Page 9 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Tristan closed the ledger with a sharp snap.

“But you have one now, my lord, whether you like it or not,” Gideon went on, unflinching. “She cannot be ignored like a ledger or a post on the field.”

Tristan pressed his fingers together, his elbows on the desk. He said nothing, though his chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm.

“I do not mean any disrespect,” Gideon added after a pause. “You know I never would. But if you treat her like a stranger, she will remain one. And then all of this—” he paused and gestured toward the window, and the estate beyond “—will weigh even heavier on you.”

The room grew still, and for a moment, nothing could be heard except the faint tick of the mantel clock.

At last, Gideon stepped back and bowed slightly, his expression softer now. “Think about it, my lord.”

Then he turned and moved toward the door. Tristan’s eyes followed him, but no words came. He watched as the door closed behind him, leaving him alone once more in the study.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the books Gideon had brought. But his thoughts did not rest on the ledgers or the volumes. They rested on the quiet figure in the garden, and on the words his old friend had left him with.

Whether he liked it or not.

***

The third morning broke clear, sunlight spilling across the garden. Tristan stood once again at his study window, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on her. Eliza sat near the roses with her sketchbook open, her hand moving in steady strokes.

No.

He had watched long enough. Each day, he told himself he would speak, and each day, he held his tongue. This morning, he decided, would be different.

He left the study and moved through the long hallways, his boots firm against the floor. As he turned the corner, Mrs. Yarrow appeared, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

“My lord,” she said, dipping her head. “Would you like your dinner served in your room this evening as usual?”

“Yes,” he replied at once, almost paying it no mind.

Then he stopped.

Something about the word left him dissatisfied, so he turned back to her. “Wait.”

Mrs. Yarrow paused, her brows raised.

“We will have dinner,” Tristan said.

Her expression sharpened. “We, my lord?”

“Yes,” he said with a short nod. “My wife and I. Together. Please set up a private dinner in the smaller dining hall.”

Mrs. Yarrow’s mouth curved the faintest bit, though her tone remained even. “Very good, my lord. And what shall I tell Mrs. Teague to prepare?”

Tristan hesitated. He had not thought that far. “Why don’t you and the cook … surprise me?”

That seemed to please her. “Mrs. Teague will be delighted. She has been attempting a new dish of late—pigeon pie. She thinks she has perfected, but she still needs someone to try it. Someone proper.”

“As long as it is edible,” Tristan said dryly.

Mrs. Yarrow dipped her head again, a spark in her eyes. “It shall be arranged, my lord.”

He nodded and strode past her, pushing through the tall doors that opened into the garden.

Eliza had her knees tucked beneath her gown, her sketchbook balanced in her lap. She looked so at ease, so far from his own stiffness, that he almost faltered.

Almost.

He stopped a few paces before her, his shadow falling across her work. She looked up quickly, surprised to see him standing there.

“This evening,” he said, his voice firm, “you will dine with me. Eight o’clock. In the smaller dining hall.”

Her brows rose. “That was sudden.”

“It is dinner,” he replied, his tone clipped. “There is no reason for hesitation.”

She tilted her head at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You make it sound like an order.”

“It was not an order,” he said, though the words felt weak even as they left him.

“Oh, it certainly sounded like one,” she answered. She set her pencil across the sketchbook and leaned back slightly. “Do you always speak that way?”

He frowned. “What way?”

“Like a naval captain,” she said, laughter slipping into her voice. “Do you command your guests to eat?”

The heat rose in his neck. “I … do not.”

“You do,” she said, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “You stand as if you expect a regiment to salute you.”

He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I am only informing you of dinner.”

“In the tone of a man preparing for battle,” she teased.

He drew in a sharp breath. It had been so long since he had spoken freely with a woman.

Too long.

The words came stiff, the delivery harsher than he meant. He could not help it.

“What I meant,” he tried again, his voice lower, “was that you will join me for dinner. If that pleases you.”

Her smile softened, though she tilted her head once more. “Now that sounded almost like a request.”

He bristled. “It was not a request.”

“Then an order still?”

“An invitation!” he snapped, then regretted the edge in his voice.

She only laughed lightly. “Very well, my lord. An invitation, then. I shall attend.”

He cleared his throat again, unable to meet her gaze for long. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated, as though the reminder gave him ground to stand on.

Her lips curved once more, but she said nothing.

Tristan turned sharply, every muscle wound tight, and walked back toward the house before he said anything further.

Good God, that was alarmingly uncomfortable.