Page 11 of How to Enchant a 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.
Seven
The 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?"
