Page 5 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The soft knock at her chamber door drew Eliza from her quiet thoughts as a maid stepped in with a small curtsey. “Lady Rivers is asking for you, Miss Harwood. She is waiting in the parlor.”

Before Eliza could respond, Clara rushed past the maid and hurried across the room.

“Eliza, I came as soon as I heard,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement. However, the moment she caught sight of Eliza lying upon the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her expression faltered.

“What is this?” Clara asked, walking towards her and sitting gently on the side of the mattress. “You look like you had a dog that died. What happened?”

Eliza lifted a hand to the maid who still stood by the door. “Thank you, Ruth. That will be all for now.”

Ruth curtsied again and stepped out, closing the door softly behind her. Silence hung between them for a moment, and Eliza felt herself unable to breathe for almost a full minute. Then she turned to Clara, her hazel eyes heavy with unease.

“It is this wedding,” she whispered. “I do not have any good feelings about it.”

Clara blinked, taken aback. “You mean … the wedding slated for tomorrow?”

“Yes, that very one.” Eliza pushed herself even more upright and pulled her knees close, clasping her arms around them.

Clara studied her for a long moment, then sat back with a sigh. “Why now, Eliza? Why are you troubled? You have had days to prepare yourself, have you not?”

“I have always been troubled,” Eliza replied, her voice sharper than she intended.

“From the first moment Marcus spoke of this arrangement, I feared it. I suppose I convinced myself it was one of his passing whims, and that it would vanish as quickly as it appeared, but it has not. It has only grown more real with each passing hour.”

Clara nodded thoughtfully, her brown curls bouncing as she did so. “Your brother never pursues anything unless it will benefit him greatly. That is no secret.”

Eliza gave a humorless laugh. “And what benefit does he stand to gain from forcing me into marriage with a stranger?”

Clara raised her brows. “The benefit, dearest, is that you are no longer his burden. Once you are wed, your care falls into another man’s hands, and your brother is free.”

Eliza’s gaze fell to her lap. “It feels as though it is more than that. There is something else. Something he has not confessed. I do not know, Clara. I can just feel it.”

Clara waved a hand dismissively, though her eyes softened. “Do not work yourself into knots. This is a wedding, Eliza, not a funeral.”

“There is that, too,” Eliza murmured, looking toward the windows. “I do not even know what the Earl of Evermere looks like. For all I know, he is a short, hairy man kept indoors and permitted to step outside only once a fortnight.”

Clara pressed her lips together to contain a laugh. “A little less fantasy and a little more sense, if you please. Life is not a gothic novel.”

Eliza turned her head back, her hazel eyes still shining with unshed tears.

“You know, I always thought I would marry a man I loved. Truly loved. I thought my heart would decide such a thing, but now, the dream is gone, all thanks to my brother. Every choice in my life has been taken from me and placed in the hands of men who believe themselves entitled to command me. First my father, then Marcus, now this earl. And what of me? What of my desires?”

Her voice broke at the end, and she pressed a hand against her mouth as though to push back the tears threatening to escape.

Clara leaned forward, sliding her arms around her shoulders and drawing her close. “Oh, Eliza. You cannot think of it that way, or you will drive yourself mad.”

“I cannot help it,” Eliza whispered against her friend’s shoulder. “My parents always said they would remain with me in spirit, that I would never be alone. Yet I feel abandoned.”

“Now, that is where you are wrong,” Clara said, stroking her back soothingly. “You are never alone, because you have me. And perhaps, just perhaps, this earl is not the monster you fear. It may not be what you want to hear, but people surprise you.”

Eliza pulled back and shook her head, her voice growing once more.

“But that is just it. My life, my future, is now reduced to a bunch of perhaps. Perhaps he will be kind. Perhaps he will not despise me. Perhaps I will not regret this union for the rest of my days. I am to marry a man I have never met, and all I can do is cling to foolish hope.”

Clara smiled softly, wiping the corner of Eliza’s eye with her thumb. “Well, sometimes foolish hope is enough. It holds you firmly until reality becomes kinder.”

Eliza let out a trembling laugh. “You always know how to soothe me, Clara, do you not?”

Clara leaned back, resting her hands in her lap with an exaggerated air of command. “Yes. And this leads to my next decree.

Eliza narrowed her eyes. “And what is that?”

Clara cleared her throat. “You shall not fret tonight. You shall not cry. You will allow me to stay with you, and tomorrow, you will walk down that aisle with your head held high. And if this earl dares to disappoint you, I shall come to Evermere myself and lecture him until he begs for forgiveness. I do not know where it is, but I am certain I can find it.”

Eliza’s lips curved into a faint smile despite herself. “I am certain you will terrify him.”

“Good. Let him be terrified. A husband ought to respect his wife’s friends.”

Eliza reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Clara. Truly. I do not know what I would do without you.”

Clara squeezed back. “And you never shall. Not while I draw breath.”

With those words, Eliza pulled Clara into another hug, this time around, letting her friend’s soothing embrace provide relief, even if only for a moment.

Eliza still clung to Clara’s embrace, when the door burst open without a knock, and Marcus stood in the doorway, his eyes sharp with disapproval.

“Why in heaven’s name are you still lying about?” he demanded, his tone carrying more accusation than inquiry. “You ought to be sorting through every gown in your closet, by now, Eliza. You are to be a bride tomorrow, not a sloth.”

Eliza stiffened, but Clara rose from the bed at once, her expression calm. “She is just about to begin, Mr. Harwood. There is no need to be so loud.”

Marcus turned his gaze to Clara, narrowing his eyes. “If you wish to remain in this house as a friend to my sister, then advise her properly. This marriage cannot fail, and yet it very well will if she continues to sulk like a child.”

Clara stepped closer to him, folding her arms. “We both know that you are eager to rid yourself of Eliza. You may drop the pretense of concern. No one here is deceived by it.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched, and he leaned forward to retort, but Clara acted swiftly. With a snap of her wrist, she grabbed the door and slammed it in his face. Eliza’s eyes widened as the sound echoed through the room.

For a moment, only silence followed. Then Marcus’s voice rang from the other side, sharp and furious.

“Open this door at once, Clara, or you shall regret it.”

Clara bent close to the wood, her lips parting gently. “You must forgive me, Mr. Harwood. Your sister is not in a state to entertain you just now. She has her monthly visitor. I mean, unless of course you wish to come in and see for yourself.”

The pause on the other side was heavy and uncomfortable. Then Marcus’s voice returned, lower and clipped.

“No.”

Clara and Eliza exchanged looks as his footsteps retreated down the hall. After he was gone, Eliza pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened to burst free. Clara straightened, her face smug with triumph.

“You are outrageous,” Eliza whispered, and then the two of them dissolved into a quiet fit of laughter.

When at last they calmed, Clara grew solemn again. She returned to the bed and sat beside Eliza. “He is insufferable, but he is also right in this one matter. You must pack, dear. There is no more time to waste.”

Eliza nodded reluctantly. Together they began pulling gowns from the small wardrobe, laying them across the bed. Most were older and duller than when they were bought, but Clara moved through them with determination.

As they worked, Clara’s gaze caught the stack of canvases set upon the table. She reached for one, holding it up, and her lips parted in awe.

“Eliza,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “These are extraordinary. Good God! Look at the color, the life in every stroke. They are beautiful.”

Eliza’s hands faltered as she folded a gown. “I am glad you think so. Those may well be my last ones for some time.”

Clara’s head snapped toward her. “Why would you ever say that?”

“Because it is obvious,” Eliza replied softly, her gaze fixed on the bundle of fabric in her lap. “The Earl of Evermere ... whoever he may be, will not be tolerant of a wife who paints. Such things are frivolous in his world. So my brushes will be put away once I cross that threshold.”

Clara set the canvas down, placed her hands upon her hips, and shook her head. “It amazes me how you imagine you have this man fully pegged when you do not even know the shape of his nose or even the sound of his voice. You are making him into a tyrant before you have even met him.”

Eliza lifted her chin. “I must be ready for what awaits me.”

Clara leaned down until their eyes were level.

Her voice was firm. “What you must be ready for is to refuse to surrender yourself entirely. What you create with your hand is a gift. You breathe life into canvas, Eliza, and it would be a sin to abandon it. Whatever husband you gain, whatever new household you enter, you cannot give that up. You must not.”

Eliza’s lips trembled, and she reached to brush her fingers over the edge of one painting, a soft depiction of the house as it had once been. “You make it sound so simple.”

Clara smiled gently. “It is not simple. But it is necessary. Promise me you will not forsake this part of yourself.”

Eliza lowered her gaze, then nodded slowly. “I will try.”

“That is the spirit,” Clara declared, her tone brightening as she reached for another gown. “We shall make certain you arrive at Evermere as yourself, not as the hollow shell Marcus would have you be.”

Eliza drew a long breath, then bent to the task once more.

***

The morning arrived far more swiftly than Eliza had hoped. It was Clara who stirred her from bed, speaking in that bright, practical tone she always used when she knew Eliza’s nerves were stretched thin.

“Up, dearest,” Clara urged gently. “We have work to do.”

Eliza obeyed, though her body felt heavy, her mind slower still. Clara opened the wardrobe and reached for the gown folded carefully inside. Eliza gestured toward it with a stiff hand.

“It was my mother’s,” she said softly. “Marcus had it altered for me.”

Clara lifted it free, letting the light catch its pale fabric. “Well, that may be the first good decision your brother has made in years.”

Eliza remained quiet as Clara helped fasten the dress at the back.

“Are you ready?” Clara eventually asked when she was done.

Eliza nodded.

“Good,” Clara muttered.

They left the room together, Clara holding her arm as though she feared Eliza might collapse before the day had even begun. Marcus waited in the hall below, his face alive with satisfaction.

“Ah, finally,” he said, looking her up and down as if inspecting a prize. “Everything is in order. The wedding will be held in a small parish in London. It will be quick, efficient, and without delay.”

Eliza said nothing. Her lips were frozen, and her chest felt tight. Marcus continued to talk excitedly about the wedding arrangements as they climbed into the carriage and set off, but Eliza’s mind was elsewhere.

Anywhere but the present. Clara seemed to notice her friend’s despair and leaned closer, amid Marcus’s speech.

“It will be all right,” Clara whispered, close to her ear. “You will see. It will be all right.”

Eliza wanted to believe her, but numbness settled deeper. She had never seen the man she was about to marry. She had never been asked if this was what she wanted. The bells of the church tolled as they arrived, and Eliza felt her heart beat like an angry prisoner.

Inside, the little parish was silent. Clara walked by her side, whispering words of encouragement, though Eliza heard little of it. Her eyes lifted and met the gaze of the man waiting at the altar.

Oh.

He was the furthest thing from a hairy monster. No, the man standing before her was in no way a beast. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked like he stepped out of a romance novel. His face was not just handsome. It was strikingly handsome, and his tense jaw looked like it could cut glass.

However, it was his grey eyes that held her. They looked intense, yet softened by something she could not name. For one suspended moment, she forgot the walls around her, forgot Marcus and everything else.

Everything but those eyes.

Then he looked away, turning aside as if she had already ceased to exist.

The ceremony was brief, and she went through it almost absentmindedly. He did not look at her again throughout the event. Not even once.

When the clergyman beckoned them toward the register for their signatures, he stepped up first and signed, the wave of his hand smooth against the paper. He set the quill down and moved aside, waiting for her to step forward.

Her legs carried her, though her mind felt far away. She bent over the page, and her fingers closed around the quill. She dipped it in ink and tried to steady her hand.

It shook.

Her vision blurred suddenly, and for some reason, everything came crashing down on her. This was her life. A life she had not chosen, bound and sealed in one line of ink.

Was this really it? Was this what it all came down to?

Her hand trembled harder, and she wondered, just for a moment, if she could even bring herself to write her name. Then she felt him reach forward and cover her hand with his.

Her heart dropped.

The touch sent a jolt through her body, and electricity raced from her hand to her heart. She looked up at him, startled, and found his gaze settled on her again.

He narrowed his eyes and gave her the briefest nod. “I know.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed, then lowered her eyes. With his hand firm around hers, she pressed the quill to the page and wrote her name. Each letter trembled, but when she finished, she knew there was no undoing it.

It was done.

The book was closed, and the ceremony was complete.

There was no going back now.