To Bed a Libertine (4 page)

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?

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.”