Page 26 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the books Gideon had brought. But his thoughts did not rest on the ledgers or the volumes. They rested on the quiet figure in the garden, and on the words his old friend had left him with.
Whether he liked it or not.
***
The third morning broke clear, sunlight spilling across the garden. Tristan stood once again at his study window, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on her. Eliza sat near the roses with her sketchbook open, her hand moving in steady strokes.
No.
He had watched long enough. Each day, he told himself he would speak, and each day, he held his tongue. This morning, he decided, would be different.
He left the study and moved through the long hallways, his boots firm against the floor. As he turned the corner, Mrs. Yarrow appeared, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“My lord,” she said, dipping her head. “Would you like your dinner served in your room this evening as usual?”
“Yes,” he replied at once, almost paying it no mind.
Then he stopped.
Something about the word left him dissatisfied, so he turned back to her. “Wait.”
Mrs. Yarrow paused, her brows raised.
“We will have dinner,” Tristan said.
Her expression sharpened. “We, my lord?”
“Yes,” he said with a short nod. “My wife and I. Together. Please set up a private dinner in the smaller dining hall.”
Mrs. Yarrow’s mouth curved the faintest bit, though her tone remained even. “Very good, my lord. And what shall I tell Mrs. Teague to prepare?”
Tristan hesitated. He had not thought that far. “Why don’t you and the cook … surprise me?”
That seemed to please her. “Mrs. Teague will be delighted. She has been attempting a new dish of late—pigeon pie. She thinks she has perfected, but she still needs someone to try it. Someone proper.”
“As long as it is edible,” Tristan said dryly.
Mrs. Yarrow dipped her head again, a spark in her eyes. “It shall be arranged, my lord.”
He nodded and strode past her, pushing through the tall doors that opened into the garden.
Eliza had her knees tucked beneath her gown, her sketchbook balanced in her lap. She looked so at ease, so far from his own stiffness, that he almost faltered.
Almost.
He stopped a few paces before her, his shadow falling across her work. She looked up quickly, surprised to see him standing there.
“This evening,” he said, his voice firm, “you will dine with me. Eight o’clock. In the smaller dining hall.”
Her brows rose. “That was sudden.”
“It is dinner,” he replied, his tone clipped. “There is no reason for hesitation.”
She tilted her head at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You make it sound like an order.”
“It was not an order,” he said, though the words felt weak even as they left him.
“Oh, it certainly sounded like one,” she answered. She set her pencil across the sketchbook and leaned back slightly. “Do you always speak that way?”
