Page 17 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Gideon was already holding a towel when Tristan stepped out of the bath. The cold water dug into his skin as the morning air settled on him, and Gideon stood by the edge of the door, a towel resting on his outstretched hand.

Tristan took it and wrapped it over his shoulders, his hair damp against the linen.

“The water was cold today,” Tristan muttered, rubbing his arms briskly.

“My apologies, my lord,” Gideon replied at once. “I’ll see that it is warmer tomorrow.”

Tristan gave a short laugh. “It is fine. Do you remember how we had nothing but freezing water in the field? At least this was clean.”

Gideon folded the used towel neatly in his hands. “We were fortunate compared to many. Most soldiers went days without washing.”

“Imagine that,” Tristan said dryly. He sat down, stretching out his legs. “And that being one of the least terrible things a man endured at the front.”

Gideon gave a small nod. “True enough. Imagine.”

Tristan finished drying his hair and set the towel aside. Gideon was ready with a crisp white shirt, holding it out with the sleeves open. Tristan pushed his arms through and let Gideon fasten the buttons.

“If there were any way to avoid Lord Gordon’s garden party,” Tristan said, his voice edged with reluctance, “I would have done it already. I’m not sure I care to stomach society’s chatter again.”

Gideon smoothed the shirt across Tristan’s shoulders before answering. “You’ll get the hang of it quickly, my lord. These things always seem worse in thought than they are in practice.”

“Perhaps,” Tristan muttered. His brow furrowed. “And Lady Vale…how do you think she’s taking it? I told her of the invitation. She seemed calm enough, but I cannot say she is thrilled.”

“That is not the impression I had,” Gideon replied, a wave of amusement crossing his face.

Tristan turned to him, one brow raised. “And what impression did you have?”

Before Gideon could answer, a knock came at the door. Tristan exhaled, gesturing for him to see to it.

Gideon crossed the room and opened the door. A footman bowed low in the doorway. “A letter for Lord Vale, delivered this morning, sir.”

“Give it here,” Gideon said, taking the sealed envelope. He shut the door behind him and returned to Tristan, holding out the letter.

Tristan broke the seal and unfolded the page. His eyes scanned the words, his jaw tightening as he read.

“It’s from Harwood,” he said after a pause.

“Lady Vale’s brother,” Gideon said carefully. “Is this about the Berkeley Project?”

Tristan nodded faintly and read further. “Apparently, he is suggesting a meeting. A gathering of all interested parties. He writes that he hopes I will attend.”

“And will you?” Gideon asked.

Tristan lowered the paper, thinking. “My mind is not settled about the project itself. It smells too much like an overreach. But attending a meeting to hear the others—” He shrugged. “It can do no harm. I will consider it.”

“That seems wise, my lord.”

Tristan looked down at the letter again, and his eyes lingered on one line. “Hmm. Surprising.”

Gideon, who was fitting cufflinks at his wrists, glanced up. “What is, my lord?”

Tristan read aloud, his tone clipped. “‘The duke’s interest in swift alliances is what brought us together in the first place. It can work again.’” He let the words hang before folding the paper.

“Well,” Gideon said after a moment, “we know one thing for certain. Mr. Harwood has a talent for persuasion.”

“Persuasion or manipulation,” Tristan muttered. He set the folded letter on his desk.

Gideon uncorked a small glass vial and dabbed cologne at Tristan’s neck and wrists. The sharp scent cut through the closed room.

“There,” Gideon said quietly. “Now you look and smell every inch the gentleman for society’s eyes.”

Tristan looked into the mirror as Gideon stepped away. His reflection stared back, composed and immaculate, though his mind felt far from calm.

“What would I ever do without you, Gideon?” he asked lightly.

Gideon chuckled. “Best not to think about that, my lord. And do not thank me. It is my work.”

“Even so,” Tristan said under his breath.

Gideon straightened the final fold of his coat. “Shall I call on Lady Vale? She may wish to prepare alongside you for the event.”

Tristan shook his head. “No. Leave her be. She should be down soon enough on her own.”

Gideon lowered his chin in understanding and stepped back. Tristan stood tall in the mirror, the weight of Harwood’s words still pressing in the back of his mind.

***

A short while later, Tristan stood at the bottom of the stairs, his heart pounding hard in his chest for some reason. This was the first formal outing where he and Eliza would appear hand in hand as husband and wife. He had gone through the motions before and done a thousand of these events.

So why was his heart beating this hard?

Was he nervous for himself or for her? Would she do well in the midst of people like him? People who seemed to be like him anyway. And worse, what if she didn’t? What if she failed every obscure and indirect test placed in her presence?

What if he did?

The sound of polished shoes against the floor made him turn. Evelyn appeared from the drawing room, her fan already in her hand, though the air was cool enough.

“Well,” she said, tapping the fan lightly against her wrist. “Do you not look solemn? You would think you were preparing for Parliament, not a garden party.”

Tristan allowed a small breath to escape. “Maybe they are the same in nature.”

Evelyn tilted her head. “I doubt Parliament would bore you nearly as much. At least there you would have the satisfaction of a quarrel. At garden parties, all you get are cakes, tea, and Margaret.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Margaret?”

“You know her,” Evelyn said, waving her fan lazily. “Gordon’s mother. She will corner you within five minutes and begin another long tale about how her roses descended from Pompeii.”

“Wait,” Tristan exhaled, letting his mind transport him to the past. “I remember her now. You could not go anywhere in London without her in the year before last.”

“That was a dreary moment of my life. Must you hold that against me?”

“So she is no longer your friend?”

“She was never my friend,” Evelyn hissed. “To call her a convenient acquaintance would still be a gross overstatement.”

Tristan gave her a dry look. “You exaggerate.”

“I do not,” Evelyn retorted. “If she were a witch, her only spell would be endless conversation.”

He chuckled softly. “If that is her power, I shall survive it.”

“You say that now,” Evelyn murmured, “but mark my words, she will drain the life out of you before the first tray of sweet tea arrives.”

Before Tristan could respond, footsteps sounded from the landing above. He turned sharply, and so did Evelyn.

Eliza stood at the top of the stairs.

Her dress was bright blue and seemed to flash down at them both. Her hair was neatly pinned behind her head, and her fan rested gingerly between her fingers. She took a pause at the top of the stairs just for a few seconds before she began to descend.

Tristan felt his chest suddenly grow tight for some reason, and his eyes narrowed.

What in God’s name was that feeling?

Why did the mere sight of Eliza make his heart suddenly skip?

Like she was reading his innermost thoughts, Evelyn leaned toward him, her voice pitched low. “That is your wife.”

“Yes,” Tristan said quietly, his gaze fixed on Eliza. “That is my wife.”

Eliza reached the last step and lifted her eyes. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

“When you come out looking like this, dear,” Evelyn said warmly, “you have no reason to apologize.”

Color rose in Eliza’s cheeks, and she smiled politely.

Tristan found his words at last. “We should leave before we are any later.”

Evelyn gave a long sigh. “Yes, yes, off you go. But remember what I said. Do not let Margaret trap you. It is how she lures men to their doom.”

Tristan’s brow arched. “And what doom is that?”

“Mind-numbing boredom,” Evelyn said with conviction. “Truly the worst fate of all.”

Eliza laughed softly, glancing between them.

Evelyn touched her fan to Eliza’s shoulder. “Enjoy yourself, my dear. I leave him in your capable hands.”

With a final wave, she swept away, leaving the two of them alone near the stairs.

Tristan offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Eliza placed her hand lightly on it. “We shall.”

They walked outside together, where the carriage waited. Tristan helped her inside first before stepping in after her. The door shut, and the wheels rolled forward.

For the better half of the next hour, the only sound between them was that of the creaky wheels. Tristan tried to keep his focus on the dry path outside the carriage, but once in a while, his eyes would wander back toward her.

On one of those occasions, she caught him looking. “You keep staring at me. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Are you certain? It would be rather embarrassing if I had something on my face and you refused to tell me.”

He shook his head. “There is nothing wrong.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as he struggled to find a way to express just how beautiful she looked. He wanted to tell her how her dress caught the light and how her hair seemed to almost shimmer. However, he forced the wrong words out instead.

“The dress looks well on you.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking down at it. “It was one of the gowns delivered last night. I was not sure which to choose, but this one seemed to call to me.”

“You chose well.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes bright, as if she was expecting more. But he had no other words. Silence stretched again.

At last, she leaned forward, the brightness in her eyes still lingering, “Do you dislike these parties so much?”

He shrugged, like he found the answer to the question rather obvious. “I find them unnecessary.”

She leaned back against the cushion. “And yet you attend.”

“I have little choice.”

Eliza tilted her head. “I should think I will be just as uncomfortable as you.”