The Earl’s Reluctant Artist (Preview)

Chapter One

The boy’s breathing came quick and shallow, and his small hands trembled where they gripped the long rifle. The wild boar ahead poked through the ground with its nose, its sharp fur glistening with mud and tree bark.

Tristan’s brown hair shone in the sun as he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if to reassure or place undue pressure on him. Whichever one was going to get the work done.

“Steady, George,” he said, his tone even but clipped. “With things like this, you have to breathe through it. Keep your eyes on the animal. Do not blink or try to shift focus. Then you relax your shoulders and pull the trigger.”

The boy swallowed hard, but his elbows wavered. Tristan cleared his throat, his brown eyes watching the boar shift to a path that gave the boy a clearer shot.

“Now,” he ordered, and George snapped the trigger back.

The shot cracked through the clearing and across the leaves. The boar squealed and stumbled sideways before gaining its footing and vanished into the green wall of the footpath. George wanted to go after it, but Tristan gripped his shoulder. They both watched as a streak of blood marked the boar’s exit from sight.

“There is no point now, George. It is gone.”

George lowered the rifle with a startled gasp. “I-I thought—”

“It is all right,” Tristan said, stepping forward to watch the animal’s shadow finally disappear. “These things happen. You just have to prepare harder for the next one. And maybe try to focus even harder this time around.”

The boy’s mouth opened, but he closed it again. Tristan heaved a sigh and placed his hands on his hips, his fingers gripping the edges of his white shirt.

“I apologize, Lord Vale. I do not—”

“It is my fault,” Tristan said, cutting him off. “I thought you were ready and put too much on you.”

A muscle in George’s jaw jumped, and his eyes glistened. Tristan could see the tears beginning to gather below his lids, and he exhaled slowly.

“Oh, do not be like that, George. How old are you?”

“Thirteen, my lord.”

“In another world, you would already be leading a pack of men into war. You cannot afford to be weak, do you hear me? Emotions get the better of you. They make you reckless and force you into making rather poor decisions. You must put them down. Always.”

George swallowed, nodding gently at Tristan’s words.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A soldier’s greatest enemy is his feelings,” Tristan said, watching the boy’s face.

George nodded again.

Tristan sighed again. “Wipe your tears. We cannot have your mother grill you about this.”

“Grill him about what?” a third voice called from behind the tall rows of hedges at the edge of the clearing. They both turned at the same time and watched a figure step into view.

“Mrs. Andrews. How long have you been back there?” Tristan asked, clearing his throat.

“Just got here now, my lord,” the woman responded, her voice curt.

“Mother,” George greeted, still fidgeting with the rifle.

Mrs. Andrews stepped even closer to them, her apron brushed with flour and her greying red hair tucked in a neat bun.

“Might I make an inquiry as to what is going on here, my lord?” she asked, her eyes shifting from George and his rifle to Tristan and the calm smirk that settled on his face.

“Nothing, Mrs. Andrews,” he responded, his voice sharper than he intended. “I was only showing your young man here how to catch a boar.”

She glanced at the rifle again. “Are you telling him tales of your time in the military, too, my lord?”

“Oh, you know me. They go hand in hand.”

Mrs. Andrews’ lips curved, and she gave a small nod. She stayed where she was while George and Tristan faced the clearing again.

“Hold the rifle steady, George,” Tristan said, adjusting the boy’s grip with a firm hand.

When he glanced back over his shoulder, Mrs. Andrews was still there.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Andrews?”

“A letter came for you this afternoon, my lord. I came to inform you as soon as the courier left.”

“Who is it from?”

As she opened her mouth to respond, Tristan raised a hand.

“Do not tell me. I have a good feeling about who it is. I suppose saying it out loud will only ruin the mood.”

Mrs. Andrews shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and Tristan could have sworn he saw a flicker of sympathy cross her face.

“Shall I bring the letter here, my lord?” she asked again, her voice forcefully breaking the brimming silence.

“No.” The word came out too quickly. “I will take it when I return to the lodge.”

“Very well.” She turned to George. “Hurry, George, so you may eat before it grows dark.”

She walked back along the narrow track, her steps fading behind the rustle of leaves.

Tristan watched her go, then looked at George. “I suppose your mother does not want you learning to shoot so soon, Georgie boy.”

“She says it is not proper,” George muttered.

“She may not be far off if she thinks you might hurt yourself.”

George shrugged. “It is more than that. She says there are other things to learn first.”

Tristan kept his eyes on the clearing. “You have a parent who worries. You must be grateful. Not everyone is that fortunate.”

The boy nodded.

A flash of movement caught Tristan’s eye once again, and he turned. A deer stood some yards ahead, its ears twitching as it fed on the low grass. The air between them stilled as Tristan stared at it. It had not seen them. At least not yet.

“Hand me the rifle,” Tristan said quietly to the boy. “I will take the shot.”

“I can do it, my lord,” George whispered.

“All that I have said today, you may begin to practice tomorrow,” Tristan told him. “For now, hand me the rifle. It is important that the shot is precise.”

“I can do it, my lord,” George repeated, his tone firmer.

Tristan looked down at him. “You wish to redeem yourself?”

George nodded, setting his jaw.

“Very well. Breathe in and hold. Then let the air settle in your chest before you pull.”

George raised the weapon again, and his grip steadied. Tristan watched him put all his focus on the target ahead of them.

“Now,” Tristan murmured.

George pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out in the air. The deer jerked, stumbled, and collapsed in the tall grass, and a slow smile touched Tristan’s lips.

“It seems there may still be hope for you, Georgie boy,” he said gently, patting his back.

The boy’s grin spread wide. “Do you think—”

“Do not let it go to your head,” Tristan cut in. “One shot does not make you a marksman. But it is a start.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tristan glanced at the path Mrs. Andrews had taken. “Your supper awaits. Go on ahead. I will follow shortly.”

George hesitated. “Shall I wait for you, my lord?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. I will be in shortly.”

The boy nodded, then trudged toward the path, the rifle balanced in both hands.

When he was gone, Tristan let out a breath, his gaze drifting back to where the deer had fallen. The forest had grown quiet again, except for the soft whisper of leaves. He stared at the leaves, praying their sight kept him out of thinking about what awaited him when he stepped back into the lodge.

***

The weight of the deer pressed into his shoulders as he stepped into the lodge. The scent of the kill clung to his clothes, sharp and metallic. Mrs. Andrews stood in the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked up at him and watched with focus as he walked into the house, his back bent from the weight.

“Where would you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice on the edge of a mild groan.

The older woman eyed the lifeless body. “Preferably alive and back in the forest, my lord, but since we cannot manage that, the kitchen will do.”

Tristan laughed and turned in the direction of the kitchen, but she stepped forward as though to take it from him.

“I can handle it from here, my lord. You do not have to—”

“Nonsense,” Tristan said, shirking away from her before she could even reach him. “I will do it myself.”

He carried the deer through to the kitchen and let it drop with a dull thud onto the long table. When he came back to the hall, Mrs. Andrews was opening a drawer.

He watched with interest as she pulled out an envelope and set it on the side table. “The letter, my lord.”

He nodded in response. “Do you need help skinning the deer? I can bring a—” he asked.

“I will have to beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, my lord,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly, “but when it comes to skinning deer, I never need anyone else.”

He gave a faint smile in response as she walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly across the house.

After she was gone, Tristan’s eyes shifted back to the letter, and his fingers closed around it.

“What possible news could you have for me this time, Grandpapa?”

He broke the seal and unfolded the paper, feeling the words practically leap at him. His jaw tightened as he took in the contents word by word. Line by line.

Oh, dear lord.

He shuffled his feet and squeezed the paper into his hand, making it damp. By the time Mrs. Andrews returned, muttering about forgetting a stick of butter, the paper lay crumpled on the table.

She paused. “Is anything the matter, my lord?”

“The letter is from my grandfather,” Tristan responded.

“Yes. It is.” Mrs. Andrews responded in a tone that seemed to say that was something they both knew already.

“He has summoned me to the castle.”

The woman’s brows furrowed. “Summoned?”

Tristan let out a nervous chuckle. “More like threatened, if I am being honest.”

Mrs. Andrews said nothing. Instead, she watched with interest as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Something has come up,” he revealed.

The woman took a step back in surprise.

“Is everything all right?”

Tristan squeezed the letter. “Oh, not yet. But it will be.”

“My lord, if you need help with anything—”

Tristan laughed again. “You have been quite the most help, Mrs. Andrews. I do not know how I can possibly repay you.”

Silence fell between them, and Tristan exhaled as loudly as he could.

“I am afraid I must leave for Evermere tonight.”

Mrs. Andrews sighed. “And what about the deer, my lord?”

“Think of it as a gift from me to you, Mrs. Andrews.”

He left her in the hall and went to his room. Evermere was only half a day’s ride. If he left now, he could arrive before it grew fully dark. He pulled a few shirts and a coat from the chest, rolled them tightly, and stuffed them into a leather satchel. When he stepped back outside, the evening light had begun to fade. He walked to the stable and led his horse into the yard.

“Shall I prepare something for you to take along?” Mrs. Andrews called from the doorway.

“It is too late, Mrs. Andrews. But I am grateful for the sentiment,” Tristan said.

George appeared, trotting toward him. “I will help with the reins, my lord.”

Tristan handed him the leather straps. “Remember, Georgie, the lodge is under your control now. You must protect it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Tristan mounted the horse. “Stay sharp.”

The boy nodded, and Tristan urged the horse forward, the steady rhythm of hooves carrying him onto the open road. His mind worked over the letter’s words. His grandfather never spoke idly of the inheritance. If he had put it in writing, he meant it.

The night air was cold by the time the towers of Evermere rose against the horizon. He rode through the gates, ignoring the curious glances of the two maids who stood near the front steps.

“Where is my grandfather?” he asked.

They exchanged glances before one spoke. “He is in his study, my lord.”

Tristan strode through the halls, the familiar smell of polished wood and parchment filling his lungs. He found the door open and the reflection of shaky candlelight bouncing off the walls.

“Tristan,” his grandfather said, leaning back in his chair. “I knew the letter would get you here.”

He closed the door behind him, letting his eyes briefly settle on the portraits that were hung all around the walls.

“So you decided the only way to get me here was to threaten me with my inheritance?”

“No, I threatened you with it so you would marry this Season.”

“Oh, how kind.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot put it off any longer, my boy. Do you remember your younger cousin, Lady Rosamund Barrow?”

“What does Rosie have to do with anything?” Tristan asked, raising his hands.

The duke leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “She is getting married in a fortnight. Tristan, she is five years younger than you, and she is already married.”

Tristan sighed. “I am sorry if I am not keen on the idea of dedicating my life to someone else, Grandpapa.”

“Well, perhaps you should be keen on the idea of losing the estate and everything that comes with it after I die.”

Tristan’s voice cooled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you are my only heir, and I cannot have you waste the rest of your life in a hunting lodge in Northumberland.”

“I could not find anyone I like in time to marry this Season.”

“You could not find anyone in time to do anything,” his grandfather said dryly. “You do not like anyone enough to fall in love with them. Which is why I have asked my solicitor to arrange an advantageous match.”

Tristan felt his stomach twist. “Garrett?”

“Yes.”

Tristan’s brow narrowed. “You went to such lengths before even sending a word to me?”

“I do not want you to refuse, my boy. I hope you do what I say this time around. If you do not, I will hand off my estate to someone else.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “You do not need to make the threat twice, Grandpapa.”

“I am being serious.”

“And I am here. Is that not enough proof that I am aware of that?” Tristan muttered.

His grandfather ignored it. “Garrett will be here tomorrow.”

Tristan’s jaw flexed as he turned around.

“Fine.”

Chapter Two

Eliza stood before the mirror as it captured her face in the soft light of the morning. Her eyes settled on her reflection, and she watched in wonder as her reflection stared back at her. Her cheeks were framed with brown hair, and they fell in rather loose strands that seemed to brush her shoulders. Her hazel eyes looked wider than usual and had a slight hint of red about them. She hadn’t been sleeping properly as of late, and she needed to remedy that as soon as possible. Her frame was slight and her shoulders were narrow. They filled out her gown, which was plain in color. She brushed her hair with slow strokes, pressing her lips together as if the motion would steady her thoughts.

She was halfway done with her hair when the door creaked open.

Ruth, the serving maid, curtsied before stepping in, her voice low and careful. “Miss, your brother is here.”

Eliza’s brush stilled. “He is back?”

“Yes, miss. And he brought a friend with him.”

Eliza swallowed. “Thank you, Ruth.”

Ruth dipped again and slipped out of the chamber. Eliza placed the brush on the dressing table with a trembling hand. Her heart jumped and then sank. She rose to her feet, lifting the ends of her gown as the fear started to get the better of her. The best way to avoid Marcus’s anger was to remain out of sight.

And that was what she intended to do.

She hurried out immediately, her slippers practically digging into the wooden floorboards as she left her chamber.

The staircase stretched before her, its edges lined with dust and the steps stripped of polish. She remembered when it used to shine with no consequence. When light from the tall windows spilled across it like gold. Now it looked dry and brittle, a reminder of the former grandeur she used to live in.

She descended quickly, her dress still gathered in one hand. Her feet crossed the faded carpet of the hall, each step echoing in the emptiness. She glanced behind her as though expecting someone to appear.

She turned back too late and collided with a solid form. A gasp escaped her lips.

“Watch where you are going, you half-wit!” Marcus snapped, pushing his hand out and shoving her aside.

Eliza stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest with no limit. She watched him smooth the lapel of his coat with sharp flicks of his fingers, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“I beg your pardon,” Eliza said quickly, her cheeks flushing as she managed to exhale.

Marcus looked down at her, but the man beside him drew her eyes instead. His figure was taller than her brother’s, and his coat was dark and well cut. His gaze met hers and softened faintly.

“Miss Harwood,” the man said with a polite bow. “I am Mr. Coltrane.”

Eliza dipped her head just slightly. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I am about to have a very important meeting with Mr. Coltrane,” Marcus said, his voice rising with authority. “If you know what is good for you, make yourself scarce.”

Eliza clenched her hands together, the knuckles growing white. She watched as Marcus and Mr. Coltrane walked toward the opposite end of the house. Her teeth pressed hard together. If Marcus already saw her, she might as well take her chance now. There was something she needed. Something she was certain he could provide for her.

She drew a breath and stepped forward. “Marcus, now that you are here, there is something I would like to ask of you.”

Marcus stopped mid-step and turned slowly, his dark eyes boring into her, heavy with disdain.

“Well, speak, Eliza,” he said. “Not all of us have time to waste.”

Eliza rubbed her hands together, her gaze falling to the floor and then back up again. “I had hoped to purchase some hues for my painting. I meant to go to the market this morning, but I have no money. I wondered if you might give me some.” She swallowed. “You could even lend it, and I will repay you when I have it.”

A low laugh broke from Marcus, and he stepped toward her until the space between them seemed to shrink.

“When you have it? Eliza, have you lost all sense? We are growing penniless by the second. The house is disintegrating around us, yet you ask me for colors.”

“I only—”

“You only waste breath,” Marcus cut in, his voice sharp and filled with scorn. “Look around you. Look at where we currently live. This house once stood proud, a glorious mansion with endless maids and cooks. Now we are reduced to one servant and a girl in the kitchen who cannot apparently tell what fish should taste like—”

“Anna is trying her best —”

“Did I say you could speak?”

Eliza’s chest rose and fell, the words burning her throat.

“Let us say I lend you the money, how would you repay me?” Marcus demanded. He lifted his boot and tapped the sole against the floor. “You are as useless as this bit of leaf at the bottom of my shoe. You do nothing but sit before a canvas all day and draw useless images. You have no prospects, no suitors of worth, no skill that would keep you fed for even a week. And still you ask me for colors.”

Her throat tightened, and she bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.

Marcus leaned closer, his words low but edged with cruelty. “The only responsibility I have, dear sister, is to keep you alive, and I do that by feeding you. Anything else is a frivolity, and for you, a luxury.”

Eliza lowered her eyes. “I am sorry. I only meant to ask—”

“Well, you meant wrong.”

Eliza swallowed. “You must accept my apologies.”

A wave of tension passed between all three of them before Marcus eventually broke it.

“Make certain you never ask me that again,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He turned on his heel and strode away with Mr. Coltrane, leaving her rooted to the spot.

Left alone, she felt her skin start to crawl with embarrassment. Her vision blurred, and she blinked hard, but the sting in her eyes did not fade.

“Miss,” Ruth’s gentle voice broke through as she hurried forward and touched Eliza’s arm. “Do not cry. Please, do not let your brother’s words fall too deep. It will be well.”

Eliza forced a breath, steadying her voice, though it wavered. “Yes, Ruth. I am well aware of that, believe me. I know it cannot continue this way.”

Ruth gave her a searching look. “No, it cannot. Do you need me to fetch you anything? A handkerchief, perhaps? Maybe a handkerchief for your eyes?”

“You are too kind,” Eliza stated. “But you do not have to worry. The worst of it is all over, I suppose.”

Ruth said nothing. Instead, she only nodded and remained rooted to the spot. Eliza brushed her sleeves against the falling tears in her eyes and cleared her throat.

“Tell me, Ruth,” she said, “Who is Mr. Coltrane? Is he someone we used to know? Something about him seems oddly familiar.”

“I do not think so, miss,” Ruth answered softly. “But if you will forgive my forwardness, I cannot help but wonder what mischief your brother is plotting this time around.”

Eliza’s lips pressed into a thin line. She lifted her chin and nodded faintly. “I cannot help but wonder as well.”

***

The afternoon light slid lazily through the tall window, softening the hard lines of Eliza’s chamber. She sat with her easel near the window, her brush moving gently across the canvas. A shallow plate of hues rested at her side, the colors new and precious. She had asked her only friend, Clara, for money to purchase them. She could still hear Clara’s voice in her mind as she painted.

Do not fret, Eliza. I only want you to pay it back when you can.

Her hand trembled slightly with gratitude as she dipped the brush into the vivid blue. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. The scent of oil and pigment filled the room, intense but somewhat soothing. Her brush moved, laying out the lines of stone steps, tall drapes, and windows filled with light.

She was not painting what lay outside her window. There was nothing worth painting there. All she could see now were broken shutters, cracked stones, and a courtyard overrun by weeds. No, she painted what had once been, what the house used to be like when her parents were still alive. She painted the mansion as she remembered it, when it looked graceful and stately and when it was filled with the hum of life.

The tall cobblestone steps shone in her imagination, and the courtyard brimmed with polished carriages. Drapes of ivory fell in soft folds from high windows, and the sun pressed hard against the bright walls.

She painted the grandeur of yesterday. The one she could no longer get back. The thought struck her just as it had come.

Her throat tightened, and she set down the brush for a moment. Tears filled her eyes as she folded her hands together.

“Papa. Mama.” Her voice was low and uncertain as she pressed her palms against her knees.

“You always said you would be with me. Yet it feels as though you have abandoned me.” She raised her gaze to the ceiling as if the light might carry her words.

“I remember the dinners you gave. I remember the plays we attended, the carriage rides through town. Now we have nothing, except enough to keep us from starving.”
She bent her head again, lifting the brush but not moving it.

“Marcus is no solicitor anymore. He was caught stealing, and he has brought disgrace upon us. I have had to borrow from a friend for these colors.”

Her breath caught, and she blinked against the sting in her eyes.

“This cannot be the life you wished for me. I know you wanted better, and I want better, too. I want freedom. I want to escape his hand upon me. If you hear me … if you truly are still with me … please send me a sign.”

The door burst open without warning, and Marcus stepped in, his boot digging into the floor with purpose. She watched his eyes sweep over her painting before settling on her face, and she gently lowered her brush.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask that you knock before entering my room.”

He shut the door behind him with a click. “The last thing you want to do is waste my time with sass.”

Her lips pressed tight. She placed the brush on the table before her and waited. Whatever her brother had to say, it couldn’t be worse than anything he had said before.

“I’ve brought news,” Marcus eventually said, walking across the chamber with deliberate strides. He sat down on the edge of her bed, his hand settling on his coat. “Good news.”

She arched her brow. “What news?”

“It has all been arranged,” Marcus began, his tone measured and calculated. “You are to marry Lord Tristan Vale, the Earl of Evermere.”

For a moment, she could not speak. She blinked at him, uncertain whether she had misheard, then, at the very last minute, a sharp and quick laugh broke from her lips.

Marcus narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes. Did you hear what you just said?”

“Yes,” Marcus responded, his voice flat and devoid of any kind of humor.

“And it is quite hilarious,” Eliza said, shaking her head. “You have either taken up a role as a court jester, or you have finally lost your mind.”

His expression hardened. “You will not speak to me in that manner.”

“Is this a joke? No lord would ever agree to marry a girl from a family in ruin. I have nothing to offer, Marcus. No inheritance or promise of dowry.”

Marcus’s mouth curved into a smile, even though it held nothing but mischief. “It is fortunate you need not worry about that. Lord Tristan knows nothing of our state. All he knows is that you are the daughter of a powerful baron, with noble connections and wealthy friends. As a female, you are left with a small inheritance held in trust. That will be difficult to disprove.”

Her breath left her sharply. “You mean to have me enter into marriage by deceit? You truly have gone mad.”

He rose and crossed the room, stopping near the small table where her brushes lay. “This is everything we have been hoping for.”

She stood, squaring her shoulders. “No. It is everything you have been hoping for. I will not do it.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have no choice.”

“I am certain that I have a choice in whom I marry. I will not submit to a scheme or give myself to a man under false pretenses.”

Marcus’s hand came down hard on the table, rattling the bowl of colors. “Need I remind you again of our situation? Our father is gone. We have no income, no standing. The roof falls in each passing day, and the walls rot around us. Your purpose to this family is to make yourself useful.”

Her lips trembled, but she held her ground. “You are the reason we are in this state. You squandered what we had on dishonest dealings and disgraced our name. Why should I have to pay for your transgressions?”

Marcus leaned close, his face tight with fury. “Enough.”

Eliza exhaled and continued to watch him.

His gaze fell on the canvas by the window. The painted drapes and carriages gleamed in vivid color.

“And this?” he said with a sharp laugh. “This is what you do while the house decays? A child’s game. It will never feed you.”

Her hand clenched against her skirts. “There must be another way.”

“There is none,” Marcus said. His voice cut across the chamber like a knife. “If you refuse, then the house will crumble over our heads, and you will bear the blame.”

He straightened and smoothed his coat again as he walked toward the door. Then he grabbed the doorknob and turned to her. “You will marry him. And that is final.”

He stepped out, and the door shut tight behind him.

Eliza stood still, her breath uneven. Her hand trembled when she lifted the brush again, but she could not bring herself to paint. She stared at the bright colors she had bought at such cost. She would have to marry an unknown earl.

She had no choice.

Better to face a stranger than the wrath of her brother.