Page 8 of How to Enchant a Viscount
The viscount’s gaze flicked to hers, sharp and assessing. She held it, refusing to let him make light of something so clearly etched in his very being. After a moment, his lips quirked. “Grief is a wretched bore,” he said. “But unavoidable, I suppose.”
Maeve tilted her head, considering him. “And what do you do, my lord, when it refuses to be ignored?” He had shown a side of himself to her that he usually kept hidden. He could not take that back now. She had seen it. He cared, and deeply. He could pretend with others, but never her. She would push him to admit it if necessary.
Brooks grinned then, though it was tinged with something almost bitter. “Why, I flirt with pretty ladies and make them wonder if they ought to be painting me instead of landscapes.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. There was no possible way he could know that she had already started to paint him. He couldn’t… She had to remain calm. If he had any idea, it would go straight to his head and the man already had an enough self-pride to spare. Maeve exhaled, shaking her head. “You are impossible.” At least he no longer looked pained with grief, but it was just another mask. One he kept in place, so the world did not truly see him.
“And yet,” he mused, “you are still sitting here with me.”
Maeve bit back a smile. “A temporary lapse in judgment.” Despite that judgement she should use, she liked him. Perhaps too much. He was a temptation she did not need in her life.
Brooks laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Ah, but I am terribly charming. You cannot be blamed for succumbing.”
Maeve rose, dusting off her skirts. “Then it is best I leave before I fall completely under your spell.”
Brooks watched her, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Too late for that, I think.”
Maeve rolled her eyes and turned toward the path, but she could not stop the smile that curved her lips as she walked away. Nor could she ignore the warmth lingering in her chest, the echo of laughter and something dangerously close to understanding.
The warmth of the late afternoon lingered on Maeve’s skin as she walked back toward the house, but the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with the sun. She should not have lingered by the pond, should not have allowed herself to fall into such an easy conversation with the viscount. And yet, she could not regret it. Viscount Pemberton was a rake. That much was undeniable. He flirted shamelessly, carried himself with an air of careless charm, and had the sort of wicked smile that could make any woman forget her better judgment. But beneath all of that—the humor, the teasing, the effortless mischief—there was something deeper. A wound not yet healed.
He had spoken of his father’s death as if it were nothing more than an unfortunate fact of life, as if it had not shaped him, had not left a scar that he still carried. But Maeve had seen it, had heard it in his voice when he spoke of his mother, his home, the ghosts he refused to face. And she had seen how he covered it all with a smirk and a careless remark, as if pretending he did not feel the pain could make it disappear altogether.
She understood that. All too well.
Maeve let out a slow breath, forcing herself to push the thoughts of Lord Pemberton aside. She would not allow herself to grow attached to him. That way led to nothing but heartbreak. She had watched Isla’s sorrow when the Duke of Thornridge had left her behind. Had watched her sister carry on as though nothing had changed, though Maeve knew better. Love had a way of making fools of people, of making them believe in things that would never come to pass.
Lord Pemberton was no different. He would never belong to any woman. Not truly. He was too restless, too determined to remain untethered. And she was too practical to believe otherwise.
Five
Brooks strode into the Duke of Thornridge’s study with all the confidence of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He was not fool enough to believe that his charm would work effortlessly on his old friend, but that did not mean he would not try. He had a plan though and he needed Thornridge’s assistance to see it come into fruition. His acquiescence was vital in fact, and Brooks hoped the duke would be amenable to seeing it done. Otherwise, it would all fall to pieces before it even began. Wandering around the Thornridge estate and the land that bordered Maeve’s father’s estate would only get him so far. He had to make something happen that guaranteed her presence that did not rely upon random chance—even if that had worked in his favor thus far.
Thornridge, seated behind his mahogany desk, barely glanced up from the stack of correspondence before him. His dark hair was disheveled as if he had run his fingers through it repeatedly. “No,” he said in a flat tone that brokered no room for persuasion, but that did not deter Brooks. He could not allow it to.
Brooks arched a brow, completely unperturbed by Thornridge’s easy dismissal. “You don’t even know what I am about to say.” How had Thornridge even known he was about to ask for something. Was he that obvious in his intentions? That should bother him on some level, but he did not allow much to sink to deep inside his skin. It was how he survived all of life’s trials.
The duke lifted his gaze then, leveling Brooks with a look of pure exasperation. “I know you, Pemberton. Whatever it is you have come to ask, the answer is no.” His lips twitched at the duke’s response. He held the smile back that threatened to form though. It would not aid his cause.
He sighed and then settled into one of the dark leather chairs across from the desk. “I must say, Thornridge, your hospitality leaves much to be desired.” Perhaps he could goad the duke into compliance. Brooks had to play to his strengths, and he was as equally versed in the duke’s weaknesses, and he was in his. Two could play this game. The only difference was that Brooks intended to be the victor.
Thornridge leaned back, folding his arms. “You are still here, are you not? I could have very well ensured your welcome was rescinded.”
“You could have,” Brooks said breezily. “We both know you would never be that rude. It’s your inherent good breeding that prevents you from being so churlish.” He grinned and then kept speaking without missing a beat, “But as I was saying, I have come to propose the most brilliant of ideas.”
The duke’s expression remained impassive. “Since you are not going to leave, do tell me what this new brilliant idea of yours.” His tone held not even an speck of emotion. Almost as if he was already bored of the conversation and ready to move on to his next task.
Brooks held back a sigh and braced himself for the impending refusal. “You should have a house party.”
Thornridge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”
“Now, now,” Brooks drawled. “Do not be so hasty in your refusal.” What would sway him to Brook’s way of thinking? He had to think fast or this would not work.
The duke’s brow furrowed. “You detest the country. You have complained no fewer than six times about the lack of diversions here, and yet now you wish for me to invite half of the ton to my home for an extended stay? What, pray tell, has possessed you?” He was not wrong… Brooks did loathe country living and he had been a bit bored. However, he did exaggerate a little. He might have complained that many times before he had met Maeve. But since then, he had not brokered any real issue with the lack of entertainment. Maeve had his complete interest.
Brooks propped one ankle over his knee, affecting a look of innocent amusement. “Perhaps I have found something—or rather, someone—who makes country life more tolerable.” He had made no secret about his interest, and it would not take long for the duke to deduce his real reasons.
Thornridge’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maeve.” He sighed. “I thought we already discussed her and how you should not pursue her.”
