Page 27 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
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.
Chapter 8
Eliza sat before her table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks could use a little more color. A part of her laughed at the irony of that thought, and the other part thought of her encounter with Tristan that afternoon.
She thought of how rigid his words had felt and how firm he wanted to be when he spoke to her. Her gaze remained fixed on her face in the mirror again, and as a momentary thought broke out of her.
Would he notice during dinner that her cheeks needed more color?
She shrugged off the thought and let the memory of his eyes take over instead. She remembered how grey and watchful they were and how they seemed to linger in her head even after he was gone.
She pressed her palms together, steadying herself. If this dinner was to happen, she needed to be ready to make a request of her own. If she could explain herself, perhaps he would grant her one small space. She did not need much, just a room with light and enough space to sketch. She needed somewhere she could be herself. That was all.
Her lady’s maid entered and fussed with her gown, fastening the last button at her sleeve.
“You look very well, my lady,” the maid said.
Eliza forced a smile. “It will do.”
When she was ready, she walked down the hallways toward the small dining hall. She paused at the door, drew a breath, and stepped in.
The table was set for two, and the polished silver candlesticks glowed on the table. Tristan stood at the head of the table, tall and composed, as he turned to her as she approached him, a smile on his face.
