Page 4 of How to Enchant a Viscount (Lady Be Seductive #2)
Three
M aeve dipped her brush into the rich ochre paint, her fingers steady as she swept it across the canvas in smooth, deliberate strokes. She ought to have been working on the new landscape she had already started. And yet, when she had set up her easel that morning, her mind had betrayed her, leading her hands to sketch out something—or rather, someone—entirely different. After she had rendered the charcoal drawing, she had stared down at what she had depicted on the paper before her.
Brooks Davis, Viscount Pemberton in all his glory was there. The dark lines formed his beautiful face and sharp cheek bones, and those full, kissable, lips… Though using just charcoal to create his likeness did not do him justice. It was only one layer of the man’s beauty. To truly appreciate how gorgeous he was there needed to be color. Even then she doubted that she could get the right shade of gold for his hair, and green for his eyes. It was a challenge she could not resist.
She had not meant to paint him, and yet, here he was, his striking features slowly taking shape upon the canvas. The tilt of his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw, the mischievous gleam that so often lit his pale green eyes—all of it was forming beneath her fingertips as if by some unseen force. She had been working for hours as she put paint to canvas. Maeve had lost all track of time and could not fully say how long that she had been sitting in her art studio. It was not nearly complete. It was more of an outline with some color added in, but it was clearly him. She would have to add more layers to fully complete the painting. A painting she should never have started.
Maeve sighed, setting down her brush and pressing her fingertips to her temples. What was it about this man that had settled so firmly in her thoughts? He was infuriating, entirely too sure of himself, and yet, there was something about him—something beyond the rakish charm and easy wit. Something she could not define. Her interest in him bothered her on a fundamental level. Maeve did not find gentlemen intriguing. She did not want anything to do with a man. She had only agreed to have a debut because Athena had wanted it. She had said all the right things and pretended otherwise, but she had not wanted to find a husband. To her, Isla had the right idea by abstaining from society. Not that Isla’s reasons for doing so mirrored hers, they just both preferred not to attend balls and dance with strangers. Maeve was far more comfortable at home where she could paint and create her own little masterpieces. In a way, Athena was much the same. She did not like socializing either. But her sister had craved love and had found that with her earl.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her musings. She shook those thoughts away and pulled herself together. Whoever was there would not wish to converse with someone who’s head was firmly elsewhere. “Maeve?” Isla’s voice floated through the studio, gentle yet inquisitive. “May I come in?”
Maeve exhaled, composing herself before calling out, “Of course.” What did her sister want? She wished, sometimes, that she did not have to talk to anyone. Isla was always sad, and Maeve felt that deeply. If only that blasted duke had not broken her heart.
The door creaked open, and Isla stepped inside, her dark hair pinned neatly back, her arresting green eyes scanning the room before settling on the canvas. A knowing smile played upon her lips as she crossed the space between them.
“That is not a landscape,” Isla observed, tilting her head as she studied the painting. “In fact, it looks quite a bit like…” She paused, and her smile deepened. “A certain viscount who paid you marked attention at Athena’s wedding.”
Maeve felt her cheeks warm. “It is merely a study,” she said, feigning indifference as she turned back to the canvas. “I was practicing capturing expressions.” She frowned. “It’s not nearly finished, and I may not complete it.”
“Ah,” Isla said, amusement threading through her tone. “Expressions. And you just so happened to choose his?”
Maeve huffed, dipping her brush into the paint once more to avoid meeting her sister’s gaze. “It is a striking face. That is all.” It was beyond that. His face was surely that of an angel—a wicked one. Perhaps that is what Lucifer had looked like before he had descended into hell. He had supposedly been the most beautiful of all the angels.
“Indeed, it is,” Isla agreed. “And one you apparently cannot stop thinking about.” Damn her sister and her perceptiveness. She did not want to discuss the viscount with her. Maeve wasn’t ready to discuss him with anyone. Mainly because she could not truly explain her fascination with him. Which was how she had found herself first sketching him and then painting him. Wouldn’t that make him feel all smug after their encounter by the pond. He had wanted her to paint him something memorable and she had told him she would consider it. Well, damn and blast, here she was doing just that. Maeve groaned, setting her brush down once more. “You are impossible.”
Isla laughed softly. “Perhaps. But I am also right, am I not?”
Maeve did not answer, for she did not have an answer to give. Instead, she merely stared at the canvas, at the familiar face looking back at her, and wondered if she was making a terrible mistake. Of course she was making a mistake. How could this be anything else? He was a rake. A scoundrel that should be avoided. He had openly admitted that he was a rogue and that she should not trust him, and yet, she wanted to know him. It would be beyond foolish of her to spend any more time with him. “I admit nothing.” She couldn’t. If she said anything aloud it would make it true, and she was not ready for anything resembling the truth.
Isla tilted her head, watching Maeve with an expression of pure amusement. “You may not admit it, but the evidence is rather damning.” She gestured toward the canvas. “One does not spend hours capturing a man’s likeness unless he has well and truly settled himself in one’s thoughts.”
Maeve scowled, crossing her arms. “Perhaps I merely wished to challenge myself.”
Isla arched a brow. “Indeed. And I suppose you could not find a more suitable subject than a notorious rake?”
Maeve exhaled sharply, turning back to the painting. It was ridiculous. She had never given much thought to men before. And yet, here she was, pouring her time into immortalizing the face of a man she had known for such a short amount of time. “It is nothing.” She shrugged.
Isla did not look convinced. “If it were nothing, then why do you sound as though you are trying to convince yourself?”
Maeve’s fingers tightened into fists. “I simply do not wish to discuss it.” It was time to take a different tact. She was not proud of herself for what she was about to do. “Shouldn’t you care more about your own experience with men than mine with someone I am barely acquainted with or is that how you know of his reputation?” She arched a brow. “We have not been out in society overly long but you know much about Viscount Pemberton. Why is that?”
“Very well,” Isla said tightly. Anger blazed in her eyes suggesting she was not entirely finished with the subject; however, she would let it be for the moment. But not to spare any feelings Maeve might have. Her sister had her own secrets concerning the duke. Things she had never fully told any of them. They had a budding relationship that had ended as abruptly as it had begun. “But if you continue painting him, you may wish to prepare yourself for what it will mean.”
Maeve frowned. “And what exactly will it mean?”
“That he has already claimed a part of you,” Isla murmured. “Even if you do not yet realize it.”
Maeve swallowed hard, suddenly feeling far too warm. She did not wish to consider such implications. Viscount Pemberton was nothing more than an amusing distraction—an infuriatingly handsome rogue who had made her laugh when she had not wished to. That was all. He could not mean anything more. But even as she told herself that, she could not bring herself to set the painting aside. She never painted anything for no reason at all. Every painting she had ever finished had been for a purpose. She may not have known the purpose when it had begun, but not long after she finished a piece its importance became clear. She said none of this aloud because she did not have to. Isla knew it. Maeve knew it, but she would avoid that truth for as long as possible.
Isla smiled knowingly—almost smugly, and that irritated Maeve. “You will see, dearest sister. If he is meant to be more than a fleeting fancy, then fate will see to the rest.”
Maeve did not respond—there was no need to as Isla had stormed out of the studio. Instead, she picked up her brush once more and returned her attention to the canvas, determined to prove—to herself, to Isla, and to the entire world—that the viscount was nothing more than a face she had chosen to paint. Even if, deep in the quiet corners of her heart, she already suspected she was wrong.
Because if she Isla was correct, she feared her heart would soon be broken. For a rogue rarely fell in love, and Maeve would be just one more lady that lost herself to a man who would never truly want her. It would be a fleeting moment in her life, and a memory she would have to keep her warm at night. She doubted a rake of the viscount’s ilk would even recall her name long after he took what he wanted from her. Her fate could not be tied to his. Hadn’t she already had enough tragedy in her life?
She sighed and set the brush down. Isla’s words shook her and now she alone with her canvas and thoughts that she had trouble shaking. Perhaps it would help to see the viscount once more and then erase him from her thoughts. She would tell him that she could not work on any art for him. It was time to put as much distance as possible between him and herself. That path would only lead to heartache.
He would never know she had started this portrait of him. It would only go straight to the arrogant man’s head. And yet, even as Maeve resolved to forget him, her gaze drifted back to the canvas.
The light from the window caught on the wet paint, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the almost-smirk on his lips, the glint of mischief she had somehow captured in his eyes. Even unfinished, the painting held a power she did not fully understand. She had painted many faces before—her sisters, her father, even the servants who had been kind to her in childhood—but none had ever unsettled her quite like this.
Viscount Pemberton was unlike any man she had ever known. That was why she had to be rid of him. Maeve turned her back on the painting, determined to leave the studio for the remainder of the day. She would go into the village, she decided, or perhaps take a long ride across the moors. Anything to rid herself of this foolish, consuming distraction. She could not allow herself to be caught up in a man like the viscount. She would not lose herself to him. With that decided, she left her studio and pushed all thoughts of that unrepentant irrefutable rogue.