Page 52 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Above them, the driver shouted an apology. “Forgive me, my lord, my lady! A rock in the road I did not see. Are you well?”

Tristan’s voice was steady. “We are fine.” Then he glanced down at her, his arms still firm around her. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Eliza whispered, though her voice came out as more breathing than actual sound. “I am.”

For what must have been as long as a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Then, almost like she grew aware of their positions as the carriage continued to move, Eliza snapped out of her momentary reverie. She cleared her throat immediately and scooted back. She could still feel his eyes on her as she settled properly against the cushion.

“Thank you for that,” she said, unable to meet his gaze directly.

He shrugged, the dismissal in his voice evident. “It was nothing.”

Well, if it was nothing, why was he still staring at her? She could still feel his eyes boring into her skin like a knife on paper.

His eyes then shifted down to the floor of the carriage. “Is that your book?”

Eliza followed his eyes and reached down and took the book she was holding earlier. It must have slipped from her lap in the commotion. She cleared her throat and lifted it quickly, holding it against her chest.

“Yes. It was given to me by one of the women at the party.”

Tristan squinted at the cover. “I did not know you enjoyed novels.”

“I am full of surprises,” she said, her tone playful. “If you are patient, you may uncover me completely.”

For a moment, his composure wavered. “I should like that very much,” he said, his voice quieter. Then, with a slight cough, he nodded at the book. “But first, I must contend that Mrs. Radcliffe is overrated.”

Her jaw fell open. “You cannot mean that. You truly cannot.”

“I do mean it,” Tristan responded with a straight face.

Eliza pressed her hand to her chest in mock horror. “When I was growing up, I devoured her novels. TheRomance of the Forest,The Italian, and, of course,The Mysteries of Udolpho. They shaped my youth.”

“I read some of them as well,” Tristan said. “But I never found the appeal. I thought they were too fanciful. There were too many shadows. It just became rather unrealistic for me.”

She folded her arms, a smile now tugging at her lips. “And just what kind of books did you prefer?”

He exhaled. “I prefer Henry Fielding. His stories are more rooted in realism.”

Eliza burst into laughter, and for almost a minute, she didn’t stop.

“What?” He asked, his voice gentle.

“Only a man like you would prefer Fielding over Radcliffe.”

“It was what I enjoyed growing up,” Tristan said simply.

She leaned toward him, her eyes gleaming. “No wonder you became…” She stopped, almost like she caught herself abruptly.

He turned his head. “Became what?”

“Never mind.”

“No,” Tristan insisted. “I would like to hear it. Became what?”

Eliza exhaled. “A brooder.”

His eyes widened slightly. “A brooder?”

“Yes,” she said, her lips twitching. “You brood a great deal. Do you know it was the first thought I had when I saw you for the very first time?”