Page 15 of How to Enchant a Viscount
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.”
