Page 87 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Her heart raced as the carriage slowed and as Tristan’s voice broke the silence once more.
“We are here.”
***
The smell of lime in the atelier had greatly reduced, and she was grateful for it. She could spend most of her days here now without disturbance or any kind of worry about her health.
That was if she still had had days here anyway.
Her fingers were steady around the brush, and she painted gently on the canvas balanced on the easel. It was a slight accurate reiteration of the inn she had stayed in. It was far from perfect as she was painting from memory, but it was enough to keep her mind completely occupied for now.
It had been mere hours since they returned to Evermere, and she had been restless ever since. She pressed her lips together and added another careful shade to the roof.
She was about to put her brush into a dark hue when the door creaked, and she turned. Clara stood there, her arms wide, a look of slight relief plastered on her face.
“Good grief!” Clara exclaimed. “It is like I have not seen you in forever. Thank you for coming back.”
Eliza managed a small smile as Clara crossed into the room and pulled her into a hug. The familiar warmth made her chest loosen, if only for a moment.
“I did not know you missed me that much.”
“Believe me. I do. For some reason, I keep seeing Mr. Hale everywhere I turn.”
“Really?”
“That man is wearing me down, I am telling you.”
“Is that a good thing or a…” Eliza asked, her voice trailing off.
Clara’s gaze shifted past her shoulder, half out of curiosity and half in a bid to shut her up and change the subject. “What is this?” She stepped closer to the easel, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, this…” Eliza muttered, her eyes turning as well. “This is the inn we stayed at the other day.”
“You are painting the inn?”
Eliza only sighed, dipping her brush again. “I suppose so.”
Clara tilted her head. “All right, tell me the truth now.”
Eliza blinked, her hand growing still for the fraction of a second. “What?”
“You heard me.” Clara folded her arms. “I know what that face means.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know what you look like when something is gnawing at you. So talk.”
Eliza gave a small huff. “You do not know me as well as you think, Clara.”
“Oh, do I not?” Clara arched her brow. “Let me see. You are doing that thing where you tap your thumb against the edge of your brush. You only do that when you are thinking too hard.”
Eliza blinked and looked down at her hand. Sure enough, her thumb was brushing against the soft bristles of her paintbrush. How did she not even notice she was doing that in the first place?
“When you are upset but trying to hide it, you laugh too lightly,” Clara continued, the utter vindication in her voice prevalent. “And when you are nervous, you bite your lower lip. Shall I go on?”
Eliza’s mouth opened, then closed. She set the brush down. “Fine. You know me more than I thought. Still, that proves nothing.”
“It proves everything,” Clara pressed. “Now, come on. Let us hear what is cooking in that head of yours.”
