Page 54 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

When she entered the dining room, Tristan was already at the table. He stood briefly in greeting before they both sat, the smell of warm bread and fresh butter lingering between them.

“Where is Aunt Evelyn?” Eliza asked, glancing at the empty chair beside them.

Tristan reached for his cup. “She has chosen to take her breakfast in her chambers. She said she is not in the mood to use her mouth.”

Eliza arched her brow. “That is unusual. She never turns down an opportunity to speak.”

“Then whatever troubles her must be serious indeed,” Tristan replied.

Eliza smiled faintly. “That is fair.”

She took a sip of her tea, then turned back to him with suppressed excitement. “Clara has written. She will visit this week. Perhaps any day now.”

Tristan nodded, cutting a piece of toast. “I look forward to meeting her.”

Eliza’s fingers tightened around her fork. She thought of shelving the thought in her mind, but at the very last minute, she decided against it.

“And will any of your friends come to Evermere? Surely you must have a few who are close to you,” she asked, looking at him.

Tristan took another bite of his toast. “You know Gideon. He is my friend.”

Eliza laughed. “He is also your valet.”

“That cannot be helped.”

Her laughter rose again. “The point is, I know very little about you. One way to know a person is through those who see him most clearly.”

Tristan set down his cup, his eyes narrowing faintly. “You are asking about my friends?”

Eliza lifted her shoulders. “Is it not the best way to get the full picture of someone’s character? Through the people who study the canvas?”

He leaned back, his tone dry. “You did not just compare me to one of your portraits.”

Eliza hid a smile. “Should that not be a compliment?”

“Not to me,” he said evenly.

She studied him a moment longer. “I cannot tell if you are being serious.”

“I am,” Tristan replied, his gaze falling briefly to his plate. “My mother used to call me that. A canvas. She painted often, like you.”

The playfulness immediately disappeared. Eliza set her fork down, sensing the change in his voice.

“I see,” she said softly.

He swallowed, as if forcing the words.

Eliza exhaled. “If you do not wish to speak about this matter—”

Tristan shook her head. “Not at all.”

“All right,” she responded.

He drew a breath and pressed on. “I was only searching for the right way to say it.”

“Say what?” she asked, her voice etched with nothing but utter curiosity.

Tristan grabbed a glass of water. “My father did not care for her painting. He mocked it, dismissed it, sometimes, he even forbade her altogether. He made it difficult for her to find pride in her work.”