Page 8 of How to Enchant a Viscount (Lady Be Seductive #2)

Seven

T he candlelight flickered over the polished mahogany vanity, casting a warm glow over the room as Maeve fastened the final pearl earring into place. Her reflection stared back at her, flushed with exhilaration, her dark hair swept into a cascade of curls pinned with delicate golden combs. The peach silk of her gown shimmered in the candlelight, the rich embroidery at the hem catching the light as she moved. She could hardly believe the night had finally arrived—the masquerade ball she had been anticipating with an energy she had not felt in quite some time.

She had no reason to feel so breathless, so alight with excitement. At least, none that she was willing to admit. It was merely the allure of the evening, the mystery of hidden identities, the anticipation of twirling through a candlelit ballroom. It had nothing—nothing at all—to do with a certain viscount and the possibility of seeing him again.

Behind her, Isla sat upon the chaise, her expression far less enthusiastic. She had not moved from her position for the past quarter of an hour, her mask still dangling from her fingers as if she had yet to decide whether she would even bother putting it on. Maeve turned from the vanity and faced her sister. Isla had, for all intents and purposes, been ready to depart long before Maeve had put the finishing touches to her hair. She had come to wait in her room with her as Maeve’s hair was dressed by their maid. "You look lovely, Isla. Why do you appear as if you are preparing for battle rather than a ball?"

Isla let out a quiet sigh, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her gown—a golden yellow silk that complemented her beautifully. “Because I feel as if I am. I do not understand your excitement, Maeve. This is merely another gathering of the ton, another evening of tiresome conversation and forced pleasantries.” Another evening where she would have to face the duke that had broken her heart…

Maeve arched a brow. "It is not just any gathering—it is a masquerade. Surely that makes it more interesting.” She wished her sister was not so distressed about attending the ball. Maeve knew the only reason she had truly agreed was so that she could attend. It hurt her heart to see her dear sister so miserable. She could kick that rotten duke for making Isla feel unworthy.

Isla's lips pressed together. “And what is so interesting about concealing one’s identity for a single evening? We all know who we truly are beneath the masks.”

Maeve smirked. “Oh, but that is where you are wrong. The masks allow us to become someone else, even if only for a night. It is a chance to embrace a bit of mischief, to do things one would not normally dare.” She twirled lightly in place, the silk of her skirts sweeping around her ankles. “And you must admit, that sounds far more appealing than another dull soiree.”

Isla gave her a look of mild disapproval. “I am not particularly inclined toward mischief.” She sighed. “And we do not attend many soirees either.”

Isla had her there. They did not bother with most social engagements, but this one was important to her. Not that she would say any of that aloud. It would only discourage Isla. Instead, Maeve grinned and teased, “Then you shall be the perfect contrast to my wicked inclinations.”

Her sister exhaled and finally, albeit begrudgingly, placed her mask upon her face. “You are incorrigible.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you are hardly wicked either.”

“And you are stalling.” Maeve crossed the room and took Isla’s hands, squeezing them lightly. “This will be fun, I promise. It is merely one evening. If you find it unbearable, I shall personally ensure we leave early.”

Isla hesitated, searching Maeve’s face for a long moment before sighing. “Very well,” she relented. “But I am holding you to that promise.”

Maeve beamed and stepped back. “Now, shall we go make a bit of magic this evening?”

Isla gave a wry smile. “Somehow, I suspect you already have a particular form of magic in mind.”

Maeve ignored the implication, though her heart gave a telling flutter. She had no illusions about whom she was hoping to see tonight. But that was a secret she would keep to herself.

They departed the room and walked outside. The duke’s estate neighbored theirs so it did not take long for them to arrive by carriage. They had debated walking over, but decided their feet might hurt after dancing the evening away and would appreciate the carriage at the end of the night. When the carriage came to a stop they both glanced out the window. Maeve gasped as she saw the front doors flung open and guests milling inside. It would be such a grand affair.

When a footman opened the carriage door to assist them out Maeve nearly leapt down in her excitement. Isla was far more sedate in her exit. They strolled inside and waited for an escort to the ballroom. No one was being formally announced. To keep the masquerade what it was intended to be—secretive. There was only one guest she wished to locate when she entered the ballroom and she hoped it would not take too long to find him.

The ballroom glittered beneath the golden glow of candlelit chandeliers, the air thick with music, laughter, and the soft rustle of silk skirts sweeping across the polished floor. Maeve had never attended a masquerade before, and though she was meant to revel in the anonymity of the evening, she was acutely aware of one particular gentleman.

The Viscount of Pemberton...

Even masked, she had known him instantly. His gaze had locked on her as she moved into the room. She watched him as he crossed the ballroom, his appearance unmistakable to her. It was the way he moved, the effortless confidence in his posture, the faintly wicked gleam in his pale green eyes and he held her gaze. And, when he had bowed and held out his hand in silent invitation, she had hesitated—if only for a breath—before placing her gloved fingers in his.

Now, as he led her in a waltz, their steps perfectly synchronized, Maeve found herself captivated. Viscount Pemberton, had an undeniable presence, his hold on her waist firm yet gentle, his thumb idly grazing the silk of her gloves. "You dance beautifully, my lady," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.

"You sound surprised," she replied, tilting her chin slightly.

He chuckled, the deep timbre sending a shiver through her. "Not at all. But I must confess, I was rather hoping you might step on my toes so that I might have an excuse to hold you against me to save my poor feet.”

Maeve narrowed her gaze, though she was unable to suppress her smile. "Ever the rogue."

"Ah, but you like that about me, don’t you?" His fingers tightened subtly on her waist, pulling her ever so slightly closer. "Perhaps you like it a bit too much."

Maeve opened her mouth to protest, but she never had the chance.

The music swelled around them, and Brooks slid her around the floor with a graceful flourish, their bodies aligning so perfectly that, for one stolen moment, she could feel the solid heat of him through the layers of her gown. Her breath caught, and by the time he led them around one lap of the floor, she knew she was in danger. Not the kind of danger that required a chaperone’s interference or a stern lecture from her father.

No, this was far worse.

This was the kind of danger that made her want to forget propriety altogether. When the waltz ended, she should have stepped away. Should have curtsied and thanked him and returned to the safety of her family’s company. But then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Meet me in the library," he whispered.

Maeve should have refused. Instead, she nodded. It would be a mistake. One she hoped that she would not regret later, but she found it was a request, no a demand really, that she could not refuse. She wanted to be alone with him. Craved it…

The library was dimly lit, the scent of aged parchment and leather-bound books mingling with the faint trace of smoke from the fireplace. The masquerade ball had long since faded into the background, the sounds of music and revelry muted behind thick walls. Maeve stood near one of the tall windows, staring out at the moonlit gardens, her pulse fluttering in her throat. She heard the door close softly behind her.

"You came," the viscount said.

She turned to find him leaning casually against one of the towering bookcases, his mask now discarded. His cravat was loosened, his dark coat slightly rumpled, and there was something in his gaze—something that sent a rush of heat to her cheeks.

"Should I not have?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

He stalked toward her, slow, deliberate. "I did not think you would."

Maeve lifted her chin. "Then you do not know me very well."

His lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. "No, I suppose I do not." He reached for her, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her sleeve before trailing up to the curve of her bare shoulder. "But I intend to."

Maeve shivered beneath his touch, her breath catching as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of her mask. Her heart pounded. "My lord..."

"No more formalities," he murmured. "Call me Brooks."

“That is most improper…” She was not certain she could use his given name. The intimacy of it…

“Darling,” he drawled. “We have already stepped outside of propriety or dare I remind you of the last time we were alone.”

Her cheeks heated at the remembrance. He had kissed her and she had reveled in it. She wanted him to kiss her again. Almost desperately… She was a wanton where this man was concerned. He tempted her to be wicked, and she knew she should resist. She wouldn’t though. Not with him. “Brooks,” she said softly, trying out the taste of his name on her tongue. It was unfamiliar falling from her lips, but it felt right. Like she was always supposed to say his name. Only her…

“Now was that so terrible, darling.’ His expression darkened, something shifting between them—something deeper than mere attraction. "I want to tell you something," he said softly. "Something I have never told anyone before."

Maeve swallowed, nodding. "Then tell me."

Brooks exhaled, his hand falling away as he turned toward the firelight. "My estate is nothing like this," he admitted. "It’s wild. Untamed. The cliffs are sharp, the sea violent and unrelenting. I have mentioned that there is a place… a cove hidden beyond the rocks, where the water turns the deepest shade of blue. My sanctuary…." His voice dropped, almost reverent. "I wish I could show it to you. I..." He shook his head as he gathered his thoughts. “But I can’t go back there. It holds too much heartbreak.”

“Describe it to me,” she said softly. “It will be like you have taken me there then.”

He smiled and her heart leapt at the sight. He was too beautiful and she wanted to trace her fingers over those kissable lips. No, she wanted more than that. She wanted those lips on hers. But she did not do anything. Instead she waited for him to do as she had asked.

“It is unlike anything you have ever seen before,” he began. “It’s rugged with towering white cliffs that seem to plunge into the sea.” He held her gaze and then continued. “The sky almost seems endless as you stare over those cliffs. It is almost…majestic. There are rolling green meadows on the other side of the cliff that leads to the castle. The path from the castle to the cliffs, during the summer months, is lined with hedges and wildflowers. Stone walls appear to be a boundary between the land and the sky.”

Maeve listened, her heart aching at the quiet longing in his tone. She knew that place. She had painted it. Every stroke of her brush had captured the very scene he described, as if it had been waiting for him all along. But she did not tell him and she wouldn’t, at least not yet. Instead, she stepped forward, her fingers brushing his. "Perhaps one day, you will return."

He turned to her then, his gaze searching. "Perhaps."

For a long moment, they stood there in silence, the firelight casting golden shadows across their faces. Then, without thinking, Maeve lifted her hand, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before rising onto her toes and pressing her lips to his. She could not resist the temptation any longer.

Brooks stilled, his breath catching against her mouth. He closed his eyes as if he was trying to remain in control, but then his control shattered. He shuddered as he opened his eyes and met her gaze. He brought his hands to her waist and pulled her against him. He deepened the kiss, his lips demanding, desperate. Maeve gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he backed her against the nearest bookshelf, his body pressing against hers in a way that left no space between them.

She had never known a kiss could feel like this—like losing oneself entirely. Like being consumed. When he had kissed her at the pond it had been so different. Almost tentative in comparison. This kiss…it ignited a need in her that burned her from the inside out.

He tore his lips from hers, his forehead resting against hers as his hands splayed across her back. "Maeve," he whispered, his voice raw.

She clutched at him, her body trembling. "Do not stop."

Something dark and dangerous flickered in his gaze. "Are you certain?"

Maeve exhaled, her pulse a wild thing in her throat. "Yes." And that was all it took. He lifted her, carrying her to the settee by the fireplace, his mouth never leaving hers as he settled her onto the cushions, his body covering hers. There was no hesitation. No second thoughts. Only the heat of their bodies, the press of lips and hands and whispered names spoken like promises.

He slid his hand under her skirt and slid it over her sensitive flesh. She moaned as he stroked her there. She knew that she should stop him, should never even demanded him to more. But she had no regrets. She wanted this. He slid over her, trailing kisses down her neck. He moved down and slid her skirts up all the way. He leaned down and spread her thighs to settle between them. She did not know what he intended and when he kissed her where his fingers had been she gasped in shock. He held her down as he sucked and licked, then pressed one of those talented fingers inside her.

Maeve came undone and shook as a release overtook her. She had lost all ability to think—and she had believed his kiss had destroyed her. How silly of her… He joined her again on the settee, covering her with his body. Her body was languid and ready for him as he pressed his arousal into her. When he was fully inside her she moaned. The fullness had not been what she had been expecting, but then again, she had no experience to ascertain what she should have expected.

“Are you all right,” he asked in a hoarse tone.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I need…”

“I do to, darling,” he said. Then he started to move inside her. That pressure began to build again until she shattered once more. He groaned as he found his own release. He held her tight against him as he spilled his body was wracked with pleasure. And when it was over, when she lay tangled in his arms, her heart still racing, she knew—she had never felt more alive.

But Brooks lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Then, ever so carefully, he slipped from her embrace. Maeve’s eyes drifted closed as sleep seemed to overtake her. She had never felt so wonderful or content, and she when she had the presence of mind to think—she might just ask him to take her again. She would have giggled at the thought is she wasn’t so tired…