Chapter Thirteen #2
And then it was over, just as fast, just as suddenly. Montague was no longer kissing her, his hands were not even touching her. It was strange how lonely, how empty, she felt standing in an art gallery of all places—one of the few places in the world she always felt at home.
When Calliope risked a glance in Montague’s direction, it was to see him stony faced and slightly pink cheeked.
Her spirits sank. He regretted it, of course he did. It was a moment of weakness, perhaps a chink in the armour he always wore, and now he wished he had not done it.
Well, she could easily help with that.
‘That was—that was a mistake,’ she said hurriedly, as a couple stepped into the room, the gentleman exclaiming loudly about the beauty of a landscape behind them as his lady friend nodded. ‘A mistake.’
Montague did not look at her when he spoke. ‘A mistake.’
‘Yes, that was all it was. A mistake,’ nodded Calliope severely, as though that would make it so. ‘We—we were talking of art, I think, before we became…well. Distracted.’
Distracted.
Was that what she called it? The most splendid kiss he had ever known, a distraction?
Montague tried not to rock back on his heels, the emotions he felt almost a tangible punch, but it was a challenge.
This woman… She could order him to do almost anything, he was starting to realise, and he would do it. He would do anything in his power to make her happy, and that was a weakness he had never expected to creep into his senses.
And yet he mustn’t. He was hardly a paragon of virtue, but he could not risk her reputation.
Montague cleared his throat. When he forced himself to glance at Calliope, she was determinedly looking at the painting he was now certain had been painted by her.
Oh, she was clever. Somehow she had managed to keep her identity secret from the whole world for months, perhaps even years, he was not sure when she had started the ruse of Glenarm to sell her art.
But he had her now.
Well, not had her. Not nearly enough. Not so that he could ever forget the taste of her on his tongue.
Dear God, this had to end, one way or another. He could no longer just allow himself to grow in obsession and need for this woman. No, either she would marry him or not, and if she did, he would keep his distance and prevent her from being overwhelmed by his desires.
Trying desperately not to think about how empty his life would be if she decided not to marry him, Montague cleared his throat for a second time. ‘Miss Oliver.’
Calliope raised an eyebrow as she turned to him. ‘My lord.’
It was difficult not to wince at the formality, especially after all they had shared. ‘I suggest we bring our agreement to a close.’
Her surprise was itself surprising. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. Well. Obviously, there must be an end date, otherwise the art can never be judged,’ Montague said, confusion flowing through him.
Calliope’s face softened. ‘Oh, the art competition. I thought you meant—never mind.’
‘Yes?’ His eagerness was pitiful, even he could hear that.
‘Nothing,’ she said swiftly. ‘Yes, I agree. We must have them judged and when I’m declared the winner—’
‘I think you will find I will be declared the winner,’ Montague reminded her softly.
He desperately wished to reach out and take her hand again, but with the presence of strangers within what Montague was swiftly beginning to think of as their art gallery, it would be scandalous to do so indeed.
Besides, Mrs Gower and John could return at any moment. It would probably not do for them to hear about how he had attempted to entrap the most enticing woman into matrimony.
Calliope’s smile was warm. ‘So how do you suggest we bring our connection to…completion.’
Montague swallowed. She was an innocent, he reminded himself sternly. She could have no idea at all that her phrasing was so heavily…suggestive.
‘I must say, I do enjoy having a thick, warm, brush between my fingers,’ Calliope said lightly.
Montague almost bit through his tongue.
‘But then, there is nothing quite like the pleasure of reaching the peak of one’s art and enjoying the climax of a painting really coming together,’ she continued blithely, turning back to the Glenarm.
Montague did so too, but only to hide the raging rod within his breeches. Dear God, surely she did not—
‘But I should not—I mean, teasing you is perhaps not appropriate,’ Calliope said quietly, her smile not exactly fading, but settling into a companionable and understanding warmth. ‘We are still competing, are we not?’
Montague had words. He did. He just couldn’t recall any of them at the moment.
‘So, our art competition.’ Calliope spoke briskly, as though she had not just inflamed the man beside her. ‘Do you think the gallery here would permit us a wall for a few days?’
Try as he might, Montague was struggling to get the thought of Calliope coming to a climax out of his mind. Think, man, think! ‘I am sure for a little coin, they will be most amenable.’
‘And the voting?’
How was she so calm about this? She must know, Montague thought desperately, that she was about to win. He had not asked whether she had decided to paint his meadow, but surely she would. There could not be another view that was more spectacular, more meaningful between them…
Montague’s pulse skipped a beat. Not that she was obliged to paint a scene that was meaningful for the two of them. Obviously.
Hell’s bells, but he had it bad.
‘Oh, I think a simple tally upon leaving,’ Montague said aloud, hoping to goodness she did not notice how awkwardly he was standing. ‘And then we’ll know.’
We’ll know, he continued in the privacy of his own mind, just what is more important to me. We’ll know whether I want to have the art of Glenarm, who I know Miss Oliver to be yourself…or whether I want the artist instead.
We’ll know whether you will hold to your end of the bargain and marry me.
‘We will indeed,’ Calliope said brightly. ‘I must say, I’m looking forward to spending one thousand pounds in Mr Haversham’s shop.’
Montague snorted. ‘I don’t imagine the poor man has ever seen so much—’ Then his mind caught up with him. ‘What do you mean, spending one thousand pounds in Mr Haversham’s shop?’
The minx blinked up at him innocently. Far too innocently. ‘Why, when I have won the art competition.’
‘You will not be winning—’
‘Quiet, please,’ someone hushed from the other side of the room.
Montague was in half a mind to march over there and give the man a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, every part of his mind was currently wanting to push Calliope up against the art gallery wall and kiss her senseless. Which he supposed wasn’t very polite either.