Page 7 of How to Enchant a Viscount (Lady Be Seductive #2)

Six

T he invitation arrived midmorning, brought in on a silver tray by the butler as Maeve and Isla sat in the drawing room. A footman had delivered it from Thornridge’s estate, and as soon as the butler presented it, Maeve had a strange feeling she knew exactly what it contained. Still, she stared at it as if it would sprout wings or something else illogical. She accepted the missive, noting the fine quality of the paper and the ducal seal pressed into the wax. Slowly she broke the seal and opened the invitation. Thornridge’s hand was distinct—his penmanship a bold, deliberate scrawl—and as she skimmed the contents, she could not help but feel both anticipation and unease curling in her stomach.

“A masquerade,” she murmured, tapping the invitation against her palm. This had to be the viscount’s doing. Thornridge had never, in all her years of her acquaintance with the man, known him to have any sort of entertainments let alone something so daring as a masquerade ball.

Across from her, Isla lifted a brow, setting down the embroidery she had been pretending to work on for the last half hour. “That is unexpected.” Isla would no far better than Maeve. She had been the one the duke had briefly courted. Until he had given in to some unknown reason to end it. Maeve was not even certain if Isla knew his reasons. They suspected it was because of their family, or rather their mother’s family, that had made him decide to end it. Those pesky rumors that witchcraft was in their blood. It was all nonsense of course. They were no more witches than anyone else in the England, or the world for that matter.

Maeve considered what Isla had said and then scoffed. Isla did not know the viscount as Maeve was coming to. “Not entirely. Thornridge has a guest that insists upon entertainment. It is natural that he might host a ball at some point.” Pemberton would insist upon something, and this seemed exactly like something he would suggest. The mischievous rogue was plotting something. She’d wager upon that fact, and win.

“Yes, but a masquerade?” Isla’s expression was one of mild curiosity, though Maeve suspected she was far more interested than she was letting on. “I cannot recall Thornridge ever taking much interest in such entertainments.”

Maeve hummed in agreement. “It is rather unusual, but then, perhaps it has nothing to do with his interests at all. The invitation may have come from the duke, but I suspect it is truly from his guest.”

“Perhaps,” Isla allowed, though she did not look convinced. She did not push the idea any farther. It did not truly matter who had devised the idea for a masquerade. The decision to attend it was what they truly needed to discuss.

Maeve studied her sister for a moment before carefully setting the invitation aside. “You should attend.”

Isla’s mouth tightened. “I do not think so.”

Maeve sighed. She had expected this. Isla rarely accepted invitations to social events, and while she had been coaxed into a handful of gatherings, she always withdrew as quickly as she could. She had grown distant in recent years, retreating into herself after—well, after whatever had happened between her and the Duke of Thornridge. Isla never spoke of it, and Maeve had long since learned not to press her, but that did not mean she did not wish to see her sister rejoin the world. It seemed fitting that she should attend a masquerade the duke was holding. It would be a way for her to show the world he no longer mattered to her, and she could perhaps find a new man to fall in love with. One that deserved her far more than Thornridge ever had.

“It will be a lovely evening,” Maeve coaxed. “And a masquerade, no less. You needn’t even be recognized if you do not wish to be.” She silently begged for her sister to acquiesce to the suggestion. Her sister had to attend, or it was unlikely that their father would allow Maeve to, and she so wanted to go. Not that she loved balls or was even tempted by the appeal of a masquerade. It was something far simpler than that. She wanted a reason to see Pemberton that was not so utterly obvious.

Isla gave her a pointed look. “Yes, because a mask is certain to make everyone forget who I am.”

Maeve smirked. “It is the illusion of anonymity that makes it so intriguing. Who knows? You may enjoy yourself.” She might even finally be able to let go of those feelings she still held for that bloody duke who had broken her heart. One could hope anyway.

Isla remained silent for a moment before finally sighing. “And you truly think I should go?”

“Yes,” Maeve said firmly. “You deserve an evening of enjoyment. And if Athena were here, she’d encourage you to attend as well. We both worry about you.”

That, at last, seemed to sway her. Isla hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Very well. I will go.”

Maeve smiled, satisfied. “Good. Then we shall need to find appropriate gowns. Something suitably mysterious and elegant.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I think I saw some things in the trunks in the attic that would work. We should use them. Mother’s things would be outdated and mysterious enough that it should help us seem unique.”

“Do you really think we should do something so outlandish that we stand out?” Isla lifted a brow. “I thought it would be better if we were mysterious, so no one noticed us.”

“But what fun is that?” Maeve said, then laughed. “Surely we would not be the only young ladies wearing costumes from another decade.”

Isla sighed and then rolled her eyes but did not argue. Maeve knew she had won this battle, and she could not help but feel pleased. Perhaps the evening would bring something unexpected for Isla as well. “I will go to the attic and find something for both of us, and then we can have our maid make the necessary alterations.” She met her sister’s gaze. “Do you have a mask that you can wear.”

“I do,” Isla said with a nod. “One I had fashioned some time ago but never had the opportunity to wear. Do you have one?”

“Yes,” she told her sister. “At least I believe I do. I saw something in the attics, along with the gowns, that I could use.”

“I will stay here and work on my embroidery,” she told Maeve. “Please come find me when I am needed for these alterations. I find I do not wish to comb through dusty trunks in search of what you believe will work for our attendance.”

Maeve grinned. “Very well,” she agreed. “I shan’t be long dearest sister. Take your time on your embroidery and I shall send our maid to fetch you when it is time.”

She headed to the attic and went directly to the trunks that she had searched months ago with her sisters. That was where they had found the journal and the pendants their mother had commissioned for them all. Each had a gold chain with a small black stone attached with a gold initial embedded in it. The first letter of each of their names. She drew her hand up to run her fingers over the pendant she wore every day and traced the tip of her forefinger over the M on the black stone.

Maeve drew in a breath and then dug through the trunk. She quickly located two gowns. One was peach silk and had delicate flowers embroidered into the skirt and along the bodice. Intricate lace was also sewn into the bodice and the edges of the sheer overskirt that settled against the silk. It was truly lovely and probably been the height of fashion in her mother’s time. It was perfect and she would wear it. She pulled another gown out of the trunk and smiled. It was a sunshine yellow that would be perfect for Isla. After she found both gowns she went to another trunk and pulled out the mask she would also need.

The mask was crafted from delicate filigree metal, shaped to frame the eyes and cheekbones with graceful, swirling patterns reminiscent of vines and lacework. Gilded in soft rose coloring, it should catch the candlelight beautifully, creating an ethereal glow against her skin. Along the edges, tiny shimmering pearls and peach-colored stones were meticulously placed, adding a touch of refinement without overwhelming the design. At the temples, intricate embroidery in gold and ivory thread mimicked the petals of a blooming flower, echoing the soft warmth of the gown Maeve intended to wear.

A few wispy, hand-dyed feathers in peach and champagne hues extended from one side, secured with a delicate brooch featuring a tiny, sparkling teardrop gem. The mask would be held in place by a white silk ribbon, designed to tie at the nape of the neck, ensuring a secure yet graceful fit. The effect was one of sophisticated allure, perfectly suited for a lady who wished to captivate a gentleman of her choosing and remain just out of reach beneath the enchantment of the masquerade. In short—in was perfect. Almost as if it had been designed just for her, and what she wanted from a certain viscount.

She would have to send for her maid and Isla to have the gowns altered, but first, she had another matter to attend to—one she had been avoiding for too long. Her mother’s journal. Going through the trunks had made her itch to read her mother’s words. She gathered the items and went down to her bedchamber. She set the gowns and the mask on her bed and then went to where she had left the journal.

Maeve retrieved the small leather-bound volume from her writing desk and ran her fingers over the worn cover. She kept it secure in her grasp as she departed her room and headed to the one place she thought was safe to read it in peace. As she carried it with her out to the pond she allowed her thoughts to roam. It was foolish, she supposed, how much she hesitated to open it. She had never known her mother, not truly. But here, within these pages, were her thoughts, her secrets, the pieces of herself that Maeve had never been able to claim.

Once she arrived at the pond, she settled on the soft grass near the water’s edge, inhaling deeply before she finally opened the book. The ink was faded in places, the script elegant but familiar—it reminded her of Athena’s hand, of Isla’s, even of her own.

She turned the pages carefully, reading through passages about daily life, about love, about dreams and fears.

Love is a peculiar thing.

Maeve’s breath caught as she read the words, her fingers pausing on the page.

It is both a gift and a burden, a weight that presses upon the heart in ways one cannot always explain. It is foolish, it is maddening, and yet—when it is real, when it is true—there is no escaping it. It claims you entirely, whether you wish it to or not.

Maeve swallowed hard, her mind drifting—unbidden—to Viscount Pemberton. She did not wish for this attraction. She had told herself that time and again. But the more she fought it, the stronger it became, pulling at her like an unseen current.

“Ah, so this is truly is one of your favorite places isn’t it?”

The familiar voice startled her, making her snap the journal shut. She turned sharply to find Lord Pemberton standing a few paces away, watching her with an amused glint in his pale green eyes.

Maeve scowled. “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on ladies, my lord?”

He grinned. “Only the ones who intrigue me.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing here?” He always seemed to find her at the pond. Why had she thought this would be a good location to read her mother’s journal? Perhaps this is what she had truly wanted. Another encounter with him. She could not seem to resist the rogue.

He strolled closer, his hands tucked behind his back as he feigned innocence. “Enjoying the scenery, of course. And, it seems, interrupting something quite serious.” He nodded toward the journal. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing of consequence,” she said quickly, tucking the book into her lap.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he smiled. “A secret, then. I do like secrets.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course, you do.”

He crouched beside her, studying her intently. “You are always so serious.”

“I am not,” she protested. But she stared up at him intrigued. He was so beautiful with all that golden hair and light green eyes. She was suddenly fascinated by his lips. Could she capture their perfection in her painting of him? Maeve doubted she could truly do his beauty justice with mere paint, but she had to try.

He chuckled. “You are . But I find it rather enchanting.”

Maeve huffed, looking away. “You find everything enchanting, my lord. It is hardly a compliment.”

“Ah, but that is where you are mistaken,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate timbre. “There is a difference between finding something delightful and being utterly captivated.”

Her breath hitched, and she cursed the warmth that spread through her chest. What was happening here? He was too close, his presence overwhelming. She should stand, put distance between them. But she didn’t. Instead, she stared at the viscount, captivated by him, by his words, and by the sheer need she saw in those green depths. Her lips parted as she sucked in a breath.

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “I wonder,” he mused, “if you are quite as unaffected with me as you pretend to be.” Oh, she was very susceptible to his charms. Completely and utterly enchanted with him...

Maeve opened her mouth to retort, but before she could utter a single word, he leaned in and kissed her. It was not a tentative kiss. It was confident, deliberate, a slow unraveling of every ounce of willpower she had left. She had expected arrogance, but there was something else beneath it—something deep and consuming. A warmth that spread through her, turning her limbs weightless, her thoughts scattered. She should stop this. She should push him away. And yet… A soft sound escaped her lips, and he responded instantly, deepening the kiss, his fingers skimming along the curve of her jaw.

The world blurred. The pond, the trees, the journal in her lap—none of it mattered in that moment. And that terrified her. Maeve broke away, breathless, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. “I—I have to go.” She scrambled to her feet, barely aware of her own movements. She needed distance, needed space to think. Before he could stop her, she turned and fled, leaving behind the one thing she had not meant to—her mother’s journal.