Chapter Thirteen
It was not that Calliope had gone looking for Montague exactly.
Not exactly.
It was just that she had tried the Shirley Street Art Gallery, and the paint shop where an apologetic Mr Haversham had handed her three whole paint tubes of her favoured cerulean blue. She had even tried the promenade along the beach.
But he was not there.
So it was complete coincidence, Calliope told herself firmly, that she had marched her increasingly tired aunt to another art gallery in Brighton and discovered—much to her feigned surprise—that Montague was within it.
‘There you are!’ The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop herself.
It was the gallery that was so warm, Calliope thought furiously, not herself. It was a mere coincidence that she was now emitting so much heat from her cheeks that she was probably the one warming the place up.
‘Miss Oliver,’ said Montague genially as he turned around. ‘And Mrs Gower, how pleasant.’
It was pleasant—very pleasant. Which was perhaps why Calliope was so utterly livid.
It had been three days. Three days after that wonderful carriage ride, after being welcomed into one of Montague’s most special places in the world, after hearing that…that sheer volume of pain pouring his lips, after admitting to each other that the emotions between them were not so much anger as…
Well. Something else.
And since then, she had not heard a whit from him. No note, no letter, no accidental meeting, which Calliope was certain Montague was concocting. Nothing at all!
It was galling.
It was, however, impossible for her to say all of this because a small face was looking up at her eagerly.
‘I’m learning about art!’ John said proudly.
Joy radiated through Calliope as she glanced between the suddenly stern-looking gentleman and the beaming child. ‘You are?’
Of course he was. She should have known Montague would find a way to open his heart to the child, even if it was by using art instead of actual words.
John nodded. ‘I’ve learned about persplective—’
‘Perspective,’ growled Montague, clearly uncomfortable with being found in such a caring situation.
‘—and huge—’
‘Hues.’
‘—and—’
‘Why don’t you show me all about what you’ve learned with this painting over here?’ asked Calliope’s aunt, taking pity on…well, she was not quite sure who. All of them, Calliope supposed.
The boy’s face brightened, if possible, even further. ‘And I can tell you about cerulean blue!’
Her Aunt Louise exchanged a look with the flushing Calliope and the still wooden Montague before taking John’s hand in hers and meandering to another room in the gallery. ‘You can indeed. How many colours of blue do you think you can name?’
The child’s chatter echoed loudly off the walls of the art gallery.
Montague winced. ‘I did not think he would be so…loud.’
‘Children generally are, I think,’ Calliope said, without a whit of experience in such matters—save once being one herself. ‘It is good of you to teach him.’
‘Boy needs to learn,’ came the gruff reply.
But she knew him better than that now. She could see the warmth under the tone, the small hint of pride that the child—though his pronunciation would hopefully improve—had evidently shown perhaps not exactly an aptitude, but an enthusiasm for his new guardian’s passion.
‘John will learn. If he is anything like his uncle, I suppose,’ Calliope said with an earnest smile.
It was not returned.
It was strange. There were moments when she was almost certain the man had fallen in love with her—a foolish thought, Calliope reminded herself and yet…there it was. Sometimes it felt as though they were so in tune, nothing could come between them.
And then something did.
‘I—’ Calliope was not sure what she was going to say—something, certainly—but Montague took her hand without request and placed it in the crook of his arm.
‘Come and look at this.’
He led her into a third room, the chattering of John still audible even from this distance and Calliope wondered why on earth—
Oh, goodness.
‘Is it not stunning?’ Montague breathed in a low voice.
Calliope could hardly speak, it was so impressive. The canvas was not nearly so large as the previous Glenarm she had seen, but the boldness of the paint, the drama of the scene—
‘Fishing again,’ she said in wonder, ‘and yet a completely different study.’
‘Truly magnificent. The way the light catches the scales, the way the fish seems to leap out of the canvas and into one’s lap,’ said Montague quietly. A small gathering of people had clustered around the painting but he kept his words for her. ‘It is not Brighton, which surprises me.’
‘It is not?’
‘Sand, not stones.’
Yes, he was right. A detail she had not initially noticed.
Montague seemed unable to decide whether he was examining the painting or herself. Her skin prickled as he said, ‘Do you not think such an artist is truly unique?’
‘Unique?’ repeated Calliope.
She looked again at the painting. It was a close portrait study of a fisherwoman, utterly unlike the previous Glenarm she had seen, and yet there was the brilliant bright blue, the clever use of light. It was beautiful.
But unique?
‘I don’t know. I truly don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘The artist is bold, you can see that in his sharp use of the oils. Extravagant, even for—’
‘His use?’
Calliope blinked and turned to Montague, who was standing perhaps a little too close for a gentleman who was not related to her. She did not step back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You presume Glenarm is a gentleman, then?’ Montague said softly, as though whispering a secret. ‘You hold to that?’
Not a gentleman— The thought had never even occurred to her. Were not all artists who made a living from their brush gentlemen?
Calliope’s gaze darted between the studious gentleman and the painting before them. ‘Well, I always assumed—’
‘You said once you would like to have your painting up in an art gallery,’ Montague said quietly as the other inhabitants of their room in the art gallery quietly left in search of other frames.
They were alone now. Quite alone. ‘How would you feel, I wonder, if that were your painting hanging there?’
What an idea—quite ridiculous. And yet…
Calliope slowly tilted her head back to the painting. If it were hers.
The idea was strange, even for someone like herself who had longed for such a thing. To have one’s art considered impressive enough to sell at all was quite something, but for a gallery to choose to display it… That was perhaps a dream she would never realise.
Her smile was rueful. ‘I think it unlikely to ever occur.’
‘But it might.’ Montague lowered his voice, squeezing her hand and making every inch of Calliope quiver. ‘One day.’
One day…
One day, she and her sisters had always told themselves, there would be time when they had more money than sense and would have a fire in every room. One day, Ditty would marry rich, Calliope would sell her art around the world and Thalia would be a renowned poet.
One day.
Calliope swallowed. Ditty had married the owner of a goldmine, and a duke to boot. Perhaps one day was not quite so far away as she might think.
She looked at Montague with a twisting smile. ‘You think I could do it?’
The question evidently took him off guard, for he dropped her arm and turned to face her. They were but inches from each other but Calliope was not worried. They were alone, after all, in this marvellous art gallery. Nothing untoward could happen here.
‘Do I think you could have art hanging on an art gallery wall like this one?’ he asked, tilting his head to the fisherwoman’s portrait—the Glenarm.
Calliope smiled. ‘Well, perhaps not as impressive as that one.’
His returning smile was knowing somehow, as though they had exchanged a secret only they shared. Precisely what that could be, however, was quite beyond her.
‘You are, though.’
For a moment, she was not quite certain she had heard correct. She was…what?
Then her mind caught up with her. ‘Oh. Oh!’
The flush was to be expected, she was always flushing, but what Calliope had not expected was that it was mirrored by a flush of his own.
Montague Donovan, Marquess of Laidley, was blushing…after complimenting her.
‘You are impressive, you know. And yes, I still abhor you,’ he said with a wry smile in the silence of the room. ‘But I cannot help but admire you.’
Admire her?
Calliope swallowed. To be so admired by such a man… It was heady. It should not affect her so but how could it not?
All she could say was, ‘Montague.’
Somehow, Calliope did not understand how, Montague’s hands were on her waist and they were in public. They were not, because there was no one else in this part of the gallery, but someone could walk through at any moment and it was reckless what he was doing, and—
‘Calliope,’ Montague said in a ragged voice.
It was she who started it. She lifted her lips, eyelashes fluttering, and then she was kissing him.
Polite young ladies did not go around kissing gentlemen, but she was not kissing a gentleman.
She was kissing Montague. Overcome by their connection, overwhelmed by her need for him, Calliope could no longer wait for his rakish eagerness or his wicked ways.
She needed to kiss him and so kiss him she did.
And, oh, what a kiss. Calliope had no idea what to expect but what she had never dreamed of was just how hot he would be, Montague’s warmth cascading through her as he tugged her into his embrace.
His lips were pressed on hers. Waves of bliss, of unexpectedly delightful sensation, were pouring through her and Calliope whimpered at the sudden overwhelm of it.
That whimper was apparently precisely what Montague needed for he tilted his head, his tongue teasing along the line of her lips, and she could do nothing but open for him, welcome him in. His tongue lavished pleasure upon her that made her knees quiver and her thighs ache.
Dear God, this was everything she wanted. Montague’s arms around her. His deep, dark kisses overtaking her. Her head spinning, her nose full of him and her whole body crying out for—