more astonished to hear his ridiculous notion.
‘A ride? Oh, how pleasant,’ Aunt Louise had said cheerfully. ‘But what a shame, my lord, I have just recalled a previous engagement.’
Calliope had done everything she could to prevent herself from rolling her eyes, but it had been most difficult. ‘I do not recall you mentioning—’
‘Yes, well, it is a private matter,’ her aunt had said hurriedly, ‘but I would not wish to deprive you of a most enjoyable morning out in the sunshine, especially as the temperatures are cooler today. Your curricle, you say, my lord?’
Despite all her complaints, Calliope had been bundled out of her aunt’s home with a smile and now found herself seated beside the man whose attentions were truly annoying and whose charms were upsettingly endearing.
‘I promise, I’m not abducting you,’ Montague said genially, slowing his horses as the hedges grew taller around the lane and a blackbird sang nearby.
Calliope relaxed.
‘We haven’t any luggage for an escape to Gretna Green, for a start.’
Shoving him in the arm with her own had initially been an excellent plan, but Calliope found to her surprise that the searing heat of the contact only served to upset her pulse.
She was alone, with a gentleman. With a scoundrel. With a Marquess who had already proposed matrimony to her at least twice and was threatening to march her up the aisle with a silly art competition.
And she still could not understand why.
Oh, she was no fool. The child, John, had to have something to do with it. But plenty of guardians cared for wards without immediately proposing to the next woman they set eyes on.
Oh, it was a slight bruise to her ego, but eventually Calliope had come to accept that handsome and wealthy noblemen did not typically chase after daughters of flighty widows who couldn’t remain in one place long enough for said daughter to catch up with them.
Her sister excluded.
No, the Oliver sisters had never bedecked themselves in glory, or beauty, or prestige through titles or however else it was that ladies could gain renown.
Perhaps that was why painting was such a draw. A chance to prove herself, to show the world she was more than a mere adornment to Society.
And Montague was up to something—but precisely what, she could not fathom.
If he had been merely interested in her innocence…well, he could have taken that the moment they had left Brighton. He could have taken it while they were on the clifftop that week past.
Once, Calliope had dreamed he had, and woken up hot and tingling and full of a longing she did not understand.
So if he did not wish to deflower her what on earth was the man playing at?
‘If you’re not abducting me, I presume we are going somewhere with a purpose?’ Calliope asked, attempting to remain haughty and emotionally distant.
That was far easier said than done, however, when Montague wiggled his eyebrows in a ridiculous manner. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
‘Yes, I would,’ she retorted, collapsing into giggles however as he continued his ridiculous expression. ‘Montague!’
‘You know, I rather like it when you call my name.’
Now she truly was flushing. Calliope turned from him and looked resolutely along the lane. He could not have meant that—he certainly could not have meant it to sound like…well. To sound like that.
When she gained sufficient courage to glance at the blaggard, it was to see to her surprise that Montague was blushing.
Montague. Blushing?
‘I thought I’d take you to one of my favourite places,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Few people know about it and I have an agreement with the farmer who owns the land.’
An agreement?
An agreement that he might take unsuspecting young ladies to ravish, Calliope could not help but think darkly. An agreement that allowed the farmer to turn a blind eye when the Marquess…when he…
‘Oh,’ she breathed, unable to say any more.
There was nothing much else to say. What could one say when one turned a corner and saw not merely the continuing clifftop on their left, but the sharp drop of the cliff, a small circular bay, ridges of chalk soaring up above the waves, seabirds squawking and calling.
The field that meandered to the cliff was nothing but a wildflower meadow filled with poppies, and cornflowers, and buttercups, and sea cabbage, and wild scabious, and…
‘That is precisely what it looked like when I first saw it.’
Calliope closed her mouth hurriedly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I thought I would give it to you.’
She turned in astonishment. ‘Give it to— But you said the farmer—’
‘Oh, I don’t own it,’ Montague said hastily, pulling the horses to a stop and jumping down from the curricle.
‘But as I have inadvertently, I promise you, stolen the clifftop scene east of Brighton where you had intended to paint, I thought I would give you this view. It’s mine, but… well. I want you to have it.’
As he had spoken he had stepped around the carriage and was now holding up a hand to assist her descent.
Calliope could hardly breathe. To give another artist one’s favourite view…
It was better than the gold of the dandelions and the silver of the summer grass. Higher than the cliffs and the soaring birds, deeper than the ocean that rumbled below them.
She was…touched.
‘Thank you,’ Calliope exhaled as she accepted his hand and descended from the curricle.
Well. Descended was one word for it. Her attention was so caught by the beautiful scene that she misjudged the distance to the ground, causing her foot to stumble and her arms to be thrown out—
Once again, Calliope found herself in Montague’s arms.
‘Steady there, it’s not that spectacular,’ he murmured, pushing a curl back behind her ear.
It was. What was even better was that they were sharing it together, Calliope could not help but think. This was a gift she could not reciprocate.
‘Are you…certain?’ she said quietly, extricating herself from his grip and missing his steady warmth on her arm. ‘I mean, you might even be within a chance of almost beating me, if you painted this scene.’
His wry smile made her stomach lurch as they stepped through the gate and into the field. ‘Almost?’
‘Almost, but not quite.’
Goodness, it was beautiful—precisely what one considered to be England in high summer, when one attempted to picture it. Glorious sunshine and the buzzing of honey-drunk bees, a skylark soaring to their left, chattering away its delight in being alive.
Calliope shivered, despite the heat.
‘This is the sort of place I always escaped to when a boy.’ Montague’s voice was low as he stepped slowly through the field, his fingertips outstretched to brush along the taller grasses.
‘Somewhere free. Where no one would find me. Where no one would look for me. I would trace the lines of a tree with my finger in the air… Maybe that’s why I love painting so much. ’
He loved painting?
Calliope stared, hurrying to follow the man she was still trying to understand. He loved painting?
But—but art had always been something to tease her with, to infuriate her. It had been a way to annoy her, to goad her into promising to marry him if he were found to be the superior.
She hadn’t actually realised it called to him in the same way it called to her.
‘I thought…maybe I should bring the boy here sometime.’ Montague glanced at Calliope by his side. His expression was almost nervous, as though he were not certain and needed her advice and hers alone to be sure. ‘Do you think…? Would he like it?’
Calliope’s soul glowed. ‘I think so.’
It could not be more obvious how concerned he was that John was cared for, and for that he should be commended, but only someone like herself, who was privy to even a little more insight into Montague’s childhood, could truly understand just how monumental this was.
‘His childhood doesn’t have to be like yours,’ she said gently, reaching out and taking his hand without thinking. It felt…natural. To walk hand in hand in a meadow with summer shimmering in all its glory and not be thinking about paint hues or canvas sizes, but the man she was with.
Montague laughed darkly. ‘Lord, I hope it isn’t.’
‘It won’t be. You will see to that, I know you will.’
Calliope should have expected the response, perhaps, but it stunned her, nonetheless.
‘Yes, I hope so. Myself…and my future wife,’ Montague said slowly.
Precisely why he had said that… Montague did not know.
Fool! Worse than a fool, idiot!
This had never been the plan. Convincing Miss Calliope Oliver to marry him, yes, that was the plan.
Dancing with her and wanting to hold her and taking her to one of his most private, most special places?
Not the plan.
How the hell had he ended up here?
Calliope was flushing and for a moment Montague was so distracted by her beauty he completely forgot why she was doing so. Then his memory caught up with him.
‘Yes, I hope so. Myself…and my future wife.’