To Bed a Libertine

Amanda McCabe

Tired of seasons with boring socialites, Lord Tristan Carlyle has given up his life as a libertine to become an artist. Inspiration eludes him…until he meets the alluring Contessa de Erato, who awakens a passion not even this former rake has felt before.

But the “Contessa” has a secret—she is really Erato, muse of erotic poetry. Although she came to England to help other women find love, one night of ecstasy with Tristan shows Erato the kind of pleasure she never thought she would experience herself—and now wants to savor forever….

A prequel to The Chase Muses miniseries.

Author Note

I’ve loved Greek mythology ever since I bought a book called Greek Gods and Goddesses at a book fair in the second grade! This was a young reader’s book, so there were none of the racier tales I found later (like Leda and Danae!), but I was fascinated by stories of Artemis, Apollo, and Aphrodite, and their lives on Mount Olympus, as well as the terrible things that happened to luckless humans who encountered them. Luckily, my parents enjoyed visiting museums on family vacations, so I got to see ancient vases and statues that gave a visual aspect to the Greek world—and I could make up my own stories to go along with them.

The world of Regency England had a similar fascination with ancient history and art, and there were many scholars and avid collectors who fueled the neoclassical fashions of the day with their discoveries. I had so much fun combining these two passions in The Chase Muses, three sisters named after mythological Muses (Calliope, Clio, and Thalia) who have a love for archaeology—and for three hunky heroes.

As for the real Muses—well, as a writer I often call on their aid (though they don’t always listen). I wondered what would happen to one of them if she suddenly found herself in Regency London, and met a devastatingly handsome artist who needs her help, even as she’s tempted by him. That’s when I met Erato, the Muse of Erotic Poetry. I hope you enjoy her adventures as much as I did!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter One

On Mount Olympus, Time Immemorial
On Earth, 1818

Erato, the Muse of Erotic Poetry, was bored. Very, very bored.

This was nothing new. Any being who had lived for centuries, inspiring countless artists to feats of great creativity, attending parties and meeting handsome men, would sometimes feel a touch of ennui. A sense of having seen it all, several times over. Of not being really useful any longer.

But she had never felt quite like this before.

She rolled over on her cushioned chaise, staring up at the cloudless azure sky. The Muses’ pavilion was as beautiful as ever, gleaming white marble on a verdant slope of Mount Olympus. The fluted pillars were widely spaced, giving glimpses of the trees and rivers beyond. Shepherds and shepherdesses frolicked in the lush green fields, the sweet music of their pipes floating back to her on the warm breeze.

The air smelled of roses and lilacs, the splashing water of the fountains perfumed with oil of jasmine. Little cupids fluttered among the cushioned couches, laughing as they chased one another around and around. Servants hurried to and fro, all of them long-limbed and beautiful in their short tunics, bearing trays of wine goblets and honeyed sweetmeats. Her sisters were all nearby, dancing to that intoxicating pipe music as their diaphanous pastel robes fluttered like butterflies’ wings. They were all very merry in the sunlight, except for Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy, who sat morosely in the corner contemplating a new poem of death and mourning. She was rarely merry at all.

But Erato was supposed to be joyful. She was supposed to be filled with the glow of love and sex, the transcendence of pleasure.

Instead, she felt heavy and tired—and bored. She could find no inspiration for herself. If she didn’t snap out of it soon, then the romantic poets and painters who were her charges would lose their inspiration, too. They wouldn’t be able to inflame hearts with their verse, and earthly lovemaking would become dull and clumsy, a dreary duty. Aphrodite would be so angry. They were meant to work together in spreading love over the world. The goddess of love was much too lazy to do it all herself. Erato sat up on her chaise and reached for a goblet of wine, but there was no consolation in the sweet, golden liquid. She would just have to find a new inspiration, that was all. But where to look?

Maybe she should start by seeing what the Chase Muses were up to at their home in London. They usually afforded some amusement, if nothing else, and they knew lots of artists and scholars who appreciated the wonders of the ancient world. Yes, she would look in on them.

Erato set off down the marble steps of the pavilion, past her dancing sisters. They called out to her to join them, but she waved them away. There was no time for dancing today—she had important work to do.

She crossed over a crystalline river, where water nymphs laughed on the mossy banks with centaurs, draping flower wreaths around their necks. Their cousins, the wood nymphs, swung from the leafy tree branches, shrieking with merriment. She already had a different world in her thoughts, though—the far more prosaic Regency England world of the Chase sisters.

Ever since the daughters of the scholar Sir Walter Chase were born and given the names of the Muses—Calliope, Clio, and Thalia—Erato and her sisters had taken them under their special protection. They watched them grow up, scholars in their own rights as well as beauties and independent spirits. Now that they were of an age to find romance for themselves, Erato hoped she could be of use to them. She could help them find lovers worthy of them.

And she did enjoy watching them so much. Their sisterly camaraderie reminded her of the Muses’ own family, and their world was fascinating. The land of England, though often regretfully rainy and gray and full of dull architecture, so different from Greece, was also full of artistic souls and people who got into such delicious trouble. With their fat, pleasure-seeking ruler, all the poets and actors and painters with such wondrous, wild ideas, not to mention the beautiful gowns, and all the passionate love affairs so many indulged in. It was quite delightful.

At last Erato reached the small clearing. In the center of the grassy circle was the oracle spring, where anything could be seen. Its power was great and had to be used carefully, but it could show her the Chase Muses or anyone else she sought. She knelt beside the bubbling water and stared deeply into its opaque depths.

“Goddess of the spring, reveal to me what I seek,” she whispered, concentrating very hard on the water’s surface. “Show me my desire.”

At first she saw only her own reflection. Her heart-shaped, ivory-white face and blue eyes, her dark red hair bound with gold ribbons, the green silk tunic sliding from her shoulders. Then, slowly, the image shifted. Her face blurred, replaced with the delicate features and black hair of Calliope, the eldest of the Chase Muses. Erato sat back on her sandaled feet, watching intently as the scene grew clearer. Calliope was in her London drawing room, surrounded by her sisters and a few of their friends. It appeared they were having a meeting of their Ladies Artistic Society—and they did not look happy. Calliope was frowning, her slender shoulders stiff in her long-sleeved white gown.

She held up one of their English newspapers. It was a rather primitive way to disseminate gossip, Erato thought. Hermes and the cupids were much more efficient. But the Chases seemed to like the papers and read them every day.

Calliope pointed to a black headline-The Lily Thief Returns!

“Oh, marvelous,” Erato said. The exploits of the Lily Thief, a criminal who stole purloined antiquities from their greedy English owners and returned them to Greece and Italy, were very amusing. Erato knew who the thief was, of course; she had even watched one or two of the clever thefts from this very oracle spring. But no one else yet realized the truth, which made it even more fun.

“It has been many weeks since this criminal struck,” Calliope said. She spoke quietly, but her pretty cheeks flushed bright pink. A hopeful sign of deep, passionate feeling. “I suppose he realized that attention was drifting from his foul deeds.”

Thalia Chase stopped her song at the pianoforte, her golden curls bouncing as she turned to face her sisters. Clio Chase, who was taking down the record of their meeting, peered over her spectacles, her auburn brow arched.

The Chases’ friend Lady Emmeline Saunders said, “Perhaps the Lily Thief has good reasons for what he does.”

“Reasons such as profit and riches?” Thalia cried. Erato’s task would be easy enough when Thalia found her true mate; she felt things so very fervently. “I am sure he saw a pretty penny from the sale of Lord Egremont’s krater and the Clives’ Bastet statue.”

“Antiquities have more than monetary value, you know,” Clio said calmly. She would be more of a challenge when it came to romance. She was such a cool, intellectual young lady. But she certainly had her own secret desires. “Something their previous owners seemed to have lost sight of.”

“Of course they do,” Calliope said. The eldest Chase Muse would probably be Erato’s greatest problem. She refused to consider herself a romantic soul at all. It would take someone very special indeed to change her mind. “That is what makes the exploits of the Lily Thief so heinous. Who knows where these objects have gone, or if they will ever be seen again? We will have no access to the lessons they could teach us. It is a terrible loss to scholarship. We are going to have to catch the Lily Thief ourselves.” Her proclamation caused a flurry of excitement among the Ladies Artistic Society, but even that faded at the clamor that arose when one of the women by the window cried out, “Oh, it is Lord Westwood!”

Thalia Chase was the first one at the glass. “Oh! He is in his beautiful phaeton. I wish Father would buy one for me, I’m sure I would be a rare hand at the reins. But Westwood appears to be in some kind of altercation with Mr. Mountbank. How fascinating.”

“Of course he is,” Calliope muttered. “Wherever Lord Westwood is, altercations are sure to follow.” But she, too, went to look.

Erato peered closer at the intriguing Lord Westwood. She could see what all the fuss was about—he was quite ridiculously handsome, with glossy, sable-brown curls tossed by the wind over his brow, and deep, dark eyes. He laughed merrily, so careless and roguishly attractive. He was exactly what Calliope needed.

The image slowly faded as the spring lost its moment of magic, but Erato had seen what she needed. Westwood was surely the perfect man for Calliope! He was handsome, intelligent, kindhearted but with that delicious twinkle in his eye. Plus Calliope professed to dislike him, which of course meant that deep down inside she lusted for him madly. So deep it was hidden even from herself. But Erato could certainly assist her with that. Her specialty was helping humans discover their deepest desires and talents. She wouldn’t have to create it for Calliope. The feelings were already there in her heart. Erato just had to nudge her a bit. And liven up her own dull existence while she was at it. She spun around and dashed back toward the pavilion. She had to prepare for a journey to Regency England.

Lord Tristan Carlyle stared at his latest painting in growing frustration. It was not right at all. In his mind was a glorious, beautiful classical scene of the judgment of Paris, the young Trojan prince studying the three lovely goddesses as he held out the fateful golden apple. In reality, the colors seemed muddy and dark, the perspective of the scene all wrong, the images lacking in all classical elegance.

This was meant to be his entry at the Royal Academy, the painting that would cement his reputation as an artist and prove to his family that he had left his wild, rakish past of drink, gaming and women behind. His father, the Duke of Lindham, and his older brother had their doubts.

Instead, it was shaping up to be an unattractive disaster.

“Blast it all,” he muttered, and tossed his brush to the stained palette.

The three goddesses, orange sellers form Drury Lane he paid to drape themselves in tunics and stand still for hours, fell out of their poses.

“Cor, but I’m that sore,” Athena cried. “Worse than when the Royal Navy’s in town.”

“Is the painting not going well, love?” Artemis asked Tristan, rubbing at her neck. “You don’t look so happy.”

“It is just not going quite as well as I would like,” Tristan said. He wiped his hands on a paint-stained rag as he studied the scene, trying to decipher exactly what was wrong. The classical spirit simply was not there.

Maybe he had been working too hard. Maybe he needed some time away from it, that was all.

Artemis, whose real name was Sally, came to drape her arms around his neck. “It looks fine to me. I think it’s pretty.”

That was not exactly the reaction Tristan wanted from the Royal Academy. It’s pretty. “I need to start over.”

“What you need is to have some fun,” Sally whispered in his ear. Her arms tightened and she kissed the side of his neck, openmouthed and teasing. “Like you used to, remember?”

“It wasn’t such fun to be threatened with duels.”

“Those men were just jealous ‘cause their wives and mistresses were in love with you,” Sally said. “And who could blame ‘em? You’re the handsomest bloke in London.”

The most handsome bloke in London. His claim to distinction. For a long time it had been enough. Sally was right. His looks and name won him the affection of ladies, and opened doors as if by magic. But it was no longer enough. He could do more.

He had to do more. He had always loved art, loved it with a deep, instinctive passion. It became buried in parties and wild nights, but now he had found it again. He did not want to lose it. Life had to be made of more. It had to mean something.

“Don’t you remember the fun we had?” Sally whispered, her lips sliding over his cheek. “It can be that way again.”

Her mouth met his and he kissed her back. Maybe he did need fun, a woman to inspire him. Sally was warm, buxom, pretty, and her kiss tasted of wild nights cavorting through Covent Garden. She tasted of freedom from cares and responsibilities. She held on to him tightly, pressing her body to his.

But it was all wrong. Sally was the past, everything he was done with. He wanted something else, something elusive and yet so very important.

He put his hands at her waist and eased her away. “I’m not so much fun anymore, Sally my love.”

She pouted but gave in, going back to talk to her friends. Tristan went to the window and stared down at the street below. It was late afternoon, the light turning chalky-pink at the edges, and not many people were out and about. They were all at home, getting ready for the evening’s balls and routs and plays. He should be doing the same. He was expected at a musical evening given by his parents’ friend Lady Russell, quite different from the nighttime entertainments he used to enjoy. It wouldn’t do to show up in his paint-splattered shirt.

As he studied the patterns of light on the cobblestones, a phaeton rolled past, its wheels clattering. It was a woman at the reins, he saw with surprise, and not just any woman. A vivid vision of a woman in a deep red carriage dress and little feathered hat, a beribboned whip brandished jauntily in her hand.

She had red hair, deep as the sunset, pinned up loosely under her hat and bouncing against the pale curve of her cheek. The dying light gleamed on those curls, turning them to molten flame. A wide smile touched her pink, sensual lips at the joy of speed. Of life.

She glanced up as she passed his window and their eyes met for one brief instant. That flashing moment sent a jolt of heat through him, a lightning bolt of desire. She was beautiful, but more than that she seemed alight with spirit.

She waved that whip at him, laughing, and then she was gone.

Without stopping to think, Tristan bolted out of the studio and dashed down the stairs to the street. He scanned the lane frantically, but she was out of sight. He couldn’t see her even when he ran to the corner.

But he would find her. He had to.

Chapter Two

“Ah, Contessa de Erato,” Mr. Price, a friend of Sir Walter Chase’s, said happily as Erato stepped into the foyer of Lady Russell’s Mayfair town house. “I am so happy you could attend our little musicale tonight.”

“It was most kind of Lady Russell to include me at the last minute,” Erato said, offering him her gloved hand. “Everyone in London has been so welcoming. I must spend more time here in the future.”

“I hope you will. It is not often we have visitors from Italy, especially one who collects antiquities. Have you considered my invitation to attend one of our Antiquities Society events?”

“I would be honored,” Erato said. Such an invitation fell perfectly in with her plans, as the Chases were active members of the society. It would give her an excellent opportunity to keep an eye on Calliope Chase and Lord Westwood and see what happened.

Tonight’s soiree was another such opportunity. A musicale featuring reconstructed songs from ancient plays of Terence, seemed something both Calliope and Westwood would enjoy. Luckily her assumed identity, an Italian contessa who was an avid collector of ancient sculpture, was the perfect entrée.

She had only been in England for two days, but she was already enjoying herself immensely. There were so many people all over the place, full of delicious gossip and laughter. She had purchased gowns, hats and slippers, books and sweetmeats, and the most adorable bright yellow phaeton just like Lord Westwood’s. She had gone to the galleries, where she met Mr. Price and Lady Russell.

Fun indeed. If only she could discover the dark, handsome man she had glimpsed at that window, the one with the intense eyes and the paint-streaked shirt. He looked terribly intriguing.

“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 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.”

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.

How could she ever let him go?

Deep down, she felt that hot pressure growing, expanding through her whole body. Sparks danced over her skin, burning, consuming, yet bringing the most intense delight. All coherent thought fled, and she could only feel.

“Tristan,” she gasped, her back arching. “Ikanopoio!”

“Yes, my love,” he answered, his voice tight. “I’m here.” He buried his face against her shoulder as she felt his own climax seize him. His whole body was taut along hers. He shouted out, the fierce, primitive sound muffled against her.

Then he collapsed beside her, their arms and legs entangled. Erato slowly floated back down into herself, and she could feel his weight pressed against her side, the heat of his body and the cool air around them. Outside the windows it was dark now, night closing in around them.

She slowly sat up, and made herself breathe deeply until she could think in a semi-coherent fashion again. Tristan rolled onto his back, his eyes shadowed as he watched her remove her rumpled chemise and her black silk stockings. She tossed them aside and lay back down beside him, naked and tired.

They were pressed very close on the narrow chaise, and she could feel his long, lean body full against hers. He propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her in the dying light, his eyes slowly moving from the tips of her toes to the wild tangle of her hair.

It felt as if he touched her at each place he lingered, as if he caressed every curve and angle of her body. She suddenly felt strangely shy. At least that was how she thought she felt; goddesses never had occasion to be shy.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice deep and full of wonder. And that shyness vanished.

“And you are overdressed,” she answered, toying with the wrinkled, ruined fabric of his shirt. She pushed it over his head and tossed it away to join her own clothes on the floor.

It was now her turn to look. She pressed against his bare chest until he lay flat, and she leaned over him to trace light, caressing patterns over his bare skin. He was that gleaming olive-bronze color here, too, the smoothness of his muscles roughened by a sprinkling of brown hair. He was so warm and handsome, young and alive.

She bent her head to kiss him just above his navel, and the gaping fastenings of his breeches. He tasted salty-sweet, of sweat and their essences mingled together. It was intoxicating.

She felt his body tighten under her lips, his manhood begin to stir. She laughed and slid up along his body, trailing her caress over his ribs and shoulders, the groove of his back. She traced the edge of her nail over his flat nipple, and his breath caught.

“We have all night, yes?” she whispered. She rested her head on his shoulder, letting herself lie against him. His arms closed around her. “There is only you and me tonight. Nothing else.”

He kissed the top of her head, smoothing her hair tenderly. “Only us. Nothing else.”

Erato closed her eyes and smiled as utter contentment washed over her. How could she make one night last for all eternity?

Chapter Four

Erato awoke suddenly, jerked out of a deep, sweet sleep by a dream of heat and desire. Only it was not a dream—it was very real.

She lay on her side, her back pressed to Tristan’s chest. His arms were around her waist, holding her tight. He was naked, his hair-roughened legs tangled with hers, his erect penis against her buttocks. He nudged aside her hair and kissed the soft nape of her neck.

“Are you asleep?” he whispered.

She laughed, feeling her body come to life again. “No. And you are quite awake, I see.” She arched back against his erection and felt it grow even harder.

She tried to turn to face him, but he held her still. She felt his openmouthed kiss trail over her shoulder, the curve of her back. The tip of his tongue licked at the tiny freckle just below her shoulder blade, sending sparks shooting along her nerves to the tips of her toes.

His palm eased up her rib cage to cup her breast, his thumb flicking at her sensitive nipple. She moaned at the pleasure of that touch, and cried out when he lightly pinched it between his fingers.

“Do you like that?” he whispered, his teeth scraping over her shoulder before he pressed his lips to it again.

“Y-yes.”

“And—that?” He pinched a bit harder, rolling her nipple. A jolt of fiery delight made her sight swirl out of focus, and she bowed her back to press her breast into his hand.

“Yes!” She tried again to turn to him, longing to kiss him, to press her breasts against his bare chest and feel him on her skin. But his grasp tightened, keeping her still.

He carefully eased her onto her stomach, the soft velvet cushions chafing her sensitive skin. He kissed the back of her neck, his hands sliding slowly, teasingly, down the length of her body.

“Stretch your hands out in front of you,” he whispered, and as she obeyed he grasped her hips and drew them up.

She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she could feel every single touch of him against her skin, every delicious sensation. She had never been in such a position before; no man would even dare try, not with her. Yet with Tristan, it was so terribly arousing.

He traced a light caress down her back, along the cleft of her buttocks, the curve of them. “So, so beautiful,” he said roughly. She felt his touch on her thigh, spreading her legs wide. His finger dipped into her womanhood, and she felt so vulnerable and filled with burning desire. “So wet.”

“Only for you,” she gasped. And it was so terribly true. She wanted only him now, and she had the suspicion that would never change now that she had found him at last. But did he want her in the same way?

As if to assure her, he slid deep inside of her, his hands hard on her hips. As he drew back and plunged even deeper, again and again, faster and faster, she felt the slide of their bodies against each other. She heard the mingling of their breath, their incoherent cries. The pleasure built up again, even more intense and frantic, until it burst. She felt completely unmoored, spinning out free into the sky. Only his touch held her to the earth.

He shouted out above her, and she felt the heat of his climax inside of her. He slid out of her body, and she collapsed to the chaise. She felt so weak she was sure she could not walk, or even rise from their bed. And she never really wanted to, either. She never wanted to leave.

He fell down beside her, his eyes closed and his jaw tight, as if he still felt the tremors of their pleasure. Erato curled against him and rested her head against his chest. She listened as his heartbeat slowed, its rhythm echoing her own as if they were two halves of the same whole.

“I wish we could stay in this room forever and ever,” she said.

He laughed, his fingers smoothing through her hair. “We can, if you like. We can send out for food and fuel for the fire. I would keep the flames high so you would not need to wear clothes. All we need is right here.”

“You would soon tire of me, I fear.”

“Never. I have the feeling that even if I knew you for a hundred years I would never discover everything about you. You’re not like anyone else I have ever known.” He had no idea how true his words were. Erato kissed his chest and snuggled closer to him.

“Would you tire of me?” he asked. She felt his hands move soothingly through her hair, wrapping the strands over his shoulders as if to bind her to him.

“I never could. You’re not like anyone I have ever met, either.” Outside the windows it had begun to rain, the drops a soft, musical rhythm against the glass. It was beautiful, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. “I’m so tired.”

“Sleep now.” He kissed her brow and held her close to him. “I will watch over you.”

Feeling entirely safe in his embrace, she did just that and slid down deep into dreams once more.

Tristan studied the contessa’s sleeping face as she lay beside him. He had seen beautiful women before, of course, fine ladies in ballrooms and his models who came from the theaters and back streets. Expensive courtesans, lovely debutantes, and doxies in cheap brothels. Even his own mother had been a renowned beauty, so he had been surrounded by loveliness since he was born. Yet he had never seen anyone quite like her.

He couldn’t decipher what it was that made her special, even when he looked at her with an artist’s eye and not a lover’s. She had fine, sharp bone structure, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes under silky auburn brows. Her skin was ivory-fair with pale pink cheeks that grew even pinker when she climaxed.

Yet it was more than that. She had some kind of sunny glow that seemed to come from deep inside of her. A brightness that touched everyone around her and made them feel lighter, happier. She seemed to see and understand so much.

And when they made love—he was surprised he had not died of the pleasure, it was so burningly intense.

“Where did you come from?” he whispered. He lightly skimmed the back of his hand over her soft cheek, and she murmured in her sleep and nuzzled against him. She had come to him like a dream, unexpected and beautiful. Would she vanish like a dream, too? He had the terrible feeling there was something unreal about her.

He had to make the most of every moment he had with her.

He eased off the chaise, careful not to wake her, and put on his rumpled breeches before lighting the lamps. His sketch of her lay on the floor, and he retrieved it to study its black-and-white lines. Her image smiled back at him, and he liked the pose, the expression on her face—that half smile as if she held a secret.

Yet it cried out for color. The white of her skin, the red of her hair, those blue eyes, they were an essential part of her. Suddenly inspired, his tiredness vanished, he removed the half-finished judgment of Paris scene from his easel and put a clean, freshly stretched and primed canvas in its place.

In a fever of creativity, he crushed and mixed the paints until he had exactly the shades he needed. Never had an image taken hold of him in such a way before. He had to paint her. His brush took on a life of its own as it moved across the canvas.

After a time, hours or minutes or days he could not tell, he heard her stir on the chaise.

“Tristan?” she called, as if startled she could not find him.

“I am here,” he answered. He glanced over and smiled at the beautiful image of her as she sat up against the cushions. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, concealing one breast while leaving the other bare. Any picture he painted could never reveal the reality of her.

“Are you working?” She drew the velvet blanket around her, wrapping it like a tunic.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said. “I just had the sense that I needed to paint, right now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Can I see?”

He studied the canvas. Despite his feverish pace it was only half-done, the lines rough, the paint still not smoothed. “Not yet. Soon.”

“And are you pleased with it thus far?”

“It is the finest thing I have done,” he said. “But it can’t begin to compare with the original.”

She laughed. “I’m so happy you’re happy.”

Happy? He had to stop and consider that. Happiness was something he had little experience of, much like home and love. But he seemed filled with a bright contentment, a sense that now, finally, everything had come right.

“I am,” he said. “I am happy.” And it was all thanks to her. He sat down beside her again, taking her in his arms to kiss her lips. “Are you happy, too?”

“I have never felt so marvelously happy,” she answered. She kissed him back as her slender arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. She clung to him, almost as if she feared he would fly away.

If only she knew. He could never leave her.

“I think I need to show you something,” she said. She drew back, her eyes full of sadness as she gazed up at him.

Tristan laughed, and reached up to frame her face in his hands. He could look into those eyes, study her forever. “What have I not seen yet of you, Contessa?”

A pale pink blush covered her cheeks, and she touched the stain wonderingly with her fingertips, as if she had never felt such a thing before. “I—I am blushing!”

He laughed even harder, completely delighted. “So you are.”

“Oh, Tristan, you are a miracle.” She kissed him again, fiercely, but just as he tried to deepen the caress she drew away. “But there is something you should see, something you must know before we go any further.”

Tristan frowned, unsettled by her solemn tone. “What is it? I promise you, nothing can change my feelings for you.”

“Just close your eyes,” she whispered, stroking her hand softly over his face. “And hold onto me.”

Slowly, the scent of roses and lilacs suffused the air, replacing the dusty smell of paint and paper. The breeze turned warm and soft, bearing the sounds of laughter and water flowing from fountains and splashing against marble. There were the faint strains of music, much like that heard at Lady Russell’s drawing room, except full of life and freshness.

Erato was home.

She opened her eyes and gazed around the marble pavilion. It was just as she had left it, yet something was different. She was different. The boredom and restlessness that had plagued her before she left had vanished, and she felt new and free.

All because of Tristan. She held tightly to his hands, half-afraid of what he might say or do when he saw the truth. Would he be angry, reject her and insist on returning to England? If he did, she would have to let him go. The other gods sometimes held humans against their wills—look what happened with Apollo and poor Daphne. The Muses never did. Their task was to bring enlightenment and happiness.

And, more than she had ever wanted anything, she wanted Tristan to be happy.

“Open your eyes,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes and blinked at her. For a moment, it seemed all he could see was her. He gave her his beautiful smile, the one that made her forget everything else, and leaned in to kiss her.

Erato knew that if he kissed her she could never let him go. She would be as bad as those selfish gods, and unworthy of Tristan’s love. Even if he stayed with her then she would never have what she really wanted—his freely given love.

She pressed her hands to his bare shoulders, holding him away from her. “Look around you.”

“I’d rather kiss you.” he said. His hand slid about her waist as if to drag her closer. She resisted, laughing.

“Look first,” she said.

He raised his gaze over her head—and his eyes went wide. His arms stiffened. “Where are we?”

“This is my home.”

“But how did we get here? We were in my studio!”

“I brought us here. You have to know the truth, Tristan.”

“The truth? I don’t understand this at all!” He broke away from her, scanning the pavilion as if he sought an escape route. There was nothing but fountains and velvet couches, glimpses of blue sky and green fields between the marble pillars. Surely it did not seem a threatening prison?

But his eyes were burning as he swung back to face her. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“Not a joke at all. Please, Tristan, just listen to me,” she begged. Erato found she could not concentrate on her task with him half-naked like that. Her mind kept wandering to more pleasurable thoughts, when it was so important she convince him to stay with her. She waved her hand, and he was clad in the soft white folds of a tunic. She wore her favorite pale green robe, belted in gold cords.

Tristan stared at her in angry astonishment. “How did you do that?”

“I can do many things. You see, Tristan, I am afraid I told a little lie when we met,” she said ruefully. “I am not a widowed Italian countess.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching her with narrowed eyes. At least he had not pushed her down and run from her. Surely that meant there was hope? “Then who are you?”

“I am Erato, the Muse of Erotic Poetry. And you are at Mount Olympus.”

He laughed harshly. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

She felt a wave of irritation and longing rush over her. He was not making her task easier, the infuriating, gorgeous man! And their entire future relied on this. “You do not believe me?” She snapped her fingers and a fleet of cupids flew into the pavilion.

“What is your wish, Erato?” they chorused, falling over one another as they sought her attention.

“Wine for my guest,” she said. “And later we will want supper. You must attend to his every wish. And where are my sisters?”

“Dancing by the river!” they cried, avidly studying Tristan and laughing with each other. They flew away, only to be back in an instant with trays of goblets filled with various wines. They all beseeched Tristan to try their wine, as it was the best, but Erato sent them flying off again.

“Here, Tristan, have some wine. There is sun-wine—my favorite. Or raspberry or rosé. Anything you like. You have but to say and it’s yours.”

He took the goblet she held out, peering into its depths as if he looked for poison.

“It is quite safe,” she assured him. “And very delicious. Here, I want to show you something else. Maybe this will convince you.”

She took his other hand in hers, gazing up at him as she willed him to remember their lovemaking. Remember what they had become to each other, and trust her.

He seemed to soften a bit, and even took a drink of the wine. “Very well. Show me.”

“Come with me.” She led him out of the pavilion, down the grassy, sun-splashed slope where the shepherds played their pipes for the cavorting nymphs. Their short gowns were transparent in the intense light, but Tristan watched only her.

She took him down to the river, past her sisters on the mossy banks. They called out to her, staring at Tristan, but she waved them away. Hopefully there would be time later for him to face a full Muses’ inquisition. For now she led him over the footbridge and to the clearing of the oracle spring.

She knelt down beside it, tugging him with her. He seemed more curious than angry now, which had to be a good sign.

“These waters are magical,” she said.

“Unlike the other mundanities here?” he said sardonically.

“It shows us things of the human world,” she went on, ignoring him. “It shows us those who need our help.”

She waved her hand over the water’s still surface, and slowly they began to stir. An image was revealed, a man seated by a window with a violin. His bow moved over the strings swiftly, almost violently. He seemed caught up in a musical spell.

“That is Signor Veracini,” she said. “He is Clio’s current project.” She waved her hand again, and a young woman gliding across a scarred wooden floor in a twirling dance appeared. “And that is Mademoiselle Delacorte. Terpsichore is working with her.”

The images faded, leaving only the silvery water. Tristan was silent for a long moment.

“Was I your project?” he said quietly. “Your task?”

“No, no! Not at all. I went to England to look in on the Chase Muses. They have been our protégés of a sort since they were born. You were just a—nice surprise.”

He suddenly grabbed her wrists, pulling her close to him. He held her tightly, not hurting her yet she knew she could not break away. Nor did she want to. At last he understood.

“If you are a Muse,” he said fiercely, “is that the only reason I can paint again? It was just some sort of—magic?”

Erato shook her head. She could not let him lose his inspiration, his rare talent! “No! I cannot create talent—it must already be there, inborn. I can only inspire the work, help artists when they cannot see their way clear. Your artistic gift is yours alone.”

His hand slid from her wrist, tracing a fiery path down her side, along the curve of her hip through her loose robe. He dragged her tight against his body. “Was this part of your inspiration? Having sex with me?”

“Tristan! No,” she cried, desperate to convince him. “I do not have sex with the artists. That is Aphrodite’s part of the job. You were just…”

“Just—what?”

“Different,” she whispered. “I did not go to England looking for you. I felt restless, bored, I needed distraction. A holiday. But you were so much more than I expected to find.”

His hand turned gentle as he lightly traced her backside, her soft upper thigh. She shivered at the sensations of his touch, longing for more. “What am I, Erato?”

“I—I told you. You are not like anyone else I have ever known,” she said. She held his face between her hands and stared deep into his eyes. She willed him to believe, to know.

He laughed ruefully. “I am not like anyone you have known? What about you? You are a goddess! I have never met a goddess.”

“I am just a Muse.”

“I imagined you a goddess when I first saw you, you were so beautiful, so full of life. But now you are one in truth.” He shook his head.

“And I have been searching for you for so very long,” she whispered. “Please, Tristan, stay with me here. You can paint, no one will disturb your creativity. Please, stay with me. I beg you.”

He drew back a bit, watching her solemnly. “For how long?”

“For always, if you will. For I will always want you. Need you.”

“Am I your prisoner?”

“Never. You can leave whenever you like, go back to England. For a visit, for your Royal Academy show—or forever. But this can be your home. I can be yours. I am yours.”

She kissed his cheek softly, then his other cheek, the tip of his nose. The sharp angle of his jaw, where she felt a muscle tighten under her lips. Her kiss trailed down his throat, to where the soft linen of the tunic lay in supple folds against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, his breath, the very life of him.

She could not give him up. She had to persuade him to stay with her. “Why?” he said roughly. “Why me?”

“Because I love you,” she whispered. The words she had never said, never thought she could say.

She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, tugging her back until she looked up into his fathomless brown eyes. “I love you, too, blast it all,” he said.

With a cry of joy, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely. Their lips and tongues met in a fiery, fervent embrace, full of all the wonder of finding each other at last, of declaring their love. The very air around them sizzled with celebration and passion.

They tumbled down to the soft grass, their limbs entangled. As their bodies were joined, so were their hearts, for all time. And they knew what it truly was to be home at last, together.

That was the real magic of the Muses.

Don’t forget to read in Amanda McCabe’s series THE CHASE MUSES in both print and eBook format from Harlequin Historical!

To Catch a Rogue
(April 2010)

To Kiss a Count
(June 2010)

To Deceive a Duke
(July 2010)

And be sure to check out more of Amanda McCabe’s historical romances always available in eBook format:

The Maid’s Lover

The Winter Queen

The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor

High Seas Stowaway

Shipwrecked and Seduced

A Sinful Alliance

A Notorious Woman

Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:

TAKEN BY THE HIGHWAYMAN by Amelia Casey

WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW by Bronwyn Scott

WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER by Lauri Robinson

AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION by Michelle Willingham

NOTORIOUS ELIZA by Barbara Monajem

THE MAID’S LOVER by Amanda McCabe

AWAKENING HIS LADY by Kathrynn Dennis

SEDUCING A STRANGER by Christine Merrill

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER by Marguerite Kaye

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS by Margaret Moore

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham

AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Carole Mortimer

HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin

DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston

Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen in Algebra class, an epic starring all her friends as characters! That story will never be published (and she nearly failed Algebra), but now she’s the RITA-nominated, award-winning author of many other books and novellas. She lives in Oklahoma with two cats, a Pug, and a bossy miniature Poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at ammandamccabe.com for Behind the Book information, contests, and upcoming releases, and at riskyregencies.blogspot.com.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-4888-9

To Bed a Libertine

Copyright © 2010 by Ammanda McCabe

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