Page 116 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Tristan stood for a moment, then moved closer. “You knew this day would come. That silence would one day break.”
The duke’s hand tightened on the cane. “I thought I was sparing us shame. In truth, I spared myself. That cowardice stole something from your father, and from you.”
The words struck harder than any lecture could. For a moment, Tristan could only stare at the man he had both feared and resented all his life. “It is too late for apologies,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, but firm. “But it is not too late for honesty.”
The duke’s eyes glistened, though no tears fell. “Honesty, then. I failed you. I failed your father. I buried what should have been spoken, and the silence rotted until Marcus unearthed it. I cannot undo that.”
Tristan let out a slow breath, the air heavy in his lungs. “Do you know what I hated most? Your distance. I thought it was pride. But now I see it was the same chain you carried from him. The same silence I took into myself. A curse we have all worn.”
The duke lowered his head. “Then break it. Do not carry it further.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to breathe around them, the dust floating in the morning light, the fire gone cold in the grate.
At last, the duke raised his head. His voice was steady, almost sharp again. “I cannot change the past. But I can protect your future. Marcus believes he has cornered you. He has not. Leave him to me. I have a plan.”
Tristan studied him. For once, the weight between them felt less like a wall and more like a scar.
He eventually nodded. “Very well. But I will not stand in silence again.”
The duke’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of approval. “Nor should you.”
Tristan turned, his steps slower and steadier than when he had entered. The burden was not lifted or even healed. But something within him had shifted. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he knew what he had to do next.
It had never been clearer to him.
***
Tristan stood with Eliza in the long gallery, the light cutting through the tall windows, scattering reflections across the floor. The air was quiet, too quiet, until the heavy roll of wheels echoed from outside. He turned sharply toward the courtyard.
A dark carriage had just drawn up before the steps. His eyes narrowed as he watched the passenger step out.
What is he doing here?
Eliza’s hand tightened around the edge of her shawl. “Marcus,” she breathed.
Tristan felt the name like a spark against dry wood. “Stay close,” he said quietly.
They descended the staircase together, and the entrance doors opened before they reached the bottom. Marcus strode in as though the housealreadybelonged to him. His usual smirk curled at the corners, and his eyes glinted with the usual devilry behind them.
“Lord Vale,” he said, voice smooth as polished glass. “And my dear sister.” His gaze flicked over Eliza with cold amusement. “You look well enough.”
Tristan stopped a few paces away. “What are you doing here, Mr. Harwood?”
Marcus spread his arms as though the answer were obvious. “I was invited.”
“What?”
“Yes,” Marcus responded, a shrug escaping his lips. “I suppose His Grace finally shows sense where you show none. No offense, of course, my lord.”
Tristan stepped forward, but Eliza snatched his arm just in time.
“No,” she muttered.
“I would listen to her if I were you, Lord Vale,” Marcus added.
Before Tristan could reply, a footman entered, bowing low. “His Grace requests your presence in the study. All three of you.”
Marcus gave a satisfied hum. “How timely.”
