Page 15 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Eliza’s lips trembled, and she reached to brush her fingers over the edge of one painting, a soft depiction of the house as it had once been. “You make it sound so simple.”
Clara smiled gently. “It is not simple. But it is necessary. Promise me you will not forsake this part of yourself.”
Eliza lowered her gaze, then nodded slowly. “I will try.”
“That is the spirit,” Clara declared, her tone brightening as she reached for another gown. “We shall make certain you arrive at Evermere as yourself, not as the hollow shell Marcus would have you be.”
Eliza drew a long breath, then bent to the task once more.
***
The morning arrived far more swiftly than Eliza had hoped. It was Clara who stirred her from bed, speaking in that bright, practical tone she always used when she knew Eliza’s nerves were stretched thin.
“Up, dearest,” Clara urged gently. “We have work to do.”
Eliza obeyed, though her body felt heavy, her mind slower still. Clara opened the wardrobe and reached for the gown folded carefully inside. Eliza gestured toward it with a stiff hand.
“It was my mother’s,” she said softly. “Marcus had it altered for me.”
Clara lifted it free, letting the light catch its pale fabric. “Well, that may be the first good decision your brother has made in years.”
Eliza remained quiet as Clara helped fasten the dress at the back.
“Are you ready?” Clara eventually asked when she was done.
Eliza nodded.
“Good,” Clara muttered.
They left the room together, Clara holding her arm as though she feared Eliza might collapse before the day had even begun. Marcus waited in the hall below, his face alive with satisfaction.
“Ah, finally,” he said, looking her up and down as if inspecting a prize. “Everything is in order. The wedding will be held in a small parish in London. It will be quick, efficient, and without delay.”
Eliza said nothing. Her lips were frozen, and her chest felt tight. Marcus continued to talk excitedly about the weddingarrangements as they climbed into the carriage and set off, but Eliza’s mind was elsewhere.
Anywhere but the present. Clara seemed to notice her friend’s despair and leaned closer, amid Marcus’s speech.
“It will be all right,” Clara whispered, close to her ear. “You will see. It will be all right.”
Eliza wanted to believe her, but numbness settled deeper. She had never seen the man she was about to marry. She had never been asked if this was what she wanted. The bells of the church tolled as they arrived, and Eliza felt her heart beat like an angry prisoner.
Inside, the little parish was silent. Clara walked by her side, whispering words of encouragement, though Eliza heard little of it. Her eyes lifted and met the gaze of the man waiting at the altar.
Oh.
He was the furthest thing from a hairy monster. No, the man standing before her was in no way a beast. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked like he stepped out of a romance novel. His face was not just handsome. It was strikingly handsome, and his tense jaw looked like it could cut glass.
However, it was his grey eyes that held her. They looked intense, yet softened by something she could not name. For one suspended moment, she forgot the walls around her, forgot Marcus and everything else.
Everything but those eyes.
Then he looked away, turning aside as if she had already ceased to exist.
The ceremony was brief, and she went through it almost absentmindedly. He did not look at her again throughout the event. Not even once.
When the clergyman beckoned them toward the register for their signatures, he stepped up first and signed, the wave of his hand smooth against the paper. He set the quill down and moved aside, waiting for her to step forward.
Her legs carried her, though her mind felt far away. She bent over the page, and her fingers closed around the quill. She dipped it in ink and tried to steady her hand.
