Page 9 of How to Enchant a Viscount (Lady Be Seductive #2)

Eight

T he morning light streamed through the windows of Maeve’s studio, illuminating the painting she had worked so tirelessly on. The brushstrokes—soft, deliberate, and rich with detail—depicted a place she had never been but somehow knew. Cliffs rising high above a restless sea, wild grasses swaying in a breeze, a secluded cove a certain viscount had found peaceful. She had painted it before she had even met Brooks, before she had heard him speak of his childhood sanctuary, yet it belonged to him.

And now, she could not bear to look at it.

Maeve clenched her hands into fists at her sides, blinking back the sting of tears. She had awoken in the library to an empty room, the candlelight long since burned out, the warmth of his body absent. He had left her. No whispered words, no promises, not even a lingering touch to pretend at tenderness. Just cold, empty silence.

She had been such a fool.

She had given herself to temptation, to the lure of his wicked smile and the way he made her feel—seen, desired, cherished, if only for that fleeting moment. She had convinced herself, just for that night, that she was not merely a conquest to be won and abandoned. But she had been wrong. She would not let herself wallow. Not now. Not ever. She had made a mistake, and she would learn from it.

Her gaze drifted back to the painting, her heart twisting painfully. She had planned to gift it to him, a token of something unspoken between them. Now, it felt like a final farewell. She would give it to him still, but not as a gift of affection. No, it would serve as the last thing that tied them together. She would hand it over, walk away, and pretend none of it had ever happened. Even if her heart broke in the process.

A sharp knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Maeve inhaled slowly, schooling her features into something that resembled composure before calling out, “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and Isla stepped inside, her sharp green eyes sweeping over Maeve, then the painting, then back again. She shut the door behind her with quiet finality. “You have been locked in here all morning.” Her voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the note of concern in it. “Are you unwell?”

Maeve forced a smile, though she suspected it did not reach her eyes. “I am well enough.” How could she explain to her sister than the heartache she held deep inside her heart was too painful to bear? Though if anyone would understand that pain it would be Isla. Had she not gone through something similar with the duke? Had she too trusted him with everything only to have him dismiss her as unimportant?

Isla tilted her head, studying her as though she could divine the truth simply by watching her breathe. “I saw you dancing with him at the masquerade,” she said at last. “And I also noticed how he looked at you.”

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 her heart. In a short time she had fallen for that rogue. She had known better and still she had given him her heart.

A flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossed Isla’s face. “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 an answer to the ache in her chest. “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.”

Maeve scoffed. “Brave? I do not feel particularly courageous at this moment.” She stared at the unfinished portrait of Brooks. That familiar face so unbearable to gaze upon now. She should cover the painting so she no longer had to see him. Not that it would matter. All she had to do was close her eyes and he was there. Always present ready to stab her heart with a new stream of pain.

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” Isla said, stepping closer. “It is knowing the risk and taking it anyway.”

Maeve’s throat tightened. “And what if the risk was not worth taking?” How could she have been so foolish as to not only give him her heart, but also her innocence. The passion was not worth the pain it had wrought.

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

A lump formed in Maeve’s throat. She could not—would not—allow herself to dwell on what had happened. What was done was done. All that remained now was to sever the final tie between them. “I am giving him the painting,” she said, her voice hollow. She motioned toward the landscape. “It was meant for him.” She turned toward her sister and said bitterly, “Then I will be done with him.”

Isla’s expression was unreadable. “And will that make it hurt less?”

Maeve did not answer. Because she already knew the truth. It would change nothing. Her heart would still ache at the loss. It was worse than that. She had also lost her mother’s journal. Somehow she would have to tell Isla and pray her sister forgave her for that careless act. She took a deep breath and looked at the landscape once more. She should prepare it to be sent over to the ducal estate, but she wasn’t quite ready to do that. She would do it later, when the bitterness in her heart receded a little. When she could forgive herself for the blindness she willfully allowed herself to fall into.

Brooks sat in his borrowed chambers at Thornridge’s estate, staring down at the leather-bound journal in his hands. The journal that was not his, that he had no right to possess, and yet, it had been left behind at the pond after—after that first kiss…

His jaw tightened as he ran his fingers over the aged cover, the initials etched into the worn leather. S.A.T— Maeve’s mother, at least he presumed as much. He had not opened it, though curiosity had gnawed at him. It was not his to read. But it was his excuse. His excuse to see her.

A curse slipped through his teeth as he leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand through his already disheveled hair. He had left her. Bolted, like a coward, because he had not known what else to do. Because he had woken up with her wrapped in his arms, her breath soft against his skin, and for the first time in his life, he had not known what came next. He had bedded women before—more times than he could count. And yet, nothing had ever felt like that . He had never stayed. Never wanted to stay. But with Maeve…

God help him, he had wanted to. And that terrified him.

He had spent years building a life that ensured he was never vulnerable, never at anyone’s mercy. And then she had walked into his world with her sharp wit and those brilliant eyes, seeing through him in ways no one else ever had. He had spent so long convincing himself that love, that commitment , was not meant for him, and now he could not go an hour without thinking of her.

He had made a mistake. A terrible, irredeemable mistake.

Brooks exhaled, tightening his grip on the journal. He had no idea how to fix what he had done, how to make her believe that she had not been a mere dalliance, that he had not left because she was insignificant, but because she mattered too much . He had never been afraid of anything in his life. Not of war, not of scandal, not of death.

But Maeve? Maeve terrified him. And if he did not act soon, he feared he would lose her forever. He stood, shoving the journal into his coat pocket. It was time to see if he was too late. He did not stop to think of what he was doing. He only knew that he needed to see her. To tell her what was in his heart. He should have known where this was all leading when he had decided to remain in the country.

Brooks did not do country living. It went against everything that he believed about himself. He had been the consummate rake for far too long. This life he led… It was all about pleasure. His pleasure. Sure, he was capable of showing a woman that lovemaking could be pleasant. More than pleasant… However, his heart had never been involved. He had never allowed such feelings to bloom inside of him.

That had all changed with one conversation with Lady Maeve Thompson. She had stolen his heart from that very first moment. Not that he had recognized what had happened then. He was too much the fool to be that astute. He took a deep breath and took long strides toward the estate of the Earl of Harwood. Once he arrived, he strode the entrance and lifted the rapper and knocked on the door. It did not take long for him to gain entrance.

“My lord,” the butler said. “Please come in.”

He had not thought to bring a card. When he had left all he had thought was that he needed to reach Maeve. “I am here to call on Lady Maeve,” he told the butler.

“She is in her studio…” The butler frowned. “She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she is working…”

He seemed as if he was about to dismiss Brooks. Send him away without the opportunity to speak to her. He could not allow that to happen. He had to see her. “I am afraid I must speak with her. It is of the utmost importance.”

The butler frowned. “Very well, my lord.” He shook his head. “But you best be prepared for her disapproval.”

“I will endure it as best I can,” he replied stoically. She could berate him for hours and he would not care. He deserved her ire.

The butler inclined his head, though his disapproving frown did not fade. “Very well, my lord. If you would follow me.”

Brooks did not hesitate. Every step he took through the grand halls of the Earl of Harwood’s estate felt heavier than the last, his pulse a relentless drum against his ribs. He had faced war, had endured the sharpest edges of society’s censure, had walked into danger without so much as a flicker of doubt—but this? Facing Maeve after what he had done, after the way he had left her?

This, he feared, would be his reckoning.

The butler led him to a quiet wing of the house, where the scent of paint and parchment filled the corridor. He paused before a door, rapped lightly, and after a brief pause, opened it without waiting for an answer.

“Lady Maeve, Viscount Pemberton has come to call.”

There was a long silence.

Brooks stepped inside, his eyes searching for her, and when he found her, his breath caught.

She was standing by the window, bathed in the soft glow of daylight, her paint-streaked fingers gripping the edge of the easel as though she needed something solid to ground her. Her dark green gown, simple yet elegant, was smudged with hints of color where she had carelessly wiped her hands. Her hair, always beautifully arranged in society, was half-pinned, loose strands curling around her face. She looked breathtaking.

And she looked furious.

The butler cleared his throat, clearly sensing the tension crackling in the air. “Shall I bring refreshments, my lady?”

Maeve did not look away from Brooks, her expression unreadable. Then, with a measured breath, she lifted her chin and said, “No. His lordship will not be staying long.”

The butler nodded, giving Brooks a pointed look before departing and shutting the door behind him.

Silence stretched between them. Brooks had rehearsed what he would say, but now, standing before her, nothing seemed adequate.

Maeve’s fingers tightened around the edge of the easel before she turned away from him, focusing instead on the painting in front of her. “You have a great deal of nerve, my lord.” Her voice was cool, controlled, but he could hear the tremor beneath it.

Brooks exhaled slowly. “I never claimed otherwise.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “No, you would not, would you?” She dipped her brush into a shade of deep blue, dragging it across the canvas with deliberate strokes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Have you come to ensure I understand the nature of our… encounter?” Her jaw tightened. “Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I am well aware.”

Brooks flinched. “Maeve?—”

She finally turned to face him, her eyes flashing with something raw and unguarded. “No. You do not get to say my name as if it still belongs to you.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him like a blade. “You left me, Brooks. You used me and then you left.”

Guilt, thick and suffocating, settled in his chest. “That is not—” He dragged a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. “It was not like that.”

She arched a brow, the picture of cool indifference, though he could see the storm raging beneath it. “No? Then please, enlighten me. Because I fail to see another interpretation.”

Brooks stepped closer, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I left because I am a coward.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time since he had entered the room, the anger in her gaze wavered. “A coward?”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I woke up with you in my arms, and for the first time in my life, I had no idea what came next. I have never—” He swallowed. “I have never wanted anything more than I wanted to stay. And that terrified me.”

Maeve stared at him, her lips parted slightly as though she were searching for words. He prayed that he could make her understand. Brooks exhaled, forcing himself to go on. “I told myself that I did not need anyone. That I would never let myself care beyond what was convenient. And then you…” He shook his head. “You changed everything.”

A tense silence followed. He reached into his coat and pulled out the journal. Maeve’s gaze dropped to his hands, and it was only then that she glanced at him with something other than anger. Brooks took a slow breath and held it out to her. “You left this at the pond.”

She hesitated before reaching for it, her fingers brushing against his as she took it. The moment of contact sent a jolt through him, and he saw the way her breath caught, the way her grip tightened around the leather cover. Maeve traced her fingers over the initials on the journal, her expression unreadable. “You did not read it?”

Brooks shook his head. “It was not mine to read.”

Something in her eyes softened, just for a moment, before the wall returned. She exhaled, stepping back as she pressed the journal to her chest. “I do not know if I can trust you,” she admitted, her voice quiet.

Brooks clenched his jaw. “Then let me prove to you that you can.”

She looked up at him, truly looked at him, as if weighing the sincerity in his words. A long moment passed. Then, finally, she spoke. “How?”

Brooks did not hesitate. “I will court you properly. I can show you with my actions that I love you. I only want you. Just say the word, darling. Tell me you will allow me the privilege of being a part of your life.”

She inhaled sharply. “You love me?”

He frowned. He should have led with that. Did that matter? It should, but he had never told a woman he loved her before. “More than anything. I love you so much that it terrifies me.”

Her lips twitched. “What happened to the charming rogue that I first met?”

“Oh, he’s still here,” Brooks reassured her. “He’s utterly enchanted by you.”

Maeve’s laughter echoed through the room, and it was music to his aching heart. Perhaps all was not lost after all. She strolled over to him and placed her hands on his chest. “You dear, foolish man,” she began. “I do not need you to court me. I love you too.”

“Thank heavens,” he said and then wrapped his arms around her. “Then we will marry. After I speak to your father, of course.”

“Naturally,” she said. “But first I want something from you.”

“Anything,” he said. Brooks meant that. He would do whatever necessary to ensure she remained in his life. He had not lied when he said he was enchanted with her. He had been from that first meeting. There would be no other woman for him. Maeve would forever hold his heart.

“Kiss me,” she demanded. “Kiss me as if it is the first time and the last time. Like you will never be able to kiss me again.”

“That, my love,” he began. “Will be my pleasure.” Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. They became lost in each other, and the kiss was one neither of them would ever forget.