Page 86 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The horses snorted, the driver gave a click of his tongue, and the carriage rolled forward. The inn and its people faded into the distance.

Eliza turned her eyes to the window and watched the fields sweep past. Some of the villagers were up already and were moving about their morning work. The smell of damp earth hung in the air, and she traced the glass lightly with her finger, her thoughts restless.

Across from her, Tristan broke the silence. “There is no way Mr. Harwood did not know. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt last night, but I couldn’t. He must have known the cost of this scheme. He must have known what it would take from them. And still, he concealed it.”

Eliza said nothing at first. Instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the folded letter from the night before, her fingers lingering on its edges.

Tristan noticed and tilted his head. “Still reading Clara’s words?” His mouth curved into a small smile, though his eyes were weary. “Relax. You will see her soon enough.”

Eliza gave a small, nervous laugh. “Yes. Soon enough.”

But her gaze dropped back to the page, and her smile faded. The truth pressed against her chest like stone.

It was not Clara’s letter. She had lied.

The letter bore no signature, so she had no idea who it came from. It warned her in plain terms that she was being used. Marcus was behind everything, and the project was designed in the first place for nothing but profit.

It was a big way for Marcus to line his pockets, and Evermere’s future was the cloak for a darker design.

The worst part was that she, his sister, had been a tool to place Tristan within his grasp. Her stomach knotted as she read the words again, though she knew them by heart already.

She had thought Marcus only wanted this marriage to rid himself of her and make her someone else’s problem. Now she knew the truth.

Her hands trembled as the thought settled deeper. Marcus had not sought her happiness. He had sought Tristan’s signature. He had tied her to this household not to secure her future, but his own. She was a means to an end.

He had used her to open a door, and Tristan was the prize.

Her throat tightened at the thought, and she felt her fingers squeeze the piece of paper. She could not keep this secret forever.

She lifted her eyes and saw Tristan watching the passing fields, his profile sharp, yet softened by thought. She remembered the way he had looked yesterday at the villagers, at the children, at her. He was not a man who played games with people’s lives. He was a man who shouldered burdens, not one who created them.

He deserved nothing but the truth.

Her heart pounded faster in her chest as the question she had been trying to avoid all night pierced her mind.

Would he forgive her?

The fear gnawed at her. If she spoke, if she confessed that her brother had bound Tristan to her through lies, would Tristanever look at her the same way again? Would he see her as part of the betrayal, even if she had not known?

Eliza pressed the letter into her lap, remembering his words the night before.

Arranged or not, you are still my wife.

Her chest ached at the memory. He had trusted her with that admission. She could not let fear keep her silent.

Yet she could not speak now. Not here, not while the carriage wheels rattled and the walls of Evermere drew closer with each passing second.

“Are you well?” Tristan’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said too quickly.

His eyes lingered on her, searching, but he did not press further. He turned back to the window. “We are almost there.”

The carriage rattled over the last stretch of the road and soon, in the distance, the familiar grey walls she had come to recognize rose from the ground. Her eyes remained still on the manor as they approached it. This was what she had been traded for.

The place Marcus had always wanted. The place she now called home.

As the carriage rolled through the gates, Eliza held the letter tight in her hand. She knew the truth now, and she knew it could not remain unspoken for long.