Page 5 of How to Enchant a Viscount (Lady Be Seductive #2)

Four

T he air was thick with the lingering warmth of the late afternoon, though the sun had lowered it still cast a golden glow over the rolling landscape. Maeve had set out with no real direction in mind, only the need to escape the confines of the house and the ceaseless questions circling in her mind. She had spent far too much time in her studio, too much time thinking of a man she ought not to spare a second thought. A walk, she had told herself, would clear her head.

She followed the narrow, winding path beyond the gardens, where the scent of late-summer roses and freshly cut grass gave way to damp earth and the distant murmur of water. She had not intended to go to the pond, and yet, as she reached the familiar clearing, she was not surprised to find herself there. The pond was nestled between tall willows, their long, trailing branches swaying gently over the still water. Lily pads floated lazily upon the surface, and a pair of ducks skimmed the shallows before disappearing into the reeds. It was a peaceful place, one she often sought when she needed solitude.

Which was why it was so irritating to find it occupied.

She halted as her gaze landed upon a solitary figure seated on the grass near the water’s edge. Viscount Pemberton, lounged with the easy grace of a man who belonged wherever he pleased. He was dressed casually, his coat discarded beside him, his cravat loosened just enough to hint at his usual disregard for propriety. Maeve exhaled sharply, debating whether to turn back before he noticed her. It was a foolish notion—of course, he noticed her.

“Ah,” Lord Pemberton drawled, tilting his head back as he regarded her. “I was beginning to think I had been abandoned in this dreadful wilderness with no hope of rescue.”

Maeve arched a brow. “Yes, this cultivated estate with its well-kept paths and serene pond is positively treacherous. However, have you survived?” And what the blazes had he even meant by that. It was not as if she had a scheduled appointment with the man. She had made him no promises, and in fact, had been careful not to offer him any real encouragement.

He grinned. “It has been a trial, I assure you. I have been left alone with only my thoughts for company.” He sighed dramatically. “A dangerous thing, my lady.” She just bet it was… He seemed like the type to create scandal for the sheer fun of it. Without a care of who he may hurt in the process. What was it about this man she found so bloody intriguing? He was a rake. Nothing more, nothing less…

“Indeed,” she murmured, stepping closer despite her better judgment. “One wonders what thoughts could possibly plague a man with such an unshakable sense of self-importance.” She refrained from rolling her eyes at his melodrama, but just barely.

Lord Pemberton smirked but did not immediately reply. Instead, he patted the patch of grass beside him in invitation. “Do sit, Lady Maeve. I promise I shall keep my self-importance to a tolerable level.”

Maeve hesitated. She should decline. She should turn on her heel and retreat to the house, where there were no flirtatious rakes determined to unsettle her. And yet, something in his expression—the flicker of something unreadable beneath the humor—stayed her steps. With a soft sigh of resignation, she settled onto the grass beside him, though she kept a respectable distance. “You ought not to be out here alone,” she said, more for the sake of propriety than true concern. “A man of your standing should take care not to set tongues wagging.”

The viscount chuckled, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. “I am rather fond of wagging tongues. They provide such delightful entertainment.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. This time she could not prevent the action from slipping through. “You are incorrigible.”

“I have been told as much,” he admitted with a lazy grin. He turned his gaze toward the pond, his expression momentarily distant. “I used to have a place like this at my family’s estate.” He motioned toward the pond. “Well, not exactly like this. But a place I could go to think and ponder all of life’s mysteries.”

Maeve glanced at him, surprised by the shift in his tone. “You did?”

He nodded. “My father’s land sits upon the cliffs. Stark and windswept, rather than lush like this. But there is a small cove hidden beyond the cliffs—a quiet place where the water meets the shore. I spent much of my childhood there, imagining grand adventures, fighting invisible foes.” A small, almost wistful smile curved his lips. “It was my favorite place in the world.”

Maeve studied him, noting the way his usual lighthearted demeanor had faded, replaced with something quieter, something… wounded. “You have not been back in some time,” she guessed.

Lord Pemberton was silent for a long moment before he exhaled, tossing the blade of grass aside. “No.” He glanced at her, his smile returning, but this time it did not quite reach his eyes. “I find I am not particularly eager to walk the halls of a house filled with ghosts.”

Maeve felt a pang of something she could not name. He spoke lightly, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote, but she saw the truth in the way his fingers curled into the grass, the way his gaze darted toward the water as if seeking some form of escape.

“What ghosts haunt those halls?” she asked, keeping her tone soft and coaxing. He seemed as if he needed to talk about it but was reluctant. This was a side of him that he clearly did not show the world. It was a side of him she very much wanted to know and understand. It made him seem much more than the scoundrel she pegged him to be.

Lord Pemberton went very still and did not answer her question. Had she gone too far? He was silent for so long that she began to think he would not answer. But then he let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said at last. “Ghosts haunt the halls.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I should not have mentioned that, but alas, here we are.” He turned to her and sadness filled those light green eyes. She wanted to take back her question now. She did not like to see a man usually so lively filled with such grief. “My father,” he began. “He was always such a gregarious man. I adored him and, in many ways, I admired him. I wanted to be just like him one day.” He exhaled sharply. “He would perhaps be disappointed in the man I’ve become, but there is no changing me for the better now.”

“What happened to him?” She kept her tone gentle. She knew if she pushed, he would not keep talking and she felt now, that he had started he must finish this story of his. It seemed important somehow.

He did not glance at her as he continued, “They were returning from London when the carriage overturned. The road was wet. The horses spooked. It was quick.” His voice remained even, but Maeve could hear the tension beneath the words. “Somehow, my mother survived…” He shook his head. “But still…” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “She was injured quite badly.” He turned to her then. “She’s fragile in a way she never was before. She never leaves the estate and begs me to visit, but I am a terrible son and do not go there. I just…can’t.”

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I am sorry,” she finally murmured.

Brooks turned to her then, and for once, the teasing glint in his eyes was absent. “Are you?”

Maeve frowned. “Of course.”

He studied her for a long moment before a slow, crooked smile appeared. “Then you are quite unlike most. Death makes people uncomfortable, you know. They never quite know how to respond, so they either pretend it did not happen or offer some meaningless platitude before scurrying away.” He leaned back on his elbows, feigning nonchalance. “It is quite fascinating to watch, really.”

Maeve’s chest tightened. He was deflecting, using humor to shield whatever pain still lingered beneath the surface. It was something she understood all too well. “You speak as if grief is an inconvenience,” she said. Maeve thought of her own loss, of her mother, and the journal she had yet to read. She would give anything to have her mother back. Surely, he felt the same about his father. And his poor mother… Did he truly ignore her pleas? How horrid.

The viscount’s gaze flicked to hers, sharp and assessing. She held it, refusing to let him make light of something so clearly etched in his very being. After a moment, his lips quirked. “Grief is a wretched bore,” he said. “But unavoidable, I suppose.”

Maeve tilted her head, considering him. “And what do you do, my lord, when it refuses to be ignored?” He had shown a side of himself to her that he usually kept hidden. He could not take that back now. She had seen it. He cared, and deeply. He could pretend with others, but never her. She would push him to admit it if necessary.

Brooks grinned then, though it was tinged with something almost bitter. “Why, I flirt with pretty ladies and make them wonder if they ought to be painting me instead of landscapes.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. There was no possible way he could know that she had already started to paint him. He couldn’t… She had to remain calm. If he had any idea, it would go straight to his head and the man already had an enough self-pride to spare. Maeve exhaled, shaking her head. “You are impossible.” At least he no longer looked pained with grief, but it was just another mask. One he kept in place, so the world did not truly see him.

“And yet,” he mused, “you are still sitting here with me.”

Maeve bit back a smile. “A temporary lapse in judgment.” Despite that judgement she should use, she liked him. Perhaps too much. He was a temptation she did not need in her life.

Brooks laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Ah, but I am terribly charming. You cannot be blamed for succumbing.”

Maeve rose, dusting off her skirts. “Then it is best I leave before I fall completely under your spell.”

Brooks watched her, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Too late for that, I think.”

Maeve rolled her eyes and turned toward the path, but she could not stop the smile that curved her lips as she walked away. Nor could she ignore the warmth lingering in her chest, the echo of laughter and something dangerously close to understanding.

The warmth of the late afternoon lingered on Maeve’s skin as she walked back toward the house, but the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with the sun. She should not have lingered by the pond, should not have allowed herself to fall into such an easy conversation with the viscount. And yet, she could not regret it. Viscount Pemberton was a rake. That much was undeniable. He flirted shamelessly, carried himself with an air of careless charm, and had the sort of wicked smile that could make any woman forget her better judgment. But beneath all of that—the humor, the teasing, the effortless mischief—there was something deeper. A wound not yet healed.

He had spoken of his father’s death as if it were nothing more than an unfortunate fact of life, as if it had not shaped him, had not left a scar that he still carried. But Maeve had seen it, had heard it in his voice when he spoke of his mother, his home, the ghosts he refused to face. And she had seen how he covered it all with a smirk and a careless remark, as if pretending he did not feel the pain could make it disappear altogether.

She understood that. All too well.

Maeve let out a slow breath, forcing herself to push the thoughts of Lord Pemberton aside. She would not allow herself to grow attached to him. That way led to nothing but heartbreak. She had watched Isla’s sorrow when the Duke of Thornridge had left her behind. Had watched her sister carry on as though nothing had changed, though Maeve knew better. Love had a way of making fools of people, of making them believe in things that would never come to pass.

Lord Pemberton was no different. He would never belong to any woman. Not truly. He was too restless, too determined to remain untethered. And she was too practical to believe otherwise.