Page 12 of How to Enchant a Viscount
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.
