Читать книгу To Bed a Libertine - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 7

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.