Free To Bed a Libertine by Amanda Mccabe Page B

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