To Bed a Libertine Page 2

  “Shall we go in, Contessa?” Mr. Price said as he offered her his arm. “I think the music will be starting soon.”

  “Yes, of course.” As Erato went with him into the drawing room, where everyone was taking their places in the rows of gilded chairs between displays of ancient vases and statues, she glimpsed Calliope and Westwood lurking by a marble pillar, glaring at each other.

  Excellent, Erato thought happily, casting just the tiniest bit of Muse magic their way as she passed by. Arguing was just a form of passion. It was one tiny step to kissing.

  Erato slid into her seat just as Lady Russell made her appearance, the tall plumes of her turban bobbing.

  “Good evening, my dear friends,” Lady Russell said. “I am so glad you could join me on this very special occasion. We will hear for the first time in centuries the strains of music heard in ancient Greece. Using a fragment of manuscript copied from a work by Terence, fortunately preserved during the Renaissance and hidden away in a monastery, we have reproduced a ’Delphic Hymn to Apollo.’ The instruments used tonight greatly resemble the lyres, aulos and citharas seen on this krater.”

  Two servants carried in a large blackwork krater, a vase used in Erato’s world to mix wine and water for parties. This one was in fine condition for its age, featuring a banquet scene of dancers, musicians and drinkers reclining on chaises. The instruments in the image did indeed resemble the bright new ones the musicians behind Lady Russell held.

  Everyone exclaimed over the beautiful vase, but Erato was distracted by a sudden warmth on the back of her neck. A small, hot tingle just at her sensitive nape that signaled she was being watched. She pressed her fingertips to that spot and peeked over her shoulder.

  It was him. The man from the window, the man with the beautiful dark eyes. A spark of excitement took hold deep inside of her, catching into flame. The boredom and uncertainty she suffered at Olympus fled completely.

  He leaned against one of the pillars at the back of the room, watching her. He was handsome, tall and lean, elegant in his black-and-white evening clothes, not a streak of paint in sight. His hair, dark brown touched with gold, was longer than fashionable in this England, falling to his lean shoulders and over his brow. He looked solemn and intense, poetic, and so, so attractive.

  She hadn’t felt like this in such a long time, if she ever had at all.

  Erato gave him her most brilliant smile. His dark brow quirked, but he gave no other reaction. Strange. Most men melted immediately at a Muse’s smile. A challenge made it even better.

  She faced the musicians again, even happier that she had decided to come to England for a holiday. It was just what she needed.

  By the time the interval came, Erato’s mysterious man had disappeared, and Calliope Chase was slipping out of the room. Erato impulsively followed her, curious to see what would happen next.

  Calliope went to a conservatory, a dim, quiet space of high windows, long rows of exotic plants and marble statues that watched the world with blank, uncaring eyes. The air was rich with the damp, earthy scents of the flowers, a warm haven against the chilly night outside.

  Calliope went to a statue of Aphrodite and stared up at her as if in confidence, asking the goddess’s advice. If only she knew, Erato thought. Aphrodite is far too lazy to help anyone.

  Erato slipped behind another statue, a grape-bedecked Dionysus, and watched happily as Lord Westwood joined Calliope there, the two of them speaking quietly with their heads bent together. Perhaps romantic matters were progressing already!

  “What is your name?” a deep, rough-rich voice said behind her.

  Erato spun around, startled. It was him! She bumped into Dionysus, sending him tottering on his plinth. The man reached up to catch the marble arm, his sleeve brushing her cheek. His body in those fine clothes was so warm, so alluring; he smelled of clean soap, wool, a hint of leather and some faint, lemon cologne. So human, so vital, so alive. How she craved that life.

  He leaned into her just a bit, his shadowed gaze steady on her face. She clutched her hands in the red silk folds of her skirt to keep from grabbing on to him.

  “I am the Contessa de Erato,” she murmured. “Who are you, sir?”

  “Lord Tristan Carlyle,” he answered. His voice matched his dark, angular, beautiful countenance, as deep and smooth as that wonderful human liquid chocolate. “Why have I never seen you before?”

  “Because I only recently arrived from Italy,” she said. “But I have seen you before, when I drove past your window today.”

  “I remember.” His other hand came up to trace the curve of her cheek, the back of his hand skimming lightly over her skin. His touch was gentle, yet it made her tremble.

  She turned her face into his hand and kissed his palm. His fingers were long and strong, the bronzed olive skin stained with cobalt and crimson paint. He tasted like sun and salt. A sweet summer’s day.

  “Are you an artist?” she said. She cradled his hand in hers, tracing the faint streaks of color with her fingertips. She felt his muscles tense under her caress. Did he feel that lightning-heat, too? That bolt of heady, undeniable desire?

  “Of a sort,” he said.

  “What does that mean? You paint, yes?”

  “I try to. But it never…” His voice faded, and he shook his head.

  “Never what?”

  He turned his hand, catching her fingers in his to hold on to her tightly. “I have such grand visions in my head, and then I ache to capture them on canvas. To make something so beautiful it transcends the ugliness of life. Something that shows us how beautiful we can be.”

  “That is surely the very essence of art,” Erato said. “The best part of being human.”

  “Yes. But I cannot quite make my visions a reality.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the sensitive spot just inside her wrist. His lips were parted, hot through the satin glove. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of her perfume, as if he wanted to savor her very spirit.

  And Erato, who had seen the fleeting worship of men so many times she had been sick of it, was deeply moved. She laid her other hand on his head, caressing the rough silk of his hair.

  “I could never create something as beautiful as you,” he said. He looked up at her over their joined hands.

  The look in his eyes was so deep and so sad it made her ache. Was this how humans felt when they longed to weep?

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, unable to bear it a moment longer. “Please.”

  A whisper of a smile touched his lips, and she caught a glimpse of the rogue she was sure he could be. He must have women throwing themselves at his feet all the time, begging for his attention.

  Muses did not beg. They listened to supplicants and granted favors. But now the situation was quite reversed, and she didn’t seem able to do anything about it. She didn’t even want to do anything about it. She just wanted his lips on hers, desperately.

  “Anything to oblige a lady,” he said hoarsely. And his head bent down to hers as he kissed her.

  Their mouths touched softly at first, tasting, learning. Once, twice. He tasted of wine and mint, and of something sweet she had never encountered before—the essence of him. The tip of his tongue lightly traced her lower lip, making her moan. He caught the soft curve between his teeth, and she grabbed on to his shoulders to keep from falling as the force of desire broke over her.

  “Beautiful contessa,” he groaned. His hands slid down her back to her hips, dragging her closer as their kiss caught fire. There was nothing slow or tentative about it now. Their lips and tongues met in a burning clash of need and want. The rest of the world—the party, who she was, who he was, everything—vanished. There was only the two of them, bound together by a passion that had caught them by surprise and would not be denied.

  He caressed the curve of her buttocks and caught her by the back of her thigh, drawing her up high against his body. She was braced against the marble of the statue, but she didn’t feel the cold stone. She only felt
his hand through the silk of her skirts, the iron-hard press of his erection against her belly—the proof of his desire that matched her own lust for him, this gloriously beautiful man.

  She arched up into him, wanting to be closer and closer. To lose herself in him. His lips moved from hers, along the delicate line of her throat. He nipped at the curve of her shoulder, and she gasped as he soothed the delicious sting with his tongue.

  “Tristan, Tristan,” she murmured, sinking even further into need for him.

  His fingers traced the embroidered neckline of her gown, lightly teasing over the swell of her breast. She curved her back to press herself deeper into his caress, and he chuckled against her shoulder. She felt the deep, dark sound echo through her.

  He tugged her bodice lower to reveal her sheer chemise. She disdained such human tortures as corsets, and her pale skin shimmered through the fine fabric. His teeth caught at the chemise and pulled it lower until she was bare to him. Her nipples ached and tightened under his avid study.

  “What is it you want, Contessa? This?” he said. He kissed the tiny mole just at the upper edge of her right breast. His tongue skimmed over it, teasing. “Or—this?” And that oh-so-talented tongue lashed at the tip of her nipple.

  The hot, delirious sensations were so intense they were almost painful. His teasing only stoked the flames.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Just this?” He flicked at her nipple with his tongue again, just once, lightly, torturously.

  “No!” She drove her fingers into his hair and pressed him close, not letting him go. He laughed, but he gave her what she craved. He took her nipple deep into his mouth, suckling at it until she cried out.

  “Shh,” he said against her skin. “Someone might hear.”

  “They won’t dare disturb us,” she answered imperiously.

  “You’re so sure about that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  He laughed again, and eased up her body to kiss her lips again. Through the humid, heated cloud of passion, she felt him catch her skirt in his fist and drag it up over her legs. She felt the rush of air over her skin, on her naked thighs above the edge of her silk stockings. The warmth of his hand quickly followed as he caressed the angle of her hip. He drew light, tantalizing patterns through the thin silk, higher and higher, until she moaned.

  He was an artist indeed.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, as if in awe.

  “Not so beautiful as you,” she answered. She threw back her head as he touched the bare flesh of her upper thigh. “Are you sure you were not fathered by a god?”

  He laughed roughly. “My father is a duke. Some would say that’s the same thing.”

  His thumb skimmed lightly over the damp curls between her thighs, tracing the seam of her womanhood. She spread her legs wider, inviting him inside, but he was not done teasing her. He delved between her soft, sensitive folds, just a tiny bit, then slid away. He touched the inside of her thigh, leaving her moisture on her aching skin.

  “Tristan!” she cried. And finally he touched her there. His finger plunged deep, pressing to that one most sensitive spot. He circled it with his fingertip until she felt her climax building, a hot pressure deep inside of her.

  She dragged his mouth back to hers and kissed him wildly, crying out her pleasure. Slowly, slowly, the fire subsided, leaving her feeling weak and sated.

  Almost sated, anyway. She had the terrible suspicion she would never be fully satisfied until she possessed him completely, body and heart. She had never wanted anything as she wanted this beautiful man. She held on to him as the world slowly turned right side up again.

  He kissed her cheek and pressed his face into her hair. His breath was uneven, harsh. “Have I made you happy, Contessa?”

  More than he could ever know. “Oh, yes. But I fear you are not so happy.” She lightly moved her hand down his chest and skimmed over the hard bulge in his breeches.

  He laughed, and took her wrist to ease her hand away. “Oh, I think my work is done. For tonight, anyway. We should return to the party before we’re missed, I think.”

  The party! She had forgotten all about it, all about everything except him. She tugged her bodice back up into place and smoothed her skirts. “For tonight?”

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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 perfec
t 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?”