Chapter Fourteen #2
‘I’d like you to show me.’ Montague’s voice was low, sensuous, as though an intimate conversation was being shared between them. ‘Please, Calliope.’
Calliope swallowed. Handsome rich noblemen should not be allowed to say one’s name in that reverential manner.
‘Fine.’ That was it, keep her responses short, so when he exploded in surprise, she could state in all honesty that she had kept calm. ‘It’s here. Just round the corner.’
They had agreed to put the painting in two different rooms, so as not to confuse those who would be voting on the best…but that had been when Calliope had believed she would be contributing a landscape painting to the competition.
She watched Montague’s jaw drop as they turned the corner. His eyes were wide, his hands slack by his sides and when he spoke it was more of a breath than a statement.
‘What the…?’
Calliope’s gaze darted between the man beside her and the boy on the wall. ‘If you hate it, you can tell me.’
‘But it’s…it’s…’ When Montague turned to her, it was with wild eyes. ‘It’s John.’
It was. Calliope had watched him most carefully when he had been exploring Brighton beach with her aunt, and the way he had picked up a shell and looked up at the older woman with joy and incredulity in his eyes.
She had never painted a portrait before, nature had always been her forte, but what was more natural than a child experiencing fresh joy?
Her heart was beating most uncomfortably and her desire to reach out and take Montague’s hand was curtailed by his evident displeasure at the painting.
She should have asked permission to paint his ward, she knew that, but once the idea of the painting had taken hold, Calliope had been unable to do anything but pour the vision of it onto the canvas.
And now here they were, standing before a painting of John, Earl of Trefusis, and Calliope was going to have to marry the Marquess.
And she was only a little angry about it.
Montague was absolutely transfixed.
It was… John.
But not John as Montague knew him. No, the child he had mostly encountered was quiet, withdrawn, shy—unwilling or unable to meet his eye and giving monosyllabic responses to questions, if he responded at all.
True, the boy seemed to come a little more alive when he was in the presence of Mrs Gower or Calliope…but this?
He blinked, and the painting of John did not alter. He was laughing. He was joyful. He was everything a child should be.
Calliope had seen this within the child and he, Montague, had not. He had presumed that once born in the Trefusis household, it was impossible to escape it. He had certainly never felt that he had escaped it.
But John had, in this moment, in this painting.
And if the boy could…surely that meant he could, too.
‘I know it is not very good.’
Montague blinked. Calliope was beside him, genuine remorse on her face.
Did she not realise what a masterpiece she had created? Oh, anyone could paint the ocean, it was just a big blob of blue!
But to capture the essence of a person, to fix it against canvas with the merest of brushstrokes. It was a marvel. No wonder half the world wanted to own a Glenarm.
And she had paid him the ultimate compliment, it seemed, and decided to paint her first ever portrait for his ward.
Montague swallowed. His son.
‘—tried to get his hair right, but I’ve never painted hair before, and I know I should have asked your permission—’
For he thought of John as his son now, didn’t he? How could he not, knowing they had both suffered under almost the same hand, knowing they had been forced to face the same challenges—and they were, after all, blood.
‘—announce your win now, if you would like.’
Montague blinked again, trying to focus on the stream of words beside him. Announce his win? How on earth could anyone suggest that his lame painting of a clifftop could beat this absolute marvel?
‘You…you painted John,’ he managed to say.
It was foolish indeed to state the obvious for a second time, but Montague was not certain he could do anything else.
When he turned to Calliope, she looked worried. ‘I know I should have asked your permission first, it was crass of me not to do so.’
‘I am glad you did not.’ Her surprise made Montague laugh. ‘I probably would have said no and then I would have lost the opportunity to see such a splendid painting. Calliope, you… You truly are a master.’
‘A mistress, I think,’ she said, a wry smile finally lifting the corners of her lips.
Montague could not help himself, a desperate need to add lightness to the conversation overpowering his sense. ‘Is that an offer?’
No one else was near them, so no one else at the art gallery would have known precisely what he had said to make her flush so deeply.
But she did not look away.
Oh, this fiery woman with a heart of gold and a body that just cried out to be touched. Montague was half astonished they were still standing there, and he had not taken her in his arms and whisked her back to his townhouse where he could make slow, passionate love to her.
As it was…
‘Your landscape is far superior, I am certain the voting will reflect that,’ Calliope said, her head held high even as he could see just how much it cost her to admit to as much. ‘That means I am to be your wife, I suppose.’
Montague’s stomach lurched.
The very idea of Calliope Oliver becoming his wife was heady. Wonderful, marvellous, precisely what he wanted.
Had he not told Annabelle he would marry a woman in Brighton who could care for John? Who better than someone who could see the potential in him, as Calliope could?
But the joy faded, and faster than he wanted.
He would not marry Calliope like this. Force her to accept his hand merely because the public did not appreciate her genius? Entrap her, in fact, in a marriage she had not chosen freely?
No. Montague knew he was many things, but he was not that sort of man.
Pain seared through him at the realisation of what he was going to do.
Hell. He might regret this—but he would most definitely regret it if he did not do this.
‘Excuse me, just for a moment,’ Montague said in a low voice, with as natural a smile as he could manage. ‘I must just ascertain John is not being a bother.’
He was not. As Montague stepped across the art gallery to the exit, where Mrs Gower and his ward were standing, he caught a snippet of their conversation.
‘…different?’
‘Yes, there are many types of sketching pencils that give different results,’ Mrs Gower was saying conspiratorially, as though she were sharing state secrets. ‘In fact, I prefer—ah, my lord.’
Montague nodded his head briefly. This would have to be quick. ‘Mrs Gower, what is the score at present?’
Calliope’s aunt grinned. ‘I do not think it would be—’
‘It is imperative Miss Oliver should win.’
Montague tried not to think about how his heart was breaking as he said those words, but he knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. He would not force Calliope to be his bride. She would be his, oh yes, but it would be a match freely chosen.
Mrs Gower’s mouth had fallen open and John was looking between them, confusion wrinkled in his brow.
‘My—my niece? You wish to cheat…to ensure she wins?’