To Bed a Libertine Read Free Page A

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,