Page 17 of How to Enchant a Viscount
Maeve exhaled, holding the book out to her sister. "It was like hearing her voice. Like she was speaking to me. I think you need to hear it too."
Isla hesitated, staring at the journal as if it might vanish before she could take it. Then, finally, she reached for it, her fingers brushing against Maeve’s as she accepted the precious relic of their past. "Did it change anything?" Isla asked softly.
Maeve considered the question. “Yes. And no.” She smiled wistfully. “It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about myself. But it made me see her—not as the mother we never got to know, but as a woman. A woman who loved deeply, who made mistakes, who feared the unknown and yet still embraced it.” She swallowed. “It gave me courage, Isla.”
Isla’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, she clutched the journal against her chest, her knuckles turning white around the edges.
Maeve took her hand. “I know you’re afraid.”
Isla stiffened. "I am not?—"
“You are,” Maeve said gently, squeezing her fingers. “And that’s all right. But you can’t live in fear forever. Mama didn’t. She was brave, even when she had every reason to hide away. And so must you.”
Isla exhaled a shaky breath. “And you?”
Maeve’s smile softened. “I have made my choice. I will love Brooks, with all that I am, for as long as I live. It is terrifying, but I think love is meant to be.”
Isla let out a small, humorless laugh. “And if he hurts you?”
Maeve tilted her head. “Then I shall make him regret it.”
That earned her a real laugh, albeit a quiet one. Isla sighed, pressing the journal closer to her heart. “I will read it.”
Maeve gave her hand one last squeeze before standing. “Good. And one day, you will tell me what it meant to you.”
Isla stood as well, watching her closely. "You truly love him."
Maeve’s breath caught, warmth spreading through her chest. “Yes.”
For a long moment, Isla simply held her gaze. Then, with an uncharacteristic display of emotion, she reached out and pulled Maeve into a tight embrace. "Then I shall love him too," Isla murmured, "because he makes you happy. But if he ever forgets that?—"
"He won’t," Maeve promised, her voice full of quiet certainty.
When they pulled apart, Isla studied her for a moment longer before nodding. “Come now. We mustn’t keep your groom waiting.”
Maeve laughed, her heart light despite the lingering weight of their conversation. As she followed Isla from the room, she glanced once more at the journal in her sister’s hands. It would never replace the mother they had lost, but it had given them something precious—a connection, a legacy of love. And with that, Maeve walked forward—toward her future, toward the man who had stolen her heart, and toward a life she had never dared to dream of.
The morning light spilled through the tall windows of the drawing room, casting a golden glow over the fine furnishings. A gentle breeze stirred the delicate lace curtains, carrying the scent of blooming roses from the garden beyond. It was a quiet, peaceful morning—one that Brooks Davis, Viscount Pemberton, might once have found entirely too dull.
He had married Maeve three days prior, and he had discovered that he had never truly known contentment until she had become his wife. She had turned his world inside out, challenged him, tormented him, and, most bewilderingly of all, made him a better man. And now, as he sat sipping his morning tea, he watched her with the quiet reverence of a man who knew he had been blessed beyond measure. They would be leaving for a wedding trip soon, but for the moment they were at her father’s house.
Maeve stood before him, a teasing smile upon her lips, her hands hidden behind her back. Her dark green gown was simple, yet elegant, and her dark hair was pinned in a way that made him itch to pull it down. She had been acting peculiarly all morning, casting him knowing glances, a spark of mischief in her eyes that he had come to recognize well.
Brooks arched a brow. “What are up to, my love?”
Maeve’s smile deepened. “I have a gift for you.”
His curiosity piqued, Brooks set his teacup aside and leaned forward. “For me? I am honored. Should I be worried?” He doubted he should be, but it never hurt to be cautious.
Maeve rolled her eyes. “Do not be ridiculous. I need you to come with me to my studio.?”
He chuckled. “Your studio.”
With a mock sigh of exasperation, Maeve stepped back and motioned for him to follow her. Brooks sighed and set his tea down and went with her. It did not take long for the to reach her studio. Then she motioned at a cloth covered easel. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take a look.”
The moment his eyes settled on the painting; his breath caught. It was his place. His childhood refuge. The cliffs, stark and imposing, rising high above the sea. The wind-tossed grasses, the small, hidden cove where the waves kissed the shore. The brushstrokes were masterful, capturing the wild beauty of the land with such depth, such soul, that it was as if he were standing there himself. Brooks could not speak. He simply stared, his fingers tightening around the painting as emotion—raw and unexpected—surged through him.
“I painted it before I ever met you,” Maeve said softly, watching him carefully. “I did not know why at the time, but now… I do.”
