Page 48 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Was he nervous for himself or for her? Would she do well in the midst of people like him? People who seemed to be like him anyway. And worse, what if she didn’t? What if she failed every obscure and indirect test placed in her presence?
What if he did?
The sound of polished shoes against the floor made him turn. Evelyn appeared from the drawing room, her fan already in her hand, though the air was cool enough.
“Well,” she said, tapping the fan lightly against her wrist. “Do you not look solemn? You would think you were preparing for Parliament, not a garden party.”
Tristan allowed a small breath to escape. “Maybe they are the same in nature.”
Evelyn tilted her head. “I doubt Parliament would bore you nearly as much. At least there you would have the satisfaction of a quarrel. At garden parties, all you get are cakes, tea, and Margaret.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Margaret?”
“You know her,” Evelyn said, waving her fan lazily. “Gordon’s mother. She will corner you within five minutes and begin another long tale about how her roses descended from Pompeii.”
“Wait,” Tristan exhaled, letting his mind transport him to the past. “I remember her now. You could not go anywhere in London without her in the year before last.”
“That was a dreary moment of my life. Must you hold that against me?”
“So she is no longer your friend?”
“She was never my friend,” Evelyn hissed. “To call her a convenient acquaintance would still be a gross overstatement.”
Tristan gave her a dry look. “You exaggerate.”
“I do not,” Evelyn retorted. “If she were a witch, her only spell would be endless conversation.”
He chuckled softly. “If that is her power, I shall survive it.”
“You say that now,” Evelyn murmured, “but mark my words, she will drain the life out of you before the first tray of sweet tea arrives.”
Before Tristan could respond, footsteps sounded from the landing above. He turned sharply, and so did Evelyn.
Eliza stood at the top of the stairs.
Her dress was bright blue and seemed to flash down at them both. Her hair was neatly pinned behind her head, and her fan rested gingerly between her fingers. She took a pause at the top of the stairs just for a few seconds before she began to descend.
Tristan felt his chest suddenly grow tight for some reason, and his eyes narrowed.
What in God’s name was that feeling?
Why did the mere sight of Eliza make his heart suddenly skip?
Like she was reading his innermost thoughts, Evelyn leaned toward him, her voice pitched low. “That is your wife.”
“Yes,” Tristan said quietly, his gaze fixed on Eliza. “That is my wife.”
Eliza reached the last step and lifted her eyes. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“When you come out looking like this, dear,” Evelyn said warmly, “you have no reason to apologize.”
Color rose in Eliza’s cheeks, and she smiled politely.
Tristan found his words at last. “We should leave before we are any later.”
Evelyn gave a long sigh. “Yes, yes, off you go. But remember what I said. Do not let Margaret trap you. It is how she lures men to their doom.”
Tristan’s brow arched. “And what doom is that?”
