Page 14 of How to Enchant a Viscount
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…
Eight
The 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.
