Page 113 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The carriage door opened, and the duke stepped down first, his face pale and his mouth pressed into a hard line. Then Tristan followed, his shoulders rigid and his steps heavy. His eyes liftedonly once, catching hers across the distance, and then fell away at once. He looked as though the life had been drained from him.

“You are back,” she said, her voice faint.

Tristan did not pause. He moved past her, his gaze fixed on the staircase, and his jaw tight. He vanished up the steps without a single word.

Eliza’s chest turned cold, and the air around her seemed to grow thicker with silence. She turned sharply to the duke.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice thin but urgent. “What happened?”

The duke’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked older than she had ever seen him, shadows deep beneath his eyes. After a while, he lowered his head and walked slowly toward his study.

Eliza’s pulse raced faster as several thoughts and questions pulsed through her mind. Was this it? Was this the end of her stay at Evermere? Had Marcus eventually managed to poison the last of the well?

She gathered the skirts of her dress and hurried up the stairs. Tristan’s chamber door loomed at the end of the hall. She raised her hand and knocked.

“Tristan?” she called softly.

No answer.

“Tristan, are you there?”

Still no answer.

“Please, let me in. What has happened?”

Only more silence followed her words.

Her hand trembled against the wood. She knocked again, firmer. “Tristan. Speak to me. Please, do not shut me out. What happened with Marcus?”

The door eventually opened, and her heart skipped, but it was not Tristan who appeared. Mr. Hale stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him.

Eliza grew startled. “Mr. Hale—please, tell me. What has happened to him? What was said at the gathering?”

The valet bowed his head slightly. “My lady, it is not my place to speak of it.”

Her desperation flared. “Not your place? Then whose? Tristan is breaking before my eyes, and you expect me to stand aside?”

Mr. Hale’s eyes met hers, steady but pained. “He must be the one to tell you, my lady. Not me. Forgive me.”

Her mouth opened to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. He would not bend. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips tight. Without another word, she turned and rushed back down the stairs.

The duke’s study door was slightly open. She pushed it all the way open and stepped in, catching her breath as she closed the door.

He was there, seated behind the desk, though his frame slumped against the chair. Fresh logs burned low in the fireplace, throwing light across his lined face. She had never seen him this distraught before.

What in God’s name happened at that event?

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steadying with effort. “I beg you, do not keep me blind. Tell me what has happened. Did Marcus do something?”

She stuttered as the second question escaped her lips. “DidIdo something?”

He did not look up at once. He clasped his hands together, the knuckles stark white. Finally, he drew a slow breath.

“Eliza,” he started, his voice heavy. “You deserve to know. Perhaps you are the only one who can bear this with him.”

Her heart pounded. “Know what?”

The duke’s eyes lifted to hers, shadowed with shame. “Years ago, Tristan’s father … my son … strayed. He had an affair with a maid in this very house and a child came of it.”