To Bed a Libertine Read Online Free

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