To Bed a Libertine. Amanda McCabe

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.