Tristan watched Eliza’s eyes widen slightly. “I hardly deserve such praise, my lord. I only do what I can.”
Lord Howard’s gaze lingered on her, approving and steady. “That is exactly why you deserve them.”
Tristan’s throat tightened. He had been worried … worried that these men would see her as nothing but a woman of misfortune who managed to find her way into the web of Evermere’s riches. The fact that her brother was an architect of what could possibly be the manor’s downfall did not exactly help matters.
Yet what he saw now was different.
They studied her with respect. With belief, and it made his heart ache with something he could not easily name … gratitude perhaps? Or was it pride? Perhaps it was something sharper that pressed against the edge …
Wait.
It couldn’t be …
Was it …
The duke rose, interrupting his flow of thoughts and the damning conclusion growing in his head. Tristan’s eyes settled on his grandfather as he stepped forward, leaning on his cane.
“Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” Tristan asked, his eyes narrowed.
The duke and Lord Howard both turned to him at the same time, the amusement in their faces quite clear. “Your wife promised us a glimpse of the new atelier.”
Tristan turned to Eliza, who only looked back at him with a mild shrug. Then she hesitated for a heartbeat, after which she smiled. “Yes, of course. If you will follow me.”
They walked down the corridor, their steps falling in rhythm. Tristan walked slightly behind, watching the way the duke and Lord Howard sauntered at Eliza’s side, speaking with her as though she had always belonged here.
When they entered the atelier, Tristan watched the duke stop short. His eyes swept across the canvases, the light pouring over sketches and finished works alike.
“Good heavens,” he murmured. “It has changed entirely since I last stepped inside.”
Eliza looked down, shy now. “It is nothing extraordinary. Only small pieces of myself put on canvas.”
Lord Howard moved closer to a painting of the village in the middle of the harvest festival. Eliza had managed to capture the atmosphere in colors and brush strokes.
“Small pieces?” The duke repeated, his eyes settling on Eliza. “My dear, this is no small thing. This is life, caught and held. You remind me …” His voice faltered, then he cleared his throat, and his voice remained steady. Tristan knew exactly where he was going, but he let him finish speaking anyway.
“You remind me of Tristan’s mother.”
Tristan watched Eliza’s throat bob. A reaction he had expected.
“Oh,” she eventually responded, words clearly failing her.
The duke continued anyway, almost like he was unaware of what she could possibly be feeling. “She had the same eye for drawing and the same carefree spirit you had.”
The room fell still, and Eliza’s eyes widened, then softened. “I … I do not know what to say.”
“You do not have to say anything,” Lord Howard replied quietly. “Just know that you are honoring her memory with every painting.”
The duke gave a single, slow nod. “Indeed, you do. She would have admired you.”
Tristan’s chest ached as he looked at Eliza. She glanced back at him, uncertain, almost flustered under their praise. He wanted to cross the room, take her hand, and tell her she had nothing to doubt. Instead, he stayed where he was, forcing his hands behind his back.
Eliza cleared her throat. “If you will allow me, my lord, I would like you to have one.”
Howard turned, startled. “One of your paintings?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes. I know it is not much, but … if it would please you, I should be honored.”
