To Bed a Libertine (3 page)

He softly kissed the tip of her nose. He smiled, but she could still see that sadness lingering in his deep brown eyes. It was a sadness she would do anything to banish.

“Can you meet me tomorrow?” he said.

“Where?”

“At the British Museum? In the morning? It should be quiet in there so early. We could talk.” He touched her cheek, gently, as if he marveled at her as she did him. Could that possibly be true? For once she could not read a human.

It all seemed too wondrous, even for a Muse. He could not be hers forever; her task was to inspire artistry and great things, and then move on. But maybe he could be hers for now. Surely that would be enough.

It
had
to be enough.

“Yes,” she said, kissing his hand. “I will meet you there, Tristan.”

The British Museum was almost empty as Tristan paced the length of a gallery lined with Greek statues. Most of the
ton
was tucked up in their beds still, exhausted after the revels of the night before.

He hadn’t slept at all himself, but strangely he was not tired at all. He felt filled with a crackling, raw energy that made everything seem more vivid. The pale, watery-gray light outside glowed; the ancient lines of the statues were sharper and brighter. The world, so cold and black yesterday, had come alive again. Even his breakfast had tasted better.

Best of all, he had gone back to his studio from the musicale full of the urge to work, and sketched until daybreak. Not the scene of Paris and the goddesses, but images of the mysterious Contessa de Erato. The soft curve of her cheek, the spiral of a dark red curl along her neck, the hint of a smile on her lips. That tiny freckle at the corner of her eye. He tried frantically to remember every detail of her exotic beauty and put it down on paper.

He knew he had to see her again, to touch her and make sure she was not just a beautiful dream. That the fire of their kisses, the urgency of their need for each other, had been real. He had never met anyone like her.

Would she meet him today, as she promised? If not, he would have to scour the city for her, search every house and hotel until he found her again. He knew nothing about her—except that it was imperative he learn more.

He paused at the feet of Athena, who stood atop her pedestal full of calm certainty. She stared down at him from beneath the brim of her helmet, one hand holding her shield and the other offered to him. He seemed to live his life surrounded by goddesses, in art anyway. They inspired him, but never had the answers he sought.

There was a silken rustle from the gallery’s doorway, the hollow click of a light shoe heel on the stone floor. He spun around to see it was her, the contessa. She had come to him.

And she was no dream, no figment of his fevered artistic imagination. She wore red again, as she had in her carriage and at the musicale, a red wool dress and spencer jacket trimmed in glossy black fur. Her hair was loosely pinned, a little fur hat perched atop the curls. Sparkling ruby earrings dangled from her ears, brilliant against her white skin.

She glanced around the gallery, a tiny frown puckering her brow as if she did not see him. He stepped out from Athena’s shadow, and the contessa burst into a dazzling smile.

“Tristan!” she called. Her voice was high and sweet, touched with a faint Mediterranean accent that evoked warm, sun-filled days and languid, erotic nights. She was truly well named Erato. “You are here.”

“Of course I am.” He hurried to meet her, and took her gloved hand in his. He raised it to his lips, turning it so he could kiss the tiny glimpse of pale skin between the pearl buttons at her wrist. She even smelled perfect, like roses and jasmine and sunlight.

Who
was
she? Where had she come from, this perfect woman?

“I never like to keep a lady waiting,” he said.

She laughed and slid her hand from his to take her arm. “And I have kept
you
waiting. I am so sorry. I fear I became completely lost. London is so very vast.”

“I’m sure it is quite baffling to those who aren’t used to its winding lanes.”

“It all looks alike. Where I am from, things are much simpler.”

Tristan was intrigued. “And where are you from, Contessa?”

“Oh, the tiniest little place in Greece! You would surely not know it.”

“I thought you were from Rome?”

“I was—after I married,” she said blithely. “But then I was widowed, and I went back home. Home is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“So I believe.”
Home
was also a dream idea he was completely unsure of. His London rooms were a mere convenience; his father’s grand estate a cold, colorless vast place where he had never belonged. But he was sure any place that produced such a glorious creature as this would be a wondrous place to call home.

“You certainly chose a lovely meeting spot,” she said. She tugged at his arm, making her way around the gallery as she took him with her. She gazed up at the impassive stone faces, smiling at them as if they were old friends. Sometimes she would reach out to pat a sandaled foot or test the point of a carved spear.

“So much beauty in one place,” she said. “Do you come here often?”

“I do. It’s the best place for sketching the details of ancient costumes and weapons.”

“But perhaps not always entirely accurate,” she said. She frowned as she examined Athena’s tunic. “Tell me about your art, Tristan. Do you paint mythological scenes?”

“Most of the time. They are what are most admired in the galleries and salons.”

“Admired?”

“Or respected, I should say. Scenes of beauty and heroism.”

“I think such things are always admired, in every culture,” she said. “But is it what
you
long to paint? What speaks to you?”

“Yes, I think so,” Tristan said, remembering the Paris scene in his mind that would not quite translate into paint. “I love capturing an emotional moment, a fleeting instant of beauty and making it last.”

“So that those who see it will remember? That something of life will remain?”

“Yes,” he said, amazed that she seemed to see his own deepest feelings.

“It is the desire of all artists,” she answered. “To reveal something too true and deep for words.”

“Are you an artist yourself?”

“Oh, no. You could say my artistic talents lie in—appreciation.” They had come to the doorway of another gallery. It was empty of visitors except for three of the Chase daughters, Calliope, Clio, and one of their many younger sisters. Calliope Chase was deep in conversation with Lord Westwood.

The contessa smiled as she watched them. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and Miss Chase suddenly stumbled against Westwood, caught in his arms.

“I am also a connoisseur of life,” she said. “Of all things beautiful and romantic. Art is the greatest part of that, of course, but in order to create it we must truly
live
. To experience and enjoy every emotion.”

She leaned close to him, her fingers toying lightly with the edge of his coat. She slowly went up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss along his jaw. Her lips were soft and cool. “Don’t you agree?” she whispered.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice rough. His body stirred with a fierce desire just from her lightest touch. “I certainly agree.”

“Is your home near here, Tristan? I would so like to see your paintings.”

He reached for her arm, caressing the curve of her body through her jacket. She wanted him, too, he could feel it. “Then let us go there at once, Contessa.”

Erato slowly traced her fingertips over the carved fireplace mantel, studying the books and
objets
clustered there as she listened to the sounds of furniture shifting behind the closed door. Even though she had laughed and protested that she did not mind a messy room, Tristan insisted on tidying up before she saw his studio.

A most unusual man.

Most unusual indeed.

She frowned unseeingly at an ormolu clock. Tristan had surprised her, or perhaps she was surprised at herself. He was not what she expected when she came to England. Her job was to befriend artists, inspire them to reach higher in their work, not to lust for them. That was Aphrodite’s province. Erato was definitely not supposed to have
feelings
for them.

But she was very much afraid Tristan Carlyle was coming perilously close to her heart. When she looked into his dark eyes, she felt she was falling. That she had dived off a cliff into the fathomless unknown.

She should go back to Olympus now, leave Tristan and find some other artist who didn’t pose such a danger to her emotions. Yet the thought of going away from him was wrenching. She had to stay, to see what was really happening—just for a little while longer.

She idly sifted through a stack of invitations, searching for distraction. A duke’s son was obviously much sought-after. There were card parties, Venetian breakfasts, waltzing parties, ridottos, all the usual things English people seemed to enjoy. If they had ever attended an Olympian banquet, which went on for days with fountains of wine and flocks of dancers and musicians, they might change their minds about the nature of entertainment!

But Erato was actually quite glad of the change, and for these days away from her usual life. And one invitation at the bottom of the stack looked very interesting. A classical-themed masked ball given by the Duke of Averton, a famous—and reclusive—scholar and collector. That was surely where Calliope Chase meant to catch the Lily Thief.

The door behind her opened, and she turned to smile at Tristan. She waved the invitation at him. “Are you going to this masked ball? I have heard this duke
never
gives parties.”

He laughed and plucked the card from her hand. “He doesn’t. He just hides away in his colossal house with all his treasures. There are all sorts of wild tales about him.”

“Sounds most intriguing.”

“But I was not planning on attending.”

“Why not?” she said. “I think you would look very handsome in a tunic and sandals.”

“Do you indeed?” He tossed aside the card and caught her around the waist, pulling her against him. She laughed in delight and wound her arms about his neck. “Then maybe I
will
go, if you will let me escort you.”

“I would enjoy it very much. But I fear I brought no costumes with me.”

“Perhaps I could help you with that. I’m an artist, after all. We have to be prepared to set any scene.”

“Ah, yes, your paintings!” Erato cried. “You must let me see them now.”

“Hmm—must it be right now?” He lowered his head and kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear. She gasped at the jolt of pleasure, and he caught her earlobe lightly between his teeth.

Erato wove her fingers through his long hair to hold him against her. His breath was soft on her ear, arousing. It would be so easy to…

No!
She was forgetting her purpose as a Muse. “Yes, it must be now,” she said. She summoned up all her willpower and slid from embrace. “We must not let all your tidying go to waste.”

He groaned, but he did take her hand and lead her into the studio. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her study the space.

It was a bright, airy room with many windows, unshuttered to let in every ray of pale London light. It was also chilly, the cool air filled with the scents of dust, oil paints, linseed oil and ink. Smells she knew so well.

Along one wall was a low platform, surrounded by props such as a chaise, some pillars and marble busts, swaths of velvet and muslin draperies. The other walls were lined with canvases, some only partially finished, and a desk was littered with sketchbooks and charcoal pencils. A paint-encrusted palette lay atop one of the pillars.

Erato ignored Tristan’s wary eyes. She took off her jacket and hat and tossed them aside before she went to study those canvases. They were very fine, she could see that right away. The line and the sense of proportion were very elegant and sensitive, the use of color imaginative. He was indeed very, very talented.

But she could also see what held him back from his full potential. He was technically proficient, even brilliant, yet his scenes lacked that essential, indefinable spark that would bring them to vivid, warm life. The fire that could mark the work as his and his alone.

Raphael and Ruebens were that way, until her sister Euterpe found them. The same with Dürer and Melpomene. Tristan needed only that flash of inspiration, and he would find his voice.

“You’ve been well-trained,” she said, examining a scene of Hector bidding farewell to Andromache. It was beautiful, but the pathos and deep sadness it should evoke was slightly missing.

“Yes,” he answered. “I had tutors when I was a boy, and after I finished the obligatory school I went to the Royal Academy to study with Mr. Evanston.”

“You must have been his star pupil,” she said. She glanced back at him to see he still had that wariness about him. Yet there was a flash of something wistful, some cherished memory, in his eyes when he spoke of his teacher and his days studying art. “You enjoyed that time.”

“I loved it. I had to leave before I was quite finished, though.”

“Why?” She knew his teacher would not have sent him away—he had the great talent any artist would pray for in a student.

“My father thought art was fine for a pastime, but not when it became serious. He thought I should consider politics or the church, and painting was an impediment to a proper future.”

“You? The church?” Erato laughed, but her heart ached that his father didn’t see the worth of his work, couldn’t see the vital importance of art. “No, I cannot see you making sermons. You would distract all the women in the congregation terribly. Besides, it is obvious that art is where your true talent lies.”

“You like the paintings, then?”

She turned to another scene, a tender image of a knight and his lady embracing by a river. The sunlight sparkled on the water and the pale green grass, sprinkled with white flowers; on the lovers’ faces as they gazed tenderly at each other. This painting did hold that elusive spark. Perhaps he needed those emotions to inspire him.

“I like them very much indeed,” she said. “You must never let your father persuade you to give up your work. It is much too fine.”

“Oh, he won’t dissuade me, Contessa, believe me.” He pushed away from the door and came to stand behind her. He slid his arms around her waist and held her against him, nestling his chin on her shoulder. His breath stirred the curls at her temple and she melted back into him.

“I could no more give up painting than I could cut off my arm,” he said. “It’s part of me now.”

She knew a glimmer of what he must feel now, for she was sure that when she left him it would be like tearing away a piece of her. “Do you paint portraits, Tristan?”

“Sometimes. It’s not easy, trying to capture the essence of someone in paint, but I enjoy it. I like the challenge.”