Page 28 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
One she could tell he had to force.
“My lady,” he said evenly. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” she replied, her voice quiet.
He gestured toward the table. “Mrs. Teague has prepared some pie. Apparently, she has been trying her hand at it for some time.”
Eliza nodded but barely registered the words. It was the first time they had sat so close since the wedding, and his calmness unsettled her. It was almost like she was sitting next to a statue.
They sat and watched the servants place the dishes before them. When they retreated, Eliza picked up her fork. She took a small bite, even though her appetite was long gone.
Nothing could be heard except for the clinking of cutlery against porcelain. Eliza counted the minutes in her head and wondered how long it was going to take for one of them to eventually break.
At last, he spoke, turning to her. “We should talk.”
Her fork paused, and she lowered it slowly. “About what?”
“Our circumstances,” he said. His tone was measured, the words firm in his mouth. “I will be direct. I do not expect you to do anything.”
Her hand tightened in her lap. “What?”
“I want you to feel at home here,” he continued. “As much as one can, and I know this marriage cannot be what you hoped for. It was not what I hoped for either. This is not a fairytale.”
Her throat tightened as she continued to listen to him.
“However,” he said, his eyes fixed on her, “you will have security here. You will want for nothing. And in time, there must be an heir, as that is required.”
The words cut through her. He spoke of children as though they were an obligation, not a choice. Perhaps they were an obligation for a man like him. She looked at him, searching for any trace of warmth.
She found none.
“I hope you understand,” he finally said.
Her chest ached as she stared at him. Those damn eyes again. She could let the silence swallow them one more time, but she steadied herself. She had come prepared.
“Then may I ask something?”
He lifted a brow. “What is it?”
“I would like a room,” she said carefully. “A small one. With enough light. I could use it as an atelier. A place to keep mypaints, my sketches. It would occupy my time, and I promise it would not disturb you.”
He studied her, his gaze unreadable. The candles flickered against the sharp lines of his face, and she forced herself not to look away.
“I … I would not disturb you. I only ask for a place where I can paint. My sketchbook is small, and it is not enough. I need … more.”
Still, he did not speak, and the silence pressed down harder. She could not tell if he disapproved, if he thought it foolish, or if he was simply indifferent.
Finally, he placed his fork down with care and said, “You will.”
Her breath caught. “I will?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “It will be arranged.”
Relief broke through her chest, though she kept her expression composed. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me,” he said, voice still clipped. “If it keeps you occupied, it serves us both.”
His words carried no softness, but she clung to the agreement.
