Chapter 29
The muted morning light spread through the tall windows of the atelier, soft but cold against the bare canvases scattered across the room.
Oh for the love of God.
Eliza sat with a brush in her hand, staring at the canvas before her. The tip trembled as she tried to steady her strokes, but it didn’t work. The anticipation continued to gnaw at her. She took a deep breath and stared at the lines before her.
She didn’t need a critical pair of eyes to tell her that they looked wrong and completely uneven. She pressed harder on the canvas, hoping the motion would ground her and keep her busy, but it only deepened her frustration.
She drew the brush back, staring at the mess of color. She had meant to paint a side of the garden behind the manor, and somehow, all she had managed to do was draw a huge mess of color. The strokes were too sharp and the lines …
Good God, the lines.
A dog could draw better than she was doing at the moment.
Her chest tightened as her eyes took in the scene around her. Would she be able to gain control of herself before her husband returned? The sun was beginning to peek out from the horizon, which meant Tristan’s carriage should be rolling to a halt before the manor anytime soon.
She leaned back, her brush slipping from her hand, and pressed her palms against her lap. A mixture of shame and joy played together in her heart, just like the mess of colors on her canvas. She had managed to find joy. It was still a bit undefined, but she had found it.
And she found it here at Evermere despite Marcus’ manipulations. She could even say her brother’s inadvertent schemes eventually brought her to her happiness.
She should be excited about it. She loved Tristan, and while he hadn’t exactly expressed them in words, a part of her trusted that he felt the same. And that alone was enough for her.
And then, there was the actual problem.
Marcus.
His greed tainted every glance and every kindness she shared with Tristan. He was always there in the background, an overt reminder of what Eliza stood to lose just because of him.
“Am I even worthy of this?” She whispered to herself, unable to steel the words in her heart any longer.
The door creaked, and Clara’s voice broke through. “Do not tell me you are already doubting the masterpiece.”
Eliza turned quickly, startled. Clara swept into the room in her usual fashion, the low ends of her bright blue dress brushing against canvases.
“You have not even seen it yet,” Eliza muttered.
“It is your work. I am certain it is a—”
She froze as her eyes settled on the painting, then she looked back at Eliza with raised brows.
“That is the most dreadful thing I have ever seen,” Clara said, though her tone was more amused than cruel.
“I know—”
“I mean, what are you even trying to paint here?”
“I know,”
“Good God, even looking at it is giving me a headache. I mean, how do you even—”
“Clara!” Eliza snapped.
Her friend turned to look at her, the amused expression still resting on her face.
“Trust me,” Eliza continued, her voice a bit lower. “I know.”
“Well,” Clara resumed, her voice softer. “What exactly happened?”
Eliza sighed. “Is it not clear? My mind is unsteady.”
Clara stepped closer, folding her arms. “Ah. Then this is not about the painting. Thank heavens.”
“Thank heavens?”
Clara laughed. “For the briefest of moments, I thought you were losing your ability to paint. Well, it is clear this is about your brother.”
Eliza’s throat tightened at the sound of his name, and she nodded. “I cannot stop thinking about it. His schemes, his lies. And Tristan … how much more can he bear? I feel as though my brother’s corruption shadows me as well. As if it makes me … less.”
Clara’s face softened. She pulled out a stool and sat beside her. “Eliza Harwood, you are not your brother. His sins are his own. Do not chain them to your name. Lord Vale knows who you are. So do I. Goodness, even Aunt Evelyn, who is a harsh judge of character, knows who you are.”
Eliza turned to look at Clara, saying nothing.
“None of us would let his deceit define you.”
Eliza looked down, voice faint. “But what if his schemes ruin everything? Tristan, the estate, even this marriage?”
Clara reached out and took her hand. “Then you will fight it. With him. Love and loyalty prevail when nothing else does. That has been true for every family, every marriage worth anything. You must believe it.”
Eliza blinked fast, her eyes stinging. She nodded. “I will try.”
“Good,” Clara said, giving her hand a squeeze. Then, in a deliberate change of tone, she pulled back and stood. “Now, enough gloom. I came here for something far more important.”
Eliza tilted her head. “More important than my canvas and despair?”
“Indeed.” Clara turned toward the chair in the corner and pulled out a gown draped across it. She twirled the fabric with a grin, holding it against herself. “Tell me if this is good enough.”
Eliza blinked. “Good enough for what?”
Clara swayed with the dress, pretending to admire herself in an invisible mirror. “Perhaps … good enough for a compliment.”
Eliza’s lips parted, and then the answer struck her. “Clara,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Is this for Mr. Hale?”
Color rushed into Clara’s cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
Eliza leaned forward. “It is. You are blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Eliza said with a laugh. “I have never seen you this way. It is rare to see you so smitten.”
Clara rolled her eyes, trying to fold the gown back into its place. “It is nothing. He is only … pleasant company. He has invited me for a walk this evening.”
Eliza raised a brow. “Another one?”
Clara shot her a glare. “Well, I do not think there is any kind of limit on how many walks one can have, now, do you?”
Eliza tried and failed to keep her smile back. “I suppose there is not.”
Clara pointed a finger at her. “Say it outright. Say whatever you are holding back. I can see it written across your face.”
Eliza laughed, shaking her head. “I will say nothing. Only that all of this clearly matters to you. That is enough.”
Clara exhaled, half annoyed, half shy. “It does not. It is just … he listens. And he does not try to impress me, which is more than I can say for half the men in London.”
“Then perhaps you should allow your heart to open,” Eliza said gently. “Let the current carry you where it may.”
Clara groaned. “Now you sound like some poet.”
“Perhaps I am,” Eliza said, a smile tugging at her lips.
The two of them laughed then, the weight between them easing for the first time that morning. Clara twirled the dress again, pretending to curtsy, while Eliza sat back and shook her head. For one fleeting moment, her heart felt light.
Then the door burst open and a maid hurried in, her cheeks flushed and her voice breathless.
“My lady,” she said, eyes darting between them. “His Grace and Lord Vale have returned.”
Eliza froze. Tristan.
Her brush slipped from the table to the floor with a soft clink, and she rose slowly, her pulse rushing in her ears. Clara straightened as well, the gown forgotten in her hands.
“They are back,” Eliza whispered. She felt the words as both relief and dread.
Clara touched her arm. “Then go. I shall wait here for you.”
“Are you certain you do not want to come?”
“Very,” Clara responded, her voice sharp.
Eliza nodded, her chest tightening. She turned toward the door, her steps quickening.
The morning light no longer felt calm. It pressed at her back, urging her forward.
Eliza’s slippers tapped too fast against the wooden floor as she hurried down the hallway. Her breath came tight and shallow. She had imagined this moment since the maid’s announcement.
She had pictured Tristan stepping through the doors, proud and steady, bringing with him the kind of strength that lit the halls of Evermere. She had thought she would see him smile, perhaps tired but victorious.
But when she reached the entrance, her heart staggered.
The carriage door opened, and the duke stepped down first, his face pale and his mouth pressed into a hard line.
Then Tristan followed, his shoulders rigid and his steps heavy.
His eyes lifted only once, catching hers across the distance, and then fell away at once.
He looked as though the life had been drained from him.
“You are back,” she said, her voice faint.
Tristan did not pause. He moved past her, his gaze fixed on the staircase, and his jaw tight. He vanished up the steps without a single word.
Eliza’s chest turned cold, and the air around her seemed to grow thicker with silence. She turned sharply to the duke.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice thin but urgent. “What happened?”
The duke’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked older than she had ever seen him, shadows deep beneath his eyes. After a while, he lowered his head and walked slowly toward his study.
Eliza’s pulse raced faster as several thoughts and questions pulsed through her mind. Was this it? Was this the end of her stay at Evermere? Had Marcus eventually managed to poison the last of the well?
She gathered the skirts of her dress and hurried up the stairs. Tristan’s chamber door loomed at the end of the hall. She raised her hand and knocked.
“Tristan?” she called softly.
No answer.
“Tristan, are you there?”
Still no answer.
“Please, let me in. What has happened?”
Only more silence followed her words.
Her hand trembled against the wood. She knocked again, firmer. “Tristan. Speak to me. Please, do not shut me out. What happened with Marcus?”
The door eventually opened, and her heart skipped, but it was not Tristan who appeared. Mr. Hale stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him.
Eliza grew startled. “Mr. Hale—please, tell me. What has happened to him? What was said at the gathering?”
The valet bowed his head slightly. “My lady, it is not my place to speak of it.”
Her desperation flared. “Not your place? Then whose? Tristan is breaking before my eyes, and you expect me to stand aside?”
Mr. Hale’s eyes met hers, steady but pained. “He must be the one to tell you, my lady. Not me. Forgive me.”
Her mouth opened to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. He would not bend. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips tight. Without another word, she turned and rushed back down the stairs.
The duke’s study door was slightly open. She pushed it all the way open and stepped in, catching her breath as she closed the door.
He was there, seated behind the desk, though his frame slumped against the chair. Fresh logs burned low in the fireplace, throwing light across his lined face. She had never seen him this distraught before.
What in God’s name happened at that event?
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steadying with effort. “I beg you, do not keep me blind. Tell me what has happened. Did Marcus do something?”
She stuttered as the second question escaped her lips. “Did I do something?”
He did not look up at once. He clasped his hands together, the knuckles stark white. Finally, he drew a slow breath.
“Eliza,” he started, his voice heavy. “You deserve to know. Perhaps you are the only one who can bear this with him.”
Her heart pounded. “Know what?”
The duke’s eyes lifted to hers, shadowed with shame. “Years ago, Tristan’s father … my son … strayed. He had an affair with a maid in this very house and a child came of it.”
Eliza swallowed. “What?”
“It was a child born in secrecy. The matter was kept quiet with a lot of money, of course, and nothing was ever recorded. The child did not live past a year.”
Eliza’s breath stilled.
The duke looked away, his voice breaking. “I thought it was buried forever. But your brother somehow managed to find evidence. He is now holding it over Tristan’s head in order to force him to go ahead with the Berkeley Project.”
Eliza felt the room tilt around her. Her hands gripped the edge of a chair to steady herself. She had feared betrayal, but not like this. The cruelty of secrets, the rot of shame passed down like a curse.
Yet as the shock rolled through her, another truth struck harder. It was not Tristan’s fault. None of this was his sin. Her chest ached for him.
“Does Tristan know all of this?” she asked.
The duke closed his eyes. “He does now. And it has wounded him deeper than I can measure.”
Eliza pressed her hands together tightly, as if the pressure might hold her steady. “Then I must go to him. I cannot let him bear this alone.”
The duke gave a small nod. “Go.”
She left the study at once, her steps carrying her up flight after flight until she reached the hallway that led to his chambers. She knocked on the door once, and when he did not respond, she slammed her eyes shut and pushed it open anyway.
He was still. His shoulders hunched, his hands braced against the frame. His face was pale, hollow. The sight of him pierced her.
“Tristan,” she whispered.
He did not turn. “You should not be here.”
She stepped closer, her voice low but firm. “Then where should I be? Away from you, when you are suffering? Never.”
His hand curled against the wooden frame of his bed. “You do not understand.”
“The duke already told me everything.”
Tristan nodded. “Oh, well, it is good that he is quick to speak now.”
“You cannot blame him for keeping quiet all these years.”
“Can I not?” Tristan asked, throwing her a glare. “My very name may be false, Eliza, I have lived on lies. How can you stand beside me when I am nothing more than a shadow of dishonor?”
She came nearer, until she stood at his side. “Do not say that. You are not a lie.”
His eyes flicked to her, hollow with doubt. “I was not a straight heir, Eliza. I could have lived my life knowing I had a brother, but I did not. My life might have as well been a giant falsehood.”
Eliza swallowed, her throat tight. She reached for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his.
“You are the man who protects his land when all others seek to strip it. You are the man who sees his people as more than numbers. You are the man who chose to honor me, even when our marriage began in chains. Legacy is not only blood. It is choice as well, and I have never seen a man choose to be so relentlessly good as you have, Tristan.”
His breath caught. He searched her face, as if afraid to believe. “And you … you can still believe in me? Even now?”
Her eyes glistened, but her voice did not falter. “I do not merely believe in you. I love you. And nothing Marcus or anyone else uncovers will change that.”
The silence that followed was deep, heavy, but not cold. He lifted her hand, holding it tight as though it was the only anchor left to him. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers.
Eliza closed her eyes. “You are not the lie, Tristan,” she whispered. “You are the choice.”
At last, his arms came around her. She pressed against him, holding him as though she could shield him from every shadow.