Page 16 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
It shook.
Her vision blurred suddenly, and for some reason, everything came crashing down on her. This was her life. A life she had not chosen, bound and sealed in one line of ink.
Was this really it? Was this what it all came down to?
Her hand trembled harder, and she wondered, just for a moment, if she could even bring herself to write her name. Then she felt him reach forward and cover her hand with his.
Her heart dropped.
The touch sent a jolt through her body, and electricity raced from her hand to her heart. She looked up at him, startled, and found his gaze settled on her again.
He narrowed his eyes and gave her the briefest nod. “I know.”
Her throat tightened as she swallowed, then lowered her eyes. With his hand firm around hers, she pressed the quill to the page and wrote her name. Each letter trembled, but when she finished, she knew there was no undoing it.
It was done.
The book was closed, and the ceremony was complete.
There was no going back now.
Chapter 5
The carriage moved with an air of finality. One Tristan could feel more than the bumpy road itself. His back was against the cushion, pressing against a newspaper he had saved for later. Now he couldn’t even bring himself to open and read because he had underestimated just how awkward the ride home would actually be.
Across from him sat Eliza Harwood.
No,
Eliza Vale now.
His wife.
The word did not fit yet, not in his mind, nor in the air between them. He found himself studying her when she turned her face toward the window. Ms. Ashcombe had said she was beautiful. That was true.
But this woman was something more. She looked like something he’d seen as a representation of beauty from a troubled painter before. The way her curls fell on both sides of her face. Her hazel eyes and the way they shone. No, she wasn’t just beautiful.
She was ethereal.
Her eyes held composure and sorrow at the same time. That was what struck him. She was not a bride beaming with joy. She was calm, but calm in the way one endures a burden. He knew the look. He had seen it in soldiers who accepted orders that might cost them their lives. He probably had the same look on his face at the moment.
He thought back to the church and her brother. He remembered the way he had treated her like a trinket passed from one hand to another. No gentle farewell, no word of care.
It had angered him in the moment, though he had said nothing. He may be her husband, but it was far from his place to interfere in issues of family.
Then she looked up at him, completely catching him off guard, and his thoughts froze.
He dropped his eyes to the floor and cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I do not know why I was—”
“It is fine,” she said at once. Her voice was calm, almost cold. She folded her hands in her lap. “I am your wife, am I not? A husband may look at his wife if he chooses.”
He let out a quiet breath. “Still, I did not mean to stare. Only … I thought of how strange this must feel to you. It does to me as well. Yet in the end—”
“Duty outweighs love,” she said, finishing the thought before he could.
He gave a small nod. “That is exactly what I was going to say.”
Another wave of silence spread once more, and she turned back to the window. He remained where he was and let the sound of the wheels fill the space between them.
