To Bed a Libertine Read Online Free Page A

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