Page 1 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The boy’s breathing came quick and shallow, and his small hands trembled where they gripped the long rifle. The wild boar ahead poked through the ground with its nose, its sharp fur glistening with mud and tree bark.

Tristan’s brown hair shone in the sun as he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if to reassure or place undue pressure on him. Whichever one was going to get the work done.

“Steady, George,” he said, his tone even but clipped. “With things like this, you have to breathe through it. Keep your eyes on the animal. Do not blink or try to shift focus. Then you relax your shoulders and pull the trigger.”

The boy swallowed hard, but his elbows wavered. Tristan cleared his throat, his brown eyes watching the boar shift to a path that gave the boy a clearer shot.

“Now,” he ordered, and George snapped the trigger back.

The shot cracked through the clearing and across the leaves.

The boar squealed and stumbled sideways before gaining its footing and vanished into the green wall of the footpath.

George wanted to go after it, but Tristan gripped his shoulder.

They both watched as a streak of blood marked the boar’s exit from sight.

“There is no point now, George. It is gone.”

George lowered the rifle with a startled gasp. “I-I thought—”

“It is all right,” Tristan said, stepping forward to watch the animal’s shadow finally disappear. “These things happen. You just have to prepare harder for the next one. And maybe try to focus even harder this time around.”

The boy’s mouth opened, but he closed it again. Tristan heaved a sigh and placed his hands on his hips, his fingers gripping the edges of his white shirt.

“I apologize, Lord Vale. I do not—”

“It is my fault,” Tristan said, cutting him off. “I thought you were ready and put too much on you.”

A muscle in George’s jaw jumped, and his eyes glistened. Tristan could see the tears beginning to gather below his lids, and he exhaled slowly.

“Oh, do not be like that, George. How old are you?”

“Thirteen, my lord.”

“In another world, you would already be leading a pack of men into war. You cannot afford to be weak, do you hear me? Emotions get the better of you. They make you reckless and force you into making rather poor decisions. You must put them down. Always.”

George swallowed, nodding gently at Tristan’s words.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A soldier’s greatest enemy is his feelings,” Tristan said, watching the boy’s face.

George nodded again.

Tristan sighed again. “Wipe your tears. We cannot have your mother grill you about this.”

“Grill him about what?” a third voice called from behind the tall rows of hedges at the edge of the clearing. They both turned at the same time and watched a figure step into view.

“Mrs. Andrews. How long have you been back there?” Tristan asked, clearing his throat.

“Just got here now, my lord,” the woman responded, her voice curt.

“Mother,” George greeted, still fidgeting with the rifle.

Mrs. Andrews stepped even closer to them, her apron brushed with flour and her greying red hair tucked in a neat bun.

“Might I make an inquiry as to what is going on here, my lord?” she asked, her eyes shifting from George and his rifle to Tristan and the calm smirk that settled on his face.

“Nothing, Mrs. Andrews,” he responded, his voice sharper than he intended. “I was only showing your young man here how to catch a boar.”

She glanced at the rifle again. “Are you telling him tales of your time in the military, too, my lord?”

“Oh, you know me. They go hand in hand.”

Mrs. Andrews’ lips curved, and she gave a small nod. She stayed where she was while George and Tristan faced the clearing again.

“Hold the rifle steady, George,” Tristan said, adjusting the boy’s grip with a firm hand.

When he glanced back over his shoulder, Mrs. Andrews was still there.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Andrews?”

“A letter came for you this afternoon, my lord. I came to inform you as soon as the courier left.”

“Who is it from?”

As she opened her mouth to respond, Tristan raised a hand.

“Do not tell me. I have a good feeling about who it is. I suppose saying it out loud will only ruin the mood.”

Mrs. Andrews shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and Tristan could have sworn he saw a flicker of sympathy cross her face.

“Shall I bring the letter here, my lord?” she asked again, her voice forcefully breaking the brimming silence.

“No.” The word came out too quickly. “I will take it when I return to the lodge.”

“Very well.” She turned to George. “Hurry, George, so you may eat before it grows dark.”

She walked back along the narrow track, her steps fading behind the rustle of leaves.

Tristan watched her go, then looked at George. “I suppose your mother does not want you learning to shoot so soon, Georgie boy.”

“She says it is not proper,” George muttered.

“She may not be far off if she thinks you might hurt yourself.”

George shrugged. “It is more than that. She says there are other things to learn first.”

Tristan kept his eyes on the clearing. “You have a parent who worries. You must be grateful. Not everyone is that fortunate.”

The boy nodded.

A flash of movement caught Tristan’s eye once again, and he turned. A deer stood some yards ahead, its ears twitching as it fed on the low grass. The air between them stilled as Tristan stared at it. It had not seen them. At least not yet.

“Hand me the rifle,” Tristan said quietly to the boy. “I will take the shot.”

“I can do it, my lord,” George whispered.

“All that I have said today, you may begin to practice tomorrow,” Tristan told him. “For now, hand me the rifle. It is important that the shot is precise.”

“I can do it, my lord,” George repeated, his tone firmer.

Tristan looked down at him. “You wish to redeem yourself?”

George nodded, setting his jaw.

“Very well. Breathe in and hold. Then let the air settle in your chest before you pull.”

George raised the weapon again, and his grip steadied. Tristan watched him put all his focus on the target ahead of them.

“Now,” Tristan murmured.

George pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out in the air. The deer jerked, stumbled, and collapsed in the tall grass, and a slow smile touched Tristan’s lips.

“It seems there may still be hope for you, Georgie boy,” he said gently, patting his back.

The boy’s grin spread wide. “Do you think—”

“Do not let it go to your head,” Tristan cut in. “One shot does not make you a marksman. But it is a start.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tristan glanced at the path Mrs. Andrews had taken. “Your supper awaits. Go on ahead. I will follow shortly.”

George hesitated. “Shall I wait for you, my lord?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. I will be in shortly.”

The boy nodded, then trudged toward the path, the rifle balanced in both hands.

When he was gone, Tristan let out a breath, his gaze drifting back to where the deer had fallen. The forest had grown quiet again, except for the soft whisper of leaves. He stared at the leaves, praying their sight kept him out of thinking about what awaited him when he stepped back into the lodge.

***

The weight of the deer pressed into his shoulders as he stepped into the lodge.

The scent of the kill clung to his clothes, sharp and metallic.

Mrs. Andrews stood in the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

She looked up at him and watched with focus as he walked into the house, his back bent from the weight.

“Where would you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice on the edge of a mild groan.

The older woman eyed the lifeless body. “Preferably alive and back in the forest, my lord, but since we cannot manage that, the kitchen will do.”

Tristan laughed and turned in the direction of the kitchen, but she stepped forward as though to take it from him.

“I can handle it from here, my lord. You do not have to—”

“Nonsense,” Tristan said, shirking away from her before she could even reach him. “I will do it myself.”

He carried the deer through to the kitchen and let it drop with a dull thud onto the long table. When he came back to the hall, Mrs. Andrews was opening a drawer.

He watched with interest as she pulled out an envelope and set it on the side table. “The letter, my lord.”

He nodded in response. “Do you need help skinning the deer? I can bring a—” he asked.

“I will have to beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, my lord,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly, “but when it comes to skinning deer, I never need anyone else.”

He gave a faint smile in response as she walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly across the house.

After she was gone, Tristan’s eyes shifted back to the letter, and his fingers closed around it.

“What possible news could you have for me this time, Grandpapa?”

He broke the seal and unfolded the paper, feeling the words practically leap at him. His jaw tightened as he took in the contents word by word. Line by line.

Oh, dear lord.

He shuffled his feet and squeezed the paper into his hand, making it damp. By the time Mrs. Andrews returned, muttering about forgetting a stick of butter, the paper lay crumpled on the table.

She paused. “Is anything the matter, my lord?”

“The letter is from my grandfather,” Tristan responded.

“Yes. It is.” Mrs. Andrews responded in a tone that seemed to say that was something they both knew already.

“He has summoned me to the castle.”

The woman’s brows furrowed. “Summoned?”

Tristan let out a nervous chuckle. “More like threatened, if I am being honest.”

Mrs. Andrews said nothing. Instead, she watched with interest as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Something has come up,” he revealed.

The woman took a step back in surprise.

“Is everything all right?”

Tristan squeezed the letter. “Oh, not yet. But it will be.”

“My lord, if you need help with anything—”

Tristan laughed again. “You have been quite the most help, Mrs. Andrews. I do not know how I can possibly repay you.”

Silence fell between them, and Tristan exhaled as loudly as he could.

“I am afraid I must leave for Evermere tonight.”

Mrs. Andrews sighed. “And what about the deer, my lord?”

“Think of it as a gift from me to you, Mrs. Andrews.”

He left her in the hall and went to his room. Evermere was only half a day’s ride. If he left now, he could arrive before it grew fully dark.

He pulled a few shirts and a coat from the chest, rolled them tightly, and stuffed them into a leather satchel. When he stepped back outside, the evening light had begun to fade. He walked to the stable and led his horse into the yard.

“Shall I prepare something for you to take along?” Mrs. Andrews called from the doorway.

“It is too late, Mrs. Andrews. But I am grateful for the sentiment,” Tristan said.

George appeared, trotting toward him. “I will help with the reins, my lord.”

Tristan handed him the leather straps. “Remember, Georgie, the lodge is under your control now. You must protect it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Tristan mounted the horse. “Stay sharp.”

The boy nodded, and Tristan urged the horse forward, the steady rhythm of hooves carrying him onto the open road. His mind worked over the letter’s words. His grandfather never spoke idly of the inheritance. If he had put it in writing, he meant it.

The night air was cold by the time the towers of Evermere rose against the horizon. He rode through the gates, ignoring the curious glances of the two maids who stood near the front steps.

“Where is my grandfather?” he asked.

They exchanged glances before one spoke. “He is in his study, my lord.”

Tristan strode through the halls, the familiar smell of polished wood and parchment filling his lungs. He found the door open and the reflection of shaky candlelight bouncing off the walls.

“Tristan,” his grandfather said, leaning back in his chair. “I knew the letter would get you here.”

He closed the door behind him, letting his eyes briefly settle on the portraits that were hung all around the walls.

“So you decided the only way to get me here was to threaten me with my inheritance?”

“No, I threatened you with it so you would marry this Season.”

“Oh, how kind.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot put it off any longer, my boy. Do you remember your younger cousin, Lady Rosamund Barrow?”

“What does Rosie have to do with anything?” Tristan asked, raising his hands.

The duke leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “She is getting married in a fortnight. Tristan, she is five years younger than you, and she is already married.”

Tristan sighed. “I am sorry if I am not keen on the idea of dedicating my life to someone else, Grandpapa.”

“Well, perhaps you should be keen on the idea of losing the estate and everything that comes with it after I die.”

Tristan’s voice cooled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you are my only heir, and I cannot have you waste the rest of your life in a hunting lodge in Northumberland.”

“I could not find anyone I like in time to marry this Season.”

“You could not find anyone in time to do anything,” his grandfather said dryly. “You do not like anyone enough to fall in love with them. Which is why I have asked my solicitor to arrange an advantageous match.”

Tristan felt his stomach twist. “Garrett?”

“Yes.”

Tristan’s brow narrowed. “You went to such lengths before even sending a word to me?”

“I do not want you to refuse, my boy. I hope you do what I say this time around. If you do not, I will hand off my estate to someone else.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “You do not need to make the threat twice, Grandpapa.”

“I am being serious.”

“And I am here. Is that not enough proof that I am aware of that?” Tristan muttered.

His grandfather ignored it. “Garrett will be here tomorrow.”

Tristan’s jaw flexed as he turned around.

“Fine.”