Page 6 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The carriage moved with an air of finality.

One Tristan could feel more than the bumpy road itself.

His back was against the cushion, pressing against a newspaper he had saved for later.

Now he couldn’t even bring himself to open and read because he had underestimated just how awkward the ride home would actually be.

Across from him sat Eliza Harwood.

No,

Eliza Vale now.

His wife.

The word did not fit yet, not in his mind, nor in the air between them. He found himself studying her when she turned her face toward the window. Ms. Ashcombe had said she was beautiful. That was true.

But this woman was something more. She looked like something he’d seen as a representation of beauty from a troubled painter before. The way her curls fell on both sides of her face. Her hazel eyes and the way they shone. No, she wasn’t just beautiful.

She was ethereal.

Her eyes held composure and sorrow at the same time.

That was what struck him. She was not a bride beaming with joy.

She was calm, but calm in the way one endures a burden.

He knew the look. He had seen it in soldiers who accepted orders that might cost them their lives.

He probably had the same look on his face at the moment.

He thought back to the church and her brother. He remembered the way he had treated her like a trinket passed from one hand to another. No gentle farewell, no word of care.

It had angered him in the moment, though he had said nothing. He may be her husband, but it was far from his place to interfere in issues of family.

Then she looked up at him, completely catching him off guard, and his thoughts froze.

He dropped his eyes to the floor and cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I do not know why I was—”

“It is fine,” she said at once. Her voice was calm, almost cold. She folded her hands in her lap. “I am your wife, am I not? A husband may look at his wife if he chooses.”

He let out a quiet breath. “Still, I did not mean to stare. Only … I thought of how strange this must feel to you. It does to me as well. Yet in the end—”

“Duty outweighs love,” she said, finishing the thought before he could.

He gave a small nod. “That is exactly what I was going to say.”

Another wave of silence spread once more, and she turned back to the window. He remained where he was and let the sound of the wheels fill the space between them.

After a few more minutes of gentle contemplation, he reached behind him and finally drew out the folded newspaper.

He spread it open across his knee, glad to put his eyes to something other than her sorrow.

He read in silence for a time, the words on the page giving him some measure of steadiness if nothing else.

His eyes caught on a headline, and his eyes narrowed.

“A man by the name of David Fletcher was arrested,” he said aloud, his tone even. “It seems he swindled some old noblemen of their money. He persuaded them to invest in businesses that did not exist.”

Eliza’s eyes shifted toward him. “Do you read the news often?”

“I do,” he replied, glancing at her. “It reminds me of what is beyond my own life and gives me an appreciation for what I have.”

She looked down at her hands. “I have read the news before. Too often, it fills me with sadness. So I avoid it. One cannot mourn every wicked act of men and still keep their strength.”

He gave a slight nod. “Perhaps. But I find the reminder useful.” He lowered his eyes back to the page.

The carriage rolled on, and he read in silence again until one name leaped from the paper. He paused, his brow furrowed.

“It says here that Fletcher was once in company with a disbarred solicitor. A Marcus Harwood,” he said slowly.

When he lifted his eyes, he caught the flicker of change in hers. Her lips pressed tightly together before she spoke. “Yes,” she said at last. “That is my brother.”

“Are you certain?”

“That sounds well enough like him,” she responded. “I am not surprised he is named among such men. Of course, Marcus would choose his friends in that way.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing more. He folded the newspaper and set it aside.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. He turned his face toward the window, watching fields pass, though he saw none of them.

The name of Harwood lingered in his mind, attached now to shameful company. He swallowed the thought, unwilling to press her further. She had spoken with such bitterness that no more words were needed.

After some time, he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with all the possible excitement he could offer. “In an hour or two, we should be in Evermere.”

“I see,” she said, her tone low and her gaze still fixed on her lap.

For a moment, he felt her eyes on him. He turned slightly and their gazes crossed. It lasted only a second before they both looked away again, each as if caught doing something forbidden. His shoulders tensed, and he knew she felt the discomfort as much as he did.

Yet he could not stop himself from watching her again. The more he told himself to look away, the more his eyes returned to her. To the delicate slope of her face, to the stillness of her figure, to the strange sorrow that seemed to rest over her like a veil.

He leaned back into the carriage seat, closing his eyes for a moment as though rest might calm him. But when he opened them, she was still there, magnificent as before.

They rode on in silence, two souls bound together by duty, each pretending not to see the other, while unable to look away.

The carriage rolled through the gates of Evermere Manor long after nightfall.

Lanterns glowed faintly along the drive, casting long shadows over the gravel.

When the wheels at last halted, Tristan stepped out first before offering his hand to Eliza.

Her fingers were cool and light, as though she gave them out of necessity.

“Welcome home, my lord, my lady,” the butler intoned as the doors swung open. The staff lined the hall in neat rows, their eyes cautious.

“Dinner,” Tristan ordered, his voice low but firm.

They were led into the dining hall where a fire burned in the fireplace. The warmth was soothing as servants placed plates before them and stepped back. Tristan took his seat at the long table, across from Eliza, who placed her napkin in her lap before lifting her fork.

“Your companion at the wedding,” he said, “Clara. She is a friend of long standing?”

Eliza cut her meat into small pieces. “Yes. Since childhood. She has always been steadfast.”

“Then you value her.”

“Yes.”

The short answers tightened the air further, but he tried again. “And your brother? He seemed … eager to see this union completed.”

Her fork stilled. “Marcus concerns himself with many things. Too many, if I may say.”

He gave a faint smile. “Present, then, but not always pleasant?”

She looked up, the candlelight catching her hazel eyes. “Something of the sort.”

For a moment, their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them, but Eliza looked away first. She sipped her wine with composure, though her hand trembled faintly. Just like it had right before she signed that register.

The silence returned, and he lifted his own glass, holding it a moment before drinking. “Perhaps, in time, you will grow more at ease here.”

She set her glass down carefully. “Time will tell, my lord.”

The words were polite, yet carried weight. He felt it sharply. Their meal passed with little else said, and soon, they were finished.

Their first meal together, and it was as uneventful as anything.

At last, he rose. “Come. I will show you to your rooms.”

She followed in silence, her hand light upon his arm. Their steps moved along the carpeted hallway until they stopped before a door. He opened the door to a prepared chamber and gestured inside.

“This will be yours. If there is anything you require, summon the maid. She will see to it.”

She curtsied faintly. “Thank you.”

“Rest well, Lady Vale,” he said, gently bowing his head and turning away.

The hallway stretched before him as the door clicked shut.

He longed only for solitude, for the weight of the day to ease. Yet just as he neared his chamber, a footman appeared, bowing low.

“My lord, forgive me. His Grace requests your presence in his study.”

“It is late,” Tristan said. “Tell him I will speak with him in the morning.”

The footman hesitated. “I am afraid, my lord, he insists. He said it cannot wait.”

Tristan drew a breath, then exhaled in resignation. “Very well.” He turned back and strode toward the study.

The duke sat behind a wide oak desk, the fire at his side casting shadows over his lined face. “You are wed,” he said. “The matter is settled, and well done. You have secured your future, Tristan. You are my heir, not only by blood but by right.”

Tristan inclined his head. “I thank you, Grandfather. But the hour is late, and I should like to rest.”

“One moment,” the duke said. “There is something I wish to show you. You have resisted a valet long enough, and tonight, I will end that.”

Tristan exhaled. Evelyn.

“It is about time,” the duke continued.

Tristan’s jaw tightened. “I have managed on my own for quite a while, Grandpapa. I do not require a valet.”

“Perhaps you will reconsider once you meet the man I have engaged.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “You have engaged one already?”

The duke’s mouth curved in satisfaction. “Indeed.”

The door opened, and footsteps crossed the floor. Tristan didn’t turn at first and waited for the owner of the footsteps to come into view.

“Is this the proud Earl of Evermere I see before me, still bristling against the help of others?” The familiarly loud voice rang out behind him, and he swallowed.

No.

He turned sharply. “Gideon?”

There he stood, Gideon Hale, his comrade from the army, a tall, red-haired man with a domineering presence and that signature sly smile on his face.

Tristan crossed the room in three strides and seized him in a firm embrace. “By God, it is you. What in Heaven’s name brings you here?”

Gideon laughed after Tristan broke the embrace. “I am afraid it is a rather boring story.”

“I would like to hear it,” Tristan insisted.

Gideon exhaled. “Oh well, after the war, fortune did not favor me. I tried to find a place, but doors shut faster than they opened. Then came this offer. It was either serve as valet to an earl, or muck out pigs in Essex. And you know, my lord, I was never fit for farming.”

Tristan struck his shoulder with a laugh. “Do not call me ‘my lord.’ You called me Tristan in the thick of battle, and I would not have it any other way.”

“But this is not the battlefield,” Gideon said with a smirk. “This is Evermere. You wear a title now.”

Tristan sighed. “That shouldn’t mean anything.”

“It should. That is how the world works, my lord.”

Tristan was about to protest again when the duke’s voice cut in, “Well? Will you still refuse a valet when one of your closest companions stands ready?”

Tristan looked from his grandfather to Gideon and felt the ground shift beneath him. A valet had always been unnecessary in his eyes, a burden upon his independence. Yet to send Gideon away would feel like betrayal.

“You will stay?” Tristan asked.

“If you will have me,” Gideon replied. “Though I must say, it will be strange pressing your coats instead of watching your back.”

Tristan gave a low chuckle. “I trust you with both.”

The duke leaned back with satisfaction. “Then it is settled. Evermere will have order, and you will have a man you trust at your side.”

Tristan felt the weight of the change settle upon him. Marriage, Evermere, and now Gideon within these walls. Everything he had known was shifting, and no matter how hard he wanted, he could not turn it back.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I will not refuse him.”

The duke nodded once. “Good. You are learning at last.”

Tristan looked at Gideon, the faintest of smiles breaking across his face. “Welcome to Evermere, old friend.”