Page 114 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Eliza swallowed. “What?”

“It was a child born in secrecy. The matter was kept quiet with a lot of money, of course, and nothing was ever recorded. The child did not live past a year.”

Eliza’s breath stilled.

The duke looked away, his voice breaking. “I thought it was buried forever. But your brother somehow managed to findevidence. He is now holding it over Tristan’s head in order to force him to go ahead with the Berkeley Project.”

Eliza felt the room tilt around her. Her hands gripped the edge of a chair to steady herself. She had feared betrayal, but not like this. The cruelty of secrets, the rot of shame passed down like a curse.

Yet as the shock rolled through her, another truth struck harder. It was not Tristan’s fault. None of this was his sin. Her chest ached for him.

“Does Tristan know all of this?” she asked.

The duke closed his eyes. “He does now. And it has wounded him deeper than I can measure.”

Eliza pressed her hands together tightly, as if the pressure might hold her steady. “Then I must go to him. I cannot let him bear this alone.”

The duke gave a small nod. “Go.”

She left the study at once, her steps carrying her up flight after flight until she reached the hallway that led to his chambers. She knocked on the door once, and when he did not respond, she slammed her eyes shut and pushed it open anyway.

He was still. His shoulders hunched, his hands braced against the frame. His face was pale, hollow. The sight of him pierced her.

“Tristan,” she whispered.

He did not turn. “You should not be here.”

She stepped closer, her voice low but firm. “Then where should I be? Away from you, when you are suffering? Never.”

His hand curled against the wooden frame of his bed. “You do not understand.”

“The duke already told me everything.”

Tristan nodded. “Oh, well, it is good that he is quick to speak now.”

“You cannot blame him for keeping quiet all these years.”

“Can I not?” Tristan asked, throwing her a glare. “My very name may be false, Eliza, I have lived on lies. How can you stand beside me when I am nothing more than a shadow of dishonor?”

She came nearer, until she stood at his side. “Do not say that. You are not a lie.”

His eyes flicked to her, hollow with doubt. “I was not a straight heir, Eliza. I could have lived my life knowing I had a brother, but I did not. My life might have as well been a giant falsehood.”

Eliza swallowed, her throat tight. She reached for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his.

“You are the man who protects his land when all others seek to strip it. You are the man who sees his people as more than numbers. You are the man who chose to honor me, even when our marriage began in chains. Legacy is not only blood. It is choice as well, and I have never seen a man choose to be so relentlessly good as you have, Tristan.”

His breath caught. He searched her face, as if afraid to believe. “And you … you can still believe in me? Even now?”

Her eyes glistened, but her voice did not falter. “I do not merely believe in you. I love you. And nothing Marcus or anyone else uncovers will change that.”

The silence that followed was deep, heavy, but not cold. He lifted her hand, holding it tight as though it was the only anchor leftto him. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers.

Eliza closed her eyes. “You are not the lie, Tristan,” she whispered. “You are the choice.”

At last, his arms came around her. She pressed against him, holding him as though she could shield him from every shadow.

Chapter 30