Page 112 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Clara swayed with the dress, pretending to admire herself in an invisible mirror. “Perhaps … good enough for a compliment.”

Eliza’s lips parted, and then the answer struck her. “Clara,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Is this for Mr. Hale?”

Color rushed into Clara’s cheeks. “Absolutely not.”

Eliza leaned forward. “It is. You are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Eliza said with a laugh. “I have never seen you this way. It is rare to see you so smitten.”

Clara rolled her eyes, trying to fold the gown back into its place. “It is nothing. He is only … pleasant company. He has invited me for a walk this evening.”

Eliza raised a brow. “Another one?”

Clara shot her a glare. “Well, I do not think there is any kind of limit on how many walks one can have, now, do you?”

Eliza tried and failed to keep her smile back. “I suppose there is not.”

Clara pointed a finger at her. “Say it outright. Say whatever you are holding back. I can see it written across your face.”

Eliza laughed, shaking her head. “I will say nothing. Only that all of this clearly matters to you. That is enough.”

Clara exhaled, half annoyed, half shy. “It does not. It is just … he listens. And he does not try to impress me, which is more than I can say for half the men in London.”

“Then perhaps you should allow your heart to open,” Eliza said gently. “Let the current carry you where it may.”

Clara groaned. “Now you sound like some poet.”

“Perhaps I am,” Eliza said, a smile tugging at her lips.

The two of them laughed then, the weight between them easing for the first time that morning. Clara twirled the dress again, pretending to curtsy, while Eliza sat back and shook her head. For one fleeting moment, her heart felt light.

Then the door burst open and a maid hurried in, her cheeks flushed and her voice breathless.

“My lady,” she said, eyes darting between them. “His Grace and Lord Vale have returned.”

Eliza froze. Tristan.

Her brush slipped from the table to the floor with a soft clink, and she rose slowly, her pulse rushing in her ears. Clara straightened as well, the gown forgotten in her hands.

“They are back,” Eliza whispered. She felt the words as both relief and dread.

Clara touched her arm. “Then go. I shall wait here for you.”

“Are you certain you do not want to come?”

“Very,” Clara responded, her voice sharp.

Eliza nodded, her chest tightening. She turned toward the door, her steps quickening.

The morning light no longer felt calm. It pressed at her back, urging her forward.

Eliza’s slippers tapped too fast against the wooden floor as she hurried down the hallway. Her breath came tight and shallow. She had imagined this moment since the maid’s announcement.

She had pictured Tristan stepping through the doors, proud and steady, bringing with him the kind of strength that lit the halls of Evermere. She had thought she would see him smile, perhaps tired but victorious.

But when she reached the entrance, her heart staggered.