Page 64 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Turning quickly, she made her way back toward the ballroom, her mind racing. What was Marcus plotting this time?
What had she just stumbled into?
***
“Oh, there you are,” Tristan’s voice broke into her train of thought. She turned and watched him approach her gently, his footsteps easy on the polished floor. “I thought you’d run away again.”
“I would not do that,” Eliza responded, her voice soft. Marcus raised his glass, and she clinked hers gently with his. They both sat by the terrace and watched the crowd mingle with each other.
“There is something I must tell you.”
Eliza frowned. Tell me?
“We are to meet your brother tomorrow at the local harvest festival,” Tristan continued, oblivious to the questions growing in her thoughts. “I thought it was high time we finished the discussions and got straight down to business once and for all.”
Eliza swallowed, her fingers gripping her drink just a bit tighter. “And you want me to come with you?”
He turned to her, his brow raised. “Would that be a problem?”
“Not in the slightest,” her response was quick. “So tell me about this so-called project of yours. Or would that be too forward of me to ask?”
“You are my wife, Eliza. You are never too forward to ask me anything.”
The reassurance in his voice was almost intoxicating.
“And it is called the Berkeley Project,” he continued.
The words turned around in her head, like a wardrobe with a false bottom. Something that had more to it than meets the eye.
The Berkeley Project.
The thought lingered in her head as Tristan started to explain everything to her about the project so far. It lingered even when he was eventually done.
The Berkeley Project.
Tristan leaned closer as the murmur of voices continued to fill the hall. “Well? What do you think of it?”
She tilted her head, pretending to weigh her words with care. “It does sound like … a nice project.”
His brow arched. “Nice? That is all you have to say?”
“Yes,” she responded, a teasing edge in her voice. She could hear the mild frustration in his tone, and for some reason, something told her to pursue that. “It is nice. Quite simple and tidy enough. Does it not please you to hear it?”
He gave a low chuckle. “Not in the least. A man brings his wife into his confidence about matters of investment, and all he earns for his trouble is ‘nice?’”
She could practically hear the disgust in his voice as he mentioned the word.
“Well, I could say more,” she responded, her voice solemn. “It is… very nice”
Tristan let out a breath, shaking his head. “You are enjoying this quite well, are you not?”
“You cannot begin to imagine,” she responded, her eyes filled with amusement.
Their words lingered between them, playful, but she could feel it. They were edged with something more. Something she wished they could keep exploring right here and now. In fact, for a moment, she thought he might respond to her quips with a smile. He looked past her shoulder and frowned. She followed his gaze.
A boy darted across the floor, chased by two of his younger companions. Their laughter seemed to ring even louder than the music.
“Do not run too much,” Tristan called, his voice firm. “You will fall.”
