Marcus looked from her to Tristan, then to the duke, searching for sympathy and finding none.
His jaw tightened. “You will regret this.”
“No,” Eliza said softly. “I doubt we will.”
He turned and strode from the room. The sound of his boots struck the floor hard, echoing until the door closed behind him.
Silence followed.
Tristan exhaled, the weight that had been pressing on his chest slowly easing. He looked at Eliza. She stood tall, her eyes bright but unshaken.
Eliza’s hand trembled slightly in his, but she didn’t let go.
“Is it truly over?” she asked.
Tristan met her gaze. “Yes, my dear. It is.”
He leaned in and kissed her, slow and steadily. Outside, the sound of carriage wheels faded down the gravel drive. Inside, the house felt lighter, the air clean again.
Epilogue
It felt rather strange to Tristan that everything that had happened for the last few weeks had managed to strengthen his relation with Eliza.
Other couples who were not even set up by greedy brothers would not have lasted this long; he was well aware of that. Yet, it felt like the trials and tribulations they had both faced had pushed them out the other side, leaving them feeling much more victorious than ever.
As he walked along the path that led to the trimmed hedges of the manor, the thoughts continued to settle even further into his head.
“My lord,” a maid greeted as he walked, throwing him a mild curtsy.
He responded with a brief nod.
Soon, he found the duke by the hedges, cane balanced in his hand. The old man’s gaze was fixed on the atelier’s window, where they could see Eliza painting through the glass.
“She steadies us all, does she not?” the duke murmured. “Even when she thinks she paints only for herself.”
Tristan slowed his steps as he grew closer to his grandfather. “She paints more truth than words can carry.” His voice was just a little lower than he had intended.
The duke turned, his eyes sharper than Tristan expected for his years. He reached into his coat, then pressed something into Tristan’s palm.
Tristan opened his hand. It was an old ring made of pure gold.
“It belonged to your mother,” the duke said. “She specifically requested that I give this to you when I was certain that you were well enough to stand on your own. What I have seen in the last few days has told me all I needed to know.”
Tristan’s breath caught. “I never thought you would say that to me.”
The duke exhaled, his voice edged with regret. “It took me far too long. Forgive an old man his pride.”
Tristan closed his fingers over the ring, the weight of it more than metal. “There is nothing left to forgive.”
The duke’s eyes shone briefly, but he only nodded and turned back toward the house, leaving Tristan standing with the ring tight in his grip.
He entered the atelier quietly, ignoring the soft rays of the sun as he closed the door behind him. The air smelled blatantly of oils and canvas. Eliza stood at her easel, her brush in hand, and the apron over her dress marked faintly with paint. On the wall, his mother’s portrait hung, the restored colors warm and alive.
He stopped, staring, and his chest tightened at the sight.
Eliza noticed, turning with a crease of worry in her brow. “Tristan?”
He said nothing. His eyes instead remained fixed on the painting.
