Page 66 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
At last, he stepped back, his expression hardening. “Do not bother me again tonight. I did not come here for you.”
Eliza lifted her chin. “This is my ball.”
“Which does not negate a word I just said,” he replied smoothly.
Then he turned, his coat brushing past her as he walked back toward the hall.
Eliza stood frozen for a moment, her heart pounding, her thoughts knotted. She hated the feeling this gave her. Marcuswas planning something. And whatever it was, it had Tristan’s name drawn into it.
She drew a long breath and forced herself to follow him back inside, her face composed and her steps measured. It was a good thing Tristan had invited her to come with him the next day. Perhaps she could see first-hand what her husband and her brother were both about to step into.
Chapter 17
Lord Graham’s voice carried easily above the swell of music and chatter, and a part of Tristan began to wonder just how much longer he would have to stay before leaving became less impolite.
“So, Lord Vale, how do you find the management of Evermere? If I know anything about your grandfather, it is that your estate has a reputation for discipline. Are you maintaining that as well?” Lord Graham asked, his voice just as clear.
Tristan adjusted his cuff, his tone steady. “Oh, well, I do what I must. The tenants know their duties, and I keep the ledgers clean. There is no use running a house if its books do not balance.”
The older man gave a slow nod. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. And the people? Do they answer well to your commands?”
“They do. Some more readily than others,” Tristan responded, his mind briefly wandering toward Mr. Jones. “But that is the way of the world.”
A wave of amusement crossed Graham’s eyes. “It has been some time since the war, and you still speak like a soldier.”
“Oh well,” Tristan said, his voice clear. “Old habits die hard.”
The older lord sipped from his glass, studying him over the rim. “And tell me, will you be at the gathering tomorrow? The one where we speak further about this Berkeley Project?”
Tristan raised his head. “Yes. At first, I admit, I was doubtful. But Mr. Harwood has laid out the details with skill. He has a way of making a man feel that the thing is half built already.”
“Indeed,” Graham replied. “And do you trust it now?”
“I trust the numbers I have seen,” Tristan said carefully. “That is not the same as trusting the men behind them.”
Lord Graham chuckled. “Caution is wise.”
Tristan nodded. Could he leave now?
Before he could contemplate the answer, Lord Graham’s voice broke into his thoughts again.
“And married life? How has that settled upon your shoulders?”
Tristan let a pause sit between them before answering. “I cannot complain.”
“With a wife as lovely as yours, who could?”
The words pulled Tristan’s gaze to the far side of the room. Eliza was crouched among a group of children, her bright dress reflecting the candlelight around her as she passed small biscuits into their hands. The children laughed at something she said, their voices rising with each second.
“She is lovely,” Tristan said at last, his voice softer than before.
Graham’s expression shifted, something warmer in his eyes. “My second marriage was arranged, you know. Clara was her name. She was a gentle woman. Patient too. Perhaps too patient.”
Tristan swallowed and turned to him as he continued, “She loved me more than I deserved, though I was too blind to see it.”
“Oh,” Tristan responded, unsure of what else to say.
“You see, I had lost my first wife years before, in a carriage accident. She was my first love, and I buried myself in grief. I thought it noble to mourn, but what I did was selfish. I let it consume me until I could see nothing else. And Clara…well, shestood there beside me, waiting. Always waiting. By the time I turned and realized she wanted nothing more than to share that burden with me, it was too late.”
