Page 3 of How to Bewitch a Duke (Lady Be Seductive #3)

Two

T he morning light crept gently through the tall windows of Harwood Hall, casting a pale shimmer over the marble floors and catching on the edges of silk draperies still drawn closed against the warmth of the sun. Lady Isla Thompson sat at the breakfast table, her tea untouched, her thoughts tangled in a haze of emotions she had yet to fully name.

The events of the masquerade haunted her. Thoughts of him would not leave her mind—Lucian. Even now, the mere thought of his name sent a ripple through her. His voice, his eyes, the quiet agony he had revealed—unspoken truths wrapped in the cloak of longing. He had looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world. And perhaps, for one impossible moment, she had wanted to believe it again. But belief was dangerous. Hope was perilous. And Isla had nearly drowned in both once before. Still, she could not forget. A part of her did not want to. For if he longed for her than all her pain had not been for naught. There had been something real between them.

She lifted her cup but paused as she noticed her sister, seated across the table, stirring her tea absently. Maeve had barely spoken a word all morning. Her cheeks were pale beneath the dark sweep of her hair, and her eyes, though dry, were too still. Far too guarded for Maeve, who usually carried her emotions close to the surface. It concerned her. Something must have happened between her and her viscount at the masquerade. She had been caught in her own troubled misery to notice before now.

Isla set her cup down quietly. “You are unusually quiet.”

Maeve blinked, then forced a faint smile. She tucked a stray dark curl behind her ear. “Am I? I suppose I am simply tired.” Her voice was casual, too carefully arranged.

“Mm,” Isla murmured, unconvinced. She did not believe for one moment it was that simple. Maeve appeared too distraught for it to be mere fatigue from the night before. “The ball proved to be too exhausting for you then?”

Maeve’s hand stilled on the porcelain and slowly met her gaze. “It was tiresome.”

“Perhaps you should rest then,” Isla said gently. “You are not yourself, dearest sister. I would hate for you to fall ill from last night’s excursions.” Isla did not think that was what was happening to her sister. She was sick, but not from any sort of illness. Her sister was heartsick and that was something Isla knew far more of than she would ever have liked. But that did not mean she needed to goad Maeve into revealing her pain. She would let her be, at least for an hour or so. Then perhaps later she would visit with her and see if she were willing to discuss the night’s events.

Maeve gave a soft, bitter laugh. “As if resting would ease everything.”

There it was. A fracture in her sister’s silence. Still, she did not believe Maeve was ready to discuss it all. Isla rose quietly and came to her sister’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sometimes it helps far more than you believe it will?”

Maeve shook her head, biting her lip as she looked away. “I don’t know…”

“You do not need to,” Isla began. “But at least consider it.” She paused. “If you do not think you can rest perhaps you should visit your studio?”

Maeve hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Painting has always helped ease whatever bothered me.”

“Then you should go there. The morning light is still good.” She smiled. “I will stop by later and see how you are doing.” There she could perhaps get Maeve to discuss what was bothering her. But painting would ease some of her pain. It was her place to go to relax.

Maeve left the breakfast room leaving Isla alone in the room. She had long forgotten her tea. Not that she had truly wanted it. She had been in her own misery before she had noticed her sister’s pain. She sighed and pushed her cup to the side. She was not like her sisters. Isla did not have something that had always kept her from wallowing her anguish. Athena had her horse and those wild gallops through the fields and Maeve had her painting. She had nothing. She had thought she had the duke, but that had fallen apart before it truly had a chance to begin.

And now she saw something in his gaze that suggested he was as miserable as she had been all these years. What could have changed for him to reveal that to her now? What did he hope to gain by allowing her to witness such naked torment? A part of her, the part that still loved and adored him, wanted to go to him and ask him these questions. But what would that solve?

She left her tea untouched on the table and went to the library. She could find a book to occupy herself with. At least she hoped she would be able to. Slowly she made herself to the one room that was her sanctuary. She supposed she did have this. She did find some comfort in books. It occurred to her then that when her turn came for her mother’s journal, she would have it to read. But it was still Maeve’s, and she did not know for certain when it would be hers. She had agreed to go last after all.

She opened the door to the library and strolled inside. The library greeted her with its familiar hush, the scent of old parchment and leather-bound volumes washing over her like balm. It was dimly lit, the heavy draperies still drawn against the sun, and the hearth sat cold and bare, but to Isla, it felt like solace.

She moved with purpose through the shelves, her fingers grazing over gilded titles as she tried to lose herself in the act of selection. Philosophy, poetry, natural history—none of them appealed. She stopped before the shelves near the window, her gaze falling upon a small volume of Byron’s poetry and reached for it without quite knowing why. Her fingers lingered on the worn spine of one of her favorite tomes—The Tempest. It has all the items a good book should have: drama, romance, forgiveness, power, revenge, betrayal… She pulled the tome from the shelf and considered lounging on one of the settees to read, but then she after she considered it she decided against it. She would check on Maeve first. She set the book on a nearby table to be retrieved after she visited Maeve in her studio. She did not want to risk any of Maeve’s paints tainting the book.

She made her way to Maeve’s studio. She knocked and then made her way inside. The door creaked open, and Isla stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over her sister, then she glanced at the painting, then back at Maeve. She shut the door behind her with quiet finality. “You have been locked in here for a while now.” Her voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the note of concern in it. “Are you well?”

Maeve forced a smile, though she suspected it did not reach her eyes. “I am well enough.” She slid her gaze to the painting that had caught Isla’s eyes when she first walked in. What was it about this painting that held her sister’s interest. It had to somehow relate back to the viscount.

Isla tilted her head, studying her sister with concern. Perhaps it was time to push a little. Her sister was clearly upset, and she did not like it. “I saw you dancing with him at the masquerade,” she said at last. “And I also noticed how he looked at you.” He had seemed enraptured with Maeve. What could have gone wrong? Not that she did not understand how it all could have fallen apart. Her own history spoke loudly of that unwelcome fact.

Maeve stiffened, her fingers curling at her sides. “None of that matters now. He does not want me. At least not in the same way I wanted him.” That familiar ache banged around inside Isla’s heart. Her sister knew heart break too. It was not something she would have wished for Maeve.

Anger filled her soul. How could he have hurt Maeve? What could have been so much more important than protecting her sister from that sort of pain? Was he truly that much of a scoundrel? “Then he is the fool,” she murmured. “And he doesn’t deserve you.”

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Maeve turned away, staring at the painting as if it might somehow provide all the answers. Isla could not fathom how though. “I find I must disagree. For I knew who he was and still I gave him my heart.”

“Perhaps,” Isla allowed. “But you were also brave.” Far more that Isla had been. The duke had wanted to talk with her, but she would not listen. It would mean opening herself up to more potential pain.

Maeve scoffed. “Brave? I do not feel particularly courageous at this moment.” She stared at the unfinished portrait of the viscount. It was a good likeness of him, but then again Maeve was that talented.

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” Isla said, stepping closer. “It is knowing the risk and taking it anyway.” Perhaps she should consider that herself. Would it truly be so terrible to listen to what Lucian had wanted to say? Would he be able to finally explain why he had truly ended their relationship? She did not think he would, but perhaps she should discover that for herself instead of assuming.

Maeve’s took a deep breath. “And what if the risk was not worth taking?” She kept her gaze pinned to that unfinished portrait. She must truly love him.

Isla hesitated, then touched Maeve’s arm gently. “That is something only you can decide.”

Maeve frowned and gestured toward the landscape. The one that she had painted not knowing who it was meant to be gifted to. Maeve often did that. Would paint something that formed in her mind believing it was meant for someone in particular. “I am giving him the painting,” she said, her voice hollow. She stared at the landscape. “It was meant for him.” She turned toward Isla and said bitterly, “Then I will be done with him.”

Isla kept her tone neutral as she asked, “And will that make it hurt less?”

Maeve did not answer. Perhaps because she already knew the truth. It would change nothing. Her heart would still ache at the loss. Isla knew that far too well. She still carried the pain of betrayal with her. Lucian had ruined something inside of her when he had broken her heart. She might never be the same again because of that. She was far too bitter and cynical that she liked.

None of it truly mattered in this moment. She was in the studio for Maeve and her heartache. Isla’s own pain had been with her for far too long. She prayed that Maeve would not have to endure what she had. Surely the viscount would come to his senses and realize what he would lose and beg to be in Maeve’s life. In the quiet of the studio, with the painting of a distant cove watching over them, she stayed with Maeve—two hearts broken but hopefully soon to heal, two women stronger than the men who had broken them ever dared imagine.