Page 12 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

He turned on his heel and strode from the room, Gideon falling in step behind him. They walked in silence down the hallway, the sound of hammers fading into the distance.

They got to his study in less than a minute, and this time, Gideon stepped in first. Tristan removed his gloves and walked right behind him, his eyes scanning the room like it had changed since he left it.

He watched Gideon cross the room to his table and inspect the fresh batch of correspondence that must have arrived in their absence.

“Anything new for me?” Tristan asked, tugging off his gloves.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Gideon reached into the pile and drew out an envelope, sealed with a pressed floral emblem. “This arrived an hour ago.”

Tristan broke the wax and unfolded the parchment, scanning the lines carefully. His brow lifted slightly as he read to the end. “A garden party.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tristan flipped the invitation shut between his fingers. “And we are invited. Lady Vale and myself.”

“That is usually the case with such events,” Gideon said mildly.

Tristan leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk curving his mouth. “Indeed.” He tapped the edge of the invitation against his palm. “Well, then. I had better deliver the news to Lady Vale myself.”

“As you wish.”

Tristan rose to his feet one last time and made his way out of his study. If he were to inform his wife of the party they were to attend, he might as well do it now and get it over with.

Perhaps it was because of the continuous hammering on the other side of the manor, or just the mere fact that he was too deep in thought to think, something pushed him to step into Eliza’s chambers without knocking.

When he realized his mistake, it was too late. He caught her in the middle of pushing something under her bed. Something framed.

He stopped short, realizing his mistake and her actions almost at the exact same time.

“Tristan,” she greeted him, pushing away the stray strands of hair off her face. “I did not hear you come in.”

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice clipped, a sharp contrast to her nervous chuckle. “I should have announced myself.”

Her hands smoothed her gown as though nothing had happened. “It is all right.”

But his eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

Her head tilted, her lips pressing into a small smile. “Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“I—” She froze.

His eyes remained focused on her.

She exhaled almost in exasperation.

He could almost see the gears turning in her head like she was desperately trying to think of something to say. When she spoke again, her voice was a bit clearer.

“It is nothing you should concern yourself with, Tristan.”

The words reminded him too much of the excuses he had heard before, vague and dismissive. He shook his head. “That was clearly a painting.”

Her eyes widened, caught, though she still tried. “You cannot be so sure—”

“I can,” he said sharply. He stepped further inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. “And I will not leave until you pull it out.”

She lifted her chin. “You cannot stand there forever.”

A dry laugh left him. “I served on the front lines, Eliza. I have stood in mud for three days with no sleep and no fire, waiting for an enemy charge. Do not think I lack patience. I will wait here for as long as it takes.”

The air between them tightened. She saw it, he knew she did, for her shoulders slumped. At last, with a reluctant breath, she bent down and drew the canvas from beneath the bed.

Tristan’s chest went still when his eyes settled on it.

The painting was damaged, the frame cracked, but the restoration she had attempted … it was enough to bring the woman’s likeness forward again. The colors in the canvas gave life to the face of the woman in the painting. A face he had not seen in years.

His mother.

Her green eyes looked back at him, and along with shock, he felt a deep wave of despair settle at the very bottom of his stomach.

Eliza looked at him, cautious. “I—”

“Where did you get this?” His voice cut through the chamber, rougher than he intended.

She swallowed. “Do not be angry. I only—”

“Do not tell me not to be angry,” he snapped. His hand tightened against his sleeve. “Answer my question.”

Her mouth trembled as she spoke. “I found it in the attic when I was exploring. It was left under a sheet, forgotten. Mrs. Yarrow said no one had touched it in years and that it would not matter if I—”

“I had no idea Mrs. Yarrow was in charge of the paintings in the manor,” he said coldly.

“She is the housekeeper,” Eliza tried, her voice lifting slightly. “So technically—”

“Do not get technical with me.” His tone cut hers away.

She stared back at him, frustration flaring in her eyes now. “What is the great matter? I am only trying to restore it. To bring it back to its original state. I am not destroying it, Tristan.”

“That is not the point,” he said through clenched teeth. “The point is, you chose to do this without a word. Without permission.”

She drew herself taller. “I am sorry, but in case you have not noticed, there is nothing else to do in this place. Nothing. I was only trying to give myself a purpose.”

“Then find another purpose,” he returned quickly. “Read, sew, walk the gardens. Do not go about taking things that are not yours to handle.”

Her eyes burned at him. “I did not know it was forbidden. If I had, I would have asked. I can take it back—”

“It is too late,” he said flatly.

Her lips parted in disbelief. “Too late? It is only paint. I can—”

“Please stop.”

“I will, when you stop trying to bite my head off over this. Like I said, it is just a pai—”

“Enough!” His voice cracked through the chamber, the word louder than he meant, final and sharp.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy as stone. She lowered her gaze, her hands trembling slightly against her gown.

Tristan drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. “Please forgive me. That was completely uncalled for.”

Eliza said nothing, but he could tell she had a lot to say just by the look on her face. The way her eyes bore into him seemed to say everything she couldn’t.

Everything she didn’t want to.

“I ...” He trailed off, unable to take his eyes off the portrait. It was like he was staring at a portal through Eliza’s hand.

He cleared his throat again. “I … will take a break. For now.”

She said nothing, and he could tell she wanted to.

“I apologize once again. Please excuse me,” he stated, then turned around to leave. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked out of the room, but he didn’t turn back to confirm them. Not once.

The hammering sound resumed as he made his way down the hallway. This time, though, he could tune it out because nothing else occupied his thoughts except the image of his mother.