To Bed a Libertine. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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