“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.”
She spun around in his arms, pressing her hands flat to his chest as she looked up at him. She could feel the beat of his heart, the warm aliveness of him, and it was headier than any wine.
“Would you paint my portrait?” she said.
“I would be honored. Though a paintbrush could never do you justice.”
“Yours could, I know it.” She stepped back from him, twirling around in excitement. “Where should I sit?”
Tristan laughed. “Now?”
“Yes, now! Before we lose the light.”
He grinned at her, and if she had thought him handsome before she saw now that she’d had no idea. That smile seemed to light him from within, and he was beautiful enough to eclipse any god.
“I could never say no to such an eager model,” he said. He stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he studied the slant of the light. As he moved the chaise into place and draped it with a piece of amber-colored velvet, Erato unfastened the black pearl buttons along the front of her gown.
She slid the pins from her hair and shook out the long waves over her shoulders. They were dark autumn-red against the soft white of her chemise. “Will this do?” she asked softly.
He glanced back at her—and his eyes darkened. She suddenly felt unaccountably shy, which was ridiculous. She wore less than this every day around her home! And yet under his gaze she felt quite different. As if it was the very first time anyone had looked at her like that.
“I—yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That will do just fine.”
Erato sat down slowly on the chaise, leaning back on her elbow as she kicked off her slippers and swung her feet up to the cushions. Tristan stood there for a moment, just staring down at her. But then he gave his head a hard shake, and it was as if the artist stepped in front of the man, at least for that small time out of time. He lightly touched her leg, moving it into a graceful angle and spreading the folds of her chemise to reveal her black silk stockings.
Even though his touch was gentle and impersonal, she felt its heat down to her very toes and fingertips. It felt like a warm summer breeze, tempting her to forget all else and just laugh and play. But Tristan had work to do, and so did she.
He smoothed her loose hair so it fell over one shoulder. “Just lean on your arm like so,” he said, coolly studying her pose. “Perfect. Now don’t move.”
Erato watched as he grabbed up a sketchbook and pencil. He sat down on a stool just beyond her pool of light, and surveyed the length of her body carefully before he dove into the image.
She did sit still—this was what she was meant for, to inspire artists to the height of creativity. Yet her mind raced, willing Tristan to find his voice, to create the painting he was meant for. To find his true place.
A fierce frown creased his brow, and a thick lock of hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently and left a streak of charcoal over his olive-bronze skin. His pencil etched the lines of her shoulder and arm, the swirls of her hair. The curve of her breast and waist, the flare of her hip, the hidden, secret shadow between her legs. He used the flat of the pencil to shade and suggest the sheer folds of her chemise lying lightly over her skin.
She felt as if he touched every part of her as he drew, as if his hand slid over her body, caressing her. Learning every inch of her.
The light through the window grew fainter, pale pink through the gray. At last Tristan finished, his pencil worn down to a nub. He tossed it aside and slumped back on his stool.
“May I see?” Erato asked, easing herself off the chaise.
“It’s very rough,” he said.
“It’s just a study. Surely it’s meant to be rough.” She slid behind him and peered over his shoulder at the sketch. It wasn’t “rough” at all, its graceful lines belying the speed of his work. Even in gray and white he suggested the chalky quality of the light, the gauzy folds of her chemise. She gazed at him with a tender half-smile, her head slightly back and her eyes full of desire.
It was, simply, the very truth of her in a sketch.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered. “You must never listen to your family’s doubts, Tristan. This is the work of a true talent.”
He laughed ruefully. “You need have no fears there. I have never listened to my family at all. But I am grateful for the compliment. It means a great deal coming from an—art appreciator such as you.”
“Art is my life,” she said simply. Yet she very much feared he could be part of her life, too. She wanted him, every part of him, so fiercely.
To distract herself from such overwhelming, impossible desires, she took the sketchbook from his hand to examine it closer. “Will you paint this scene?”
“If you will model for me again. I don’t think I could quite capture the color of your hair otherwise.”
“Of course I will. I’ll always be here if you want me.”
“You shouldn’t say that.” He caught her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. She felt the light touch of his tongue on her skin, and she trembled with the force of desire and need. “For I will want you here every day and night. You will get no rest.”
“Do you promise?”
He tugged at her wrist, pulling her down onto his lap. The sketchbook clattered to the floor as she wound her arms around his neck. His mouth came down on hers in a hard, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into her mouth, tasting deeply, and she met him with an equal fiery need. She felt surrounded by heat and flames, as if she tumbled down into an inferno. She didn’t want to escape, though. She only wanted more and more.
Her hand skimmed down his chest, her fist curling into his shirt to drag him even closer. She could feel the damp heat of his chest through the fabric, through her own thin chemise, and she knew she wasn’t close enough. She tore open the lacings of his shirt and touched his bare skin, smooth and warm, like satin over the lean strength of his muscles.
Surely such a fine, strong body must mean he did not spend all his time in the art studio. How intriguing.
He deepened the kiss, and she met him eagerly, savoring each taste and texture, the slant of his lips over hers, the moan deep in his throat. Those flames of need pulled her down and down, until she was lost. Their kiss slid into desperation, frantic need, and there was no turning back.
Through the humid heat of lust, she felt his hands hard at her waist. He turned her so she faced him, her legs spread wide to either side of him. His open mouth traced the arch of her throat as she threw her head back, and he kissed her shoulder, the swell of her breast.
As his lips closed over her aching nipple through the linen, he grasped the hem of her chemise and dragged it up over her legs until it was wrapped around her waist. The wool of his breeches chafed the soft skin of her thighs, a delicious friction that made her groan. She felt his erection, hot and hard, straining against
the fabric confines, as he rocked into the curve of her body.
She was spread wide, bare, vulnerable, open to any desire he possessed. She closed her eyes tightly and, in that whirling, sparkling darkness, she could only feel. Only need.
His tongue lightly circled her nipple as his hand slid to her thigh, drawing her higher against him. He drew a light, enticing pattern on her bare skin, and one fingertip pressed to her wet seam, sliding just barely inside. She cried out at the flood of raw sensation evoked by his rough touch on that delicate flesh.
“Do you want me?” he whispered raggedly against her breast.
Did she want him? She had never felt anything like this terrible, desperate, primitive need. The world, and Mount Olympus, too, would surely shatter into a million shards if she could not have him.
He nipped at the soft skin just above her nipple, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. “Do you want me?” he repeated.
“Yes!” she whispered. “By Zeus, yes. More than anything.”
His mouth came back to hers in a sizzling kiss, and she felt his hand reach between them to unfasten his breeches, freeing his penis from its confines. With a twist of his hips, he slid deep inside of her.
Erato pressed herself down onto him, crying out at the wondrous pleasure of fullness and friction. She clutched at his sweat-damp shoulders, closing her eyes again to feel it all even more vividly. She could hear his every breath, the pounding of his heartbeat in rhythm with hers.
They found their pattern quickly, their bodies moving together perfectly as they slid apart and together again, plunging deeply. Deeper, faster.
“Hold on to me,” he muttered.
She tightened her legs around his hips, her hands on his shoulders as he stood up. He swung her around until they fell to the chaise, still wrapped around each other. She slid her legs higher around his waist and felt him thrust even deeper, their bodies pressing together.
“Ikanopoio, prosfero eycharistisi!” she cried. She pushed her hands under his shirt, tracing the groove of his spine, the shift and flex of his muscles as he moved faster and faster. She arched up against him; even then he was not quite close enough. She wanted to be a part of him, make him a part of her so they could never be parted. She had waited so long to find him, had thought he could never exist—her perfect man. Now he was here, with her, inside of her.
To Bed a Libertine Page 3
