Page 38 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Evelyn smiled wistfully. “I envy you. I dreamed I was walking down a street in Boston.”
She took a bite and chewed slowly, and Eliza waited, her eyes settled on her. However, she realized soon enough that nothing else would come forth, and she tilted her head. “Sorry, is that all?”
“Of course,” Evelyn said easily. “Was that not dreadful enough?”
Eliza pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Be prepared, Eliza,” the duke said with a touch of dryness. “You will find that my daughter has long carried a dislike for America.”
“Dislike?” Evelyn lifted her brows in mock indignation. “You make it sound like I simply do not enjoy beans on toast.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Your husband is there, Evelyn. The country is not the ring of fire you imagine.”
“It does not have to be,” Evelyn murmured, reaching for her cup. “It can still burn you.”
The remark made Eliza laugh before she could stop herself. Evelyn’s wit was sharp, too sharp at times, but it amused her. Yet even as she laughed, her eyes drifted again to the seat across from her. Tristan’s absence pressed in more than she wanted to admit.
She sipped from her cup, smiled where she needed to, but inside her thoughts spun in circles. She had hoped this morning would be different.
She had hoped for him.
After breakfast, she decided to take a little stroll to a wing of the manor instead of going straight back to her room as usual.
The atelier smelled of lime and fresh plaster when Eliza stepped inside. Her eyes settled on the pale walls that almost seemed to glisten in the late afternoon sun. The work tools of the construction workers still lay by the foot of the walls, and for some reason, she studied how worn they seemed to look.
It was almost complete, though clearly not finished. Her mind tried to process what it would eventually look like when it was finished. She imagined herself spending most of her free days in the room, letting nature and everything around her inspire her painting. She could almost feel her fingers around a paintbrush and oil on her face. She could smell the colors and the cold, tense texture of the paints.
No.
She couldn’t get excited yet. Not now anyway. She needed to wait.
A soft knock sounded behind her, and she turned quickly.
Tristan stood in the doorway. He was in a dark coat with a snowy white cravat. His hands were tucked behind his back as his eyes searched the atelier. Then he smiled in a way that unsettled Eliza for a rather brief second before fully stepping in.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
Eliza blinked, startled by his sudden presence. “It is … it is quite good. The place looks wonderful.”
He gave a small nod. “It should look even better once it is finished.”
A silence stretched. She looked back at the walls, but her thoughts turned to him instead. She had dreaded and hoped for this meeting in equal measure.
She turned toward him at last. “I must apologize.”
At the same instant, he said, “You must understand—”
They both stopped, caught in the collision of words. Eliza’s lips curved, and a smile broke across her face despite herself. Tristan gave a faint laugh as well, the smallest shift in his otherwise stern expression.
“Why don’t I go first?” he said after a moment.
She inclined her head. “Very well.”
He stepped further into the room, his boots quiet against the dusty floor. “I am sorry for the way I reacted. Nothing you did warranted such a response. I had the night to think about it. And…” his mouth tugged briefly at the corner, “Gideon saw fit to give me an earful about it this morning as well.”
Eliza folded her hands in front of her. “I see. And here I was thinking you were avoiding me.”
“Far from it,” Tristan replied. “I only needed time to process what I had done.”
