Page 4 of How to Bewitch a Duke
She opened the door to the library and strolled inside. The library greeted her with its familiar hush, the scent of old parchment and leather-bound volumes washing over her like balm. It was dimly lit, the heavy draperies still drawn against the sun, and the hearth sat cold and bare, but to Isla, it felt like solace.
She moved with purpose through the shelves, her fingers grazing over gilded titles as she tried to lose herself in the act of selection. Philosophy, poetry, natural history—none of them appealed. She stopped before the shelves near the window, her gaze falling upon a small volume of Byron’s poetry and reached for it without quite knowing why. Her fingers lingered on the worn spine of one of her favorite tomes—The Tempest. It has all the items a good book should have: drama, romance, forgiveness, power, revenge, betrayal… She pulled the tome from the shelf and considered lounging on one of the settees to read, but then she after she considered it she decided against it. She would check on Maeve first. She set the book on a nearby table to be retrieved after she visited Maeve in her studio. She did not want to risk any of Maeve’s paints tainting the book.
She made her way to Maeve’s studio. She knocked and then made her way inside. The door creaked open, and Isla stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over her sister, then she glanced at the painting, then back at Maeve. She shut the door behind her with quiet finality. “You have been locked in here for a while now.” Her voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the note of concern in it. “Are you well?”
Maeve forced a smile, though she suspected it did not reach her eyes. “I am well enough.” She slid her gaze to the painting that had caught Isla’s eyes when she first walked in. What was it about this painting that held her sister’s interest. It had to somehow relate back to the viscount.
Isla tilted her head, studying her sister with concern. Perhaps it was time to push a little. Her sister was clearly upset, and she did not like it. “I saw you dancing with him at the masquerade,” she said at last. “And I also noticed how he looked at you.” He had seemed enraptured with Maeve. What could have gone wrong? Not that she did not understand how it all could have fallen apart. Her own history spoke loudly of that unwelcome fact.
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 Isla’s heart. Her sister knew heart break too. It was not something she would have wished for Maeve.
Anger filled her soul. How could he have hurt Maeve? What could have been so much more important than protecting her sister from that sort of pain? Was he truly that much of a scoundrel? “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 all the answers. Isla could not fathom how though. “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.” Far more that Isla had been. The duke had wanted to talk with her, but she would not listen. It would mean opening herself up to more potential pain.
Maeve scoffed. “Brave? I do not feel particularly courageous at this moment.” She stared at the unfinished portrait of the viscount. It was a good likeness of him, but then again Maeve was that talented.
“Courage is not the absence of fear,” Isla said, stepping closer. “It is knowing the risk and taking it anyway.” Perhaps she should consider that herself. Would it truly be so terrible to listen to what Lucian had wanted to say? Would he be able to finally explain why he had truly ended their relationship? She did not think he would, but perhaps she should discover that for herself instead of assuming.
Maeve’s took a deep breath. “And what if the risk was not worth taking?” She kept her gaze pinned to that unfinished portrait. She must truly love him.
Isla hesitated, then touched Maeve’s arm gently. “That is something only you can decide.”
Maeve frowned and gestured toward the landscape. The one that she had painted not knowing who it was meant to be gifted to. Maeve often did that. Would paint something that formed in her mind believing it was meant for someone in particular. “I am giving him the painting,” she said, her voice hollow. She stared at the landscape. “It was meant for him.” She turned toward Isla and said bitterly, “Then I will be done with him.”
Isla kept her tone neutral as she asked, “And will that make it hurt less?”
Maeve did not answer. Perhaps because she already knew the truth. It would change nothing. Her heart would still ache at the loss. Isla knew that far too well. She still carried the pain of betrayal with her. Lucian had ruined something inside of her when he had broken her heart. She might never be the same again because of that. She was far too bitter and cynical that she liked.
None of it truly mattered in this moment. She was in the studio for Maeve and her heartache. Isla’s own pain had been with her for far too long. She prayed that Maeve would not have to endure what she had. Surely the viscount would come to his senses and realize what he would lose and beg to be in Maeve’s life. In the quiet of the studio, with the painting of a distant cove watching over them, she stayed with Maeve—two hearts broken but hopefully soon to heal, two women stronger than the men who had broken them ever dared imagine.
Three
The gardens of Harwood Hall were a vision of midsummer perfection. Pale pink flowers bloomed in abundance along the borders, their sweet perfume mingling with the scent of lavender and freshly cut grass. A silken white tent had been erected upon the lawn, its draped sides billowing gently in the warm breeze, while inside, the strains of a string quartet floated airily through the open air.
Lady Maeve Thompson’s wedding day had dawned with sunshine and joy, and the bride herself—radiant in light blue lace—was now seated beside her new husband, the Viscount of Pemberton, their hands lightly clasped as they received the well wishes of family and friends. There was a rare light in Maeve’s eyes, a serenity Isla had not seen in her sister before. Love suited her.
Isla stood a short distance from the crowd, beneath the shade of a large oak, a glass of champagne untouched in her hand. Her gown of pale yellow silk shimmered like gold under the sun, but she felt oddly detached from the celebration, as though she were watching it all through glass. Her heart was not in the gaiety of the day—not entirely.
Maeve had visited with her before her wedding and given her their mother’s journal. She had wanted to take it back to her bedchamber and read it right then but knew that would be rude and inconsiderate. This was her sister’s wedding day. It had been almost magical to witness. Her two younger sisters were both now wed and madly in love. A small part of her was overcome with jealousy. The men that loved them had not tossed them aside. Granted, Lord Pemberton had a moment of doubt, but he had come through for Maeve in the end. Lord Kendal had been steadfast and true for Athena—he’d had no doubts. Why couldn’t Lucian have been like either of those men? Why had he tossed her aside as if she had meant nothing?
She sensed him before she saw him—Lucian. The air changed when he was near, as though the wind itself paused in reverence—or warning. She did not turn to greet him. She could not. Her heart was too full, and her will too fragile. This day had been a wonderful one and she was glad that her sister had found happiness. That did not mean she was brittle from her lack of love.
“Lady Isla,” Lucian spoke quiet and steady. Almost as if he feared she’d bolt if he were too forthright. How right he was…
She closed her eyes for one brief moment, then turned. He was as striking as ever, his dark coat immaculately tailored, the gold of his eyes shaded with something far heavier than mere longing. He looked as though he had not slept, and still, he was the most devastating man she had ever known.
“Your Grace,” she replied, her tone composed. “Why are you here.”
“I would think that is obvious,” he returned, his voice low but fervent. “I am here for my friend’s wedding.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” she said in a seething tone. “Why are you here talking to me as if nothing has ever been between us. Like you are going through some sort of polite requirement and seeking out mundane conversation with me.”
“Perhaps I wished to speak with you for other reasons.” His gaze was filled with…was that longing? She had not been the one to end their budding relationship. He had made that choice. Why would he look at her as if she had put that distance between them.
She lifted her chin. “What more could you possibly have to say, Lucian? We have spoken our piece—several times now. And each time you came to me with words that would only reopen wounds you gave me long ago.”
