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Today, at precisely 4 in the afternoon, Benedict Bridgerton received a letter. An invitation, to be more precise. Written by one Henry Granville, painter and libertine. In his neat and elegant handwriting, he expressed his desire for Benedict to join him in yet another evening at his residence. To be completely fair, Benedict wasn't entirely sure if the painter truly resided in the house per se, or if it was simply an atelier, occasionally repurposed for… special evenings.
He allowed himself to reminisce on the events of his last evening spent in the studio. Seeing Henry, with Weatherby… he did not even entertain the idea previously. It seemed to plague his mind. Not in a bad way, not at all, in fact it was quite the opposite.
Benedict always considered himself a respectable man, definitely not a rake or a hedonist, (like some would describe his elder brother) and was never exactly one to overindulge. It could've been out of fear, or out of a wish to simply stay out of the entire business, given how many of the ton's scandals and outrages were essentially, young men not being able to keep it in their pants, so to say.
Now, he realized how entirely wrong he was. He did not truly desire to marry, and he could hardly see himself with children. It seemed such a distant and… detached idea of his future. He spent such a long time being told that is how it will eventually have to come to be, he had hardly given any thought to another option.
Yet, Eloise… clever, wonderful and insightful Eloise… she made him realize he never wanted any of those things, and that he was a fool not to pursue what he truly wished to do, as he had the means for it - compared to her. The conversation left a bittersweet taste in his mouth, but it filled him with a sense of determination.
Now he even felt slightly silly, as all he truly wished for was to paint, and - apparently - press soft kisses on warm skin, and wanton bites onto hot skin, and a little bit more. He knew it was idealistic, and almost not likely to happen at all, but he thought he was allowed to dwell on it at least a little - he was still young, after all, and if he cannot be a wistful fool when young, then such a youth isn't worth his time.
He thought about his sketchbook, and the sketches within, and especially, the ones of people. He has always been fascinated with the human form, the sharp and soft lines, the quietly sensual way it twisted and curved, and the way he could press his lips onto long expanses of skin, and then bring it to life on canvas, drawing his brush over the planes he had touched, and thereby devoted himself to.
He sketched both men and women alike, as a human being was a human being - equally as breathtaking and masterfully designed. Sometimes he drew people he merely glimpsed, in windows of carriages, or somewhere in the distance - when he saw art, he saw naught else.
Perhaps he should've realized his old art teacher only had faces of delicate women filling his pages, or that Anthony never nearly walked into a pillar because he saw a man with hair so golden, Benedict thought Phoebus Apollo himself had walked down from the heavens to flash him a smile. For the sake of his reputation, let it be known he was 15 at the time and hardly at his most mature.
Similarly, once Anthony had dragged him to a boxing fight, intending to show him the ways of “true men”, as he'd put it, yet Benedict caught none of the match, or, more precisely, he only noticed one boxer, a tall olive-skinned man, who happened to look in his direction with a dazed grin on his face. Anthony was positively surprised when Benedict decided to join him on his occasional betting escapades more often, and with with strong enthusiasm.
And so, Benedict came to the very profound conclusion that he wanted to kiss a man's lips, too, because, well, it simply made sense. And so he sat on that conclusion, thinking about Greek statues and Henry Granville, swinging lightly on a swing behind their residence, fully dressed and looking to pass the last moments before he departed to the soiree.
He began to light his cigarette when he heard a light shuffle behind him.
“Care to spare one, brother? I seem to have run out.”
Benedict chuckled and lit his cigarette.
“Does Anthony's valet no longer keep his cigarettes in the pocket of his tux, which he only wears when going out, and leaves unwatched in the servant rooms, near the lobby?”
Eloise stalked closer and sat on the swing next to her brother.
“Not at all. It's the stable boy, he always drops some when riding out, the foolish man, he thinks someone is stealing from him. He is not entirely wrong, obviously, and I decided to find someone else. I have no intent to cause a feud."
Benedict passed her the cigarette, thinking about whether he should share his troubles with Eloise.
“I do hope you stick to that decision. Stealing is so very unladylike.”
He was met with a scoff, and a “Please, Benedict.”, before Eloise apparently decided she spent long enough dancing around her question.
"So… are you planning to tell me what bothers you anytime soon, brother dear?"
Benedict put on his best (surprisingly good) innocent face.
"I know not what you speak of."
It did not work. Eloise's tone turned playful.
"Do not insult my intelligence by presuming I will fall for that, brother, you should know better."
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
"I know. Still, something is bothering you."
"There is simply… a lot on my mind. The world is approaching quickly and I do not think I can follow suit."
When the words crossed over his lips, Eloise turned on her swing and they spent several quiet moments looking each other deep in the eye. A yearning expression flashed across her face, before she continued, a bit more quietly.
"That I understand. You should know there isn't a thing you cannot tell me. God knows I cannot advocate on behalf of polite society, considering how often I find myself straying further and further from what most would deem such."
Benedict's eyebrows raised, wondering what must plague his sister's mind. He did not wish anything but the utmost happiness for her, yet she made him understand how truly caging it felt to be a young woman in their time, having control over barely any relevant decisions about their own life.
"Whatever might be so terribly impolite about you? I know you are not keen to marry, but that does not make you a disgrace. Far from it."
Eloise only gave him a sad smile.
He knew he wasn't entirely right, and that he did not know everything, but if he asked more, he would feel like a hypocrite. They sat in silence for a short while, until Benedict heard his coachman prepare the horses, and knew he should go soon, if he did not wish to be late.
He rose from the swing and extinguished his cigarette with his foot.
“I am afraid I will be leaving you now, sister. Don't stay out for too long, will you? It's getting cold and I would hate it if you caught a sickness.”
He sounded sad, and wistful. They both did.
“Perhaps then I wouldn't have to attend all those social gatherings in the next month.” She stood up, walking towards him. “Off to Granville's, are you?”
Benedict simply nodded.
“At least one of us gets to truly enjoy society, and all its charms. Have fun, Benedict.”
She grinned and wrapped her arms around him, standing up on her toes, and Benedict felt like there was much unsaid in that one hug.
“I will certainly endeavour to.”
He stalked away from the swings, and when he entered his carriage, he noticed the cigarettes in his pocket were missing. He looked through the window and saw a thin strip of smoke rising from the darkness.
~~
He arrived at the studio at exactly the right time, knocked, and was immediately met with the smell of burnt incense, smoke and wine. Henry Granville stood at the doorway, relaxed and aloof, leaning on the doorframe. Benedict felt his lips stretch into a smile without even realizing.
"Right on time, as always, Bridgerton."
"I would not dare be late, Granville."
They chuckled, and Benedict entered, all the familiar scents and sounds filling his senses. He would never get tired of it. Granville quickly disappeared, tending to his host duties. Benedict usually never saw him enjoy himself until everyone was taken care of - he was simply that courteous.
Benedict discarded his jacket and waistcoat, the actions somehow a ritual announcing his night had begun. It was symbolic in his mind - the lowering of inhibitions, the descent into the Dionysian. He made his way to one of the painting halls, and when on his way he saw a red-haired lady wearing a waistcoat, smoking a thin cigarette and passionately embracing another woman, he smiled to himself and quickly rid her of it. He was fairly certain he saw her smirk at him when she noticed it was gone and she was able to embrace her partner more intimately.
When he reached his destination, he noticed there was a different model in the centre of the room. It was a young man, golden-haired and laying down on a divan, a red cloth draped around his body, preserving a sense of modesty where there was clearly none. Benedict didn't let himself be phased, because, naturally, he wasn't. Phased, that is. Not at all.
He sat on a small wooden stool in front of an easel. There was a small ornate table next to him, on which rested two charcoal pencils and a bottle of red wine, along with a crystal glass. He poured himself a glass, began sharpening one of the pencils with a small knife, and decided to take in the environment before starting anything.
There was an opulent smell of partume in the air, and several thin strips of smoke rising from behind one easel or the other. The light was slightly dim, though there was a chandelier swinging above the model, making distinctive shadows. He could hear faint music - a harpsichord, and perhaps a cello. Henry sometimes invited musicians, the street kind, who played their guitars like fiddles and fiddles like guitars - Benedict should know, they demonstrated how good with their fingers they were to him, personally, on several occasions.
Henry's parties always made him feel as if he stepped into an entirely different world for a night. Every time he blinked, he could imagine opening his eyes to marble pillars and draped fabrics, golden lyres and nymphs. He allowed his mind to drift, shortly, revelling in the swoon-like sensation, then he placed his charcoal on the crisp paper, and began to outline the form of the man before him.
~~
It had been hours. By now, Benedict would usually finish his drawing, and when the model took a longer break, he would wander the rooms, dance and drink and flirt, perhaps bring someone upstairs, then bring someone else, and some more people, and perhaps return to paint again, or look for his small circle of friends - sculptors, musicians, writers and dancers - and catch up, watch them hone their skills.
Instead, there weas a dozen cigarette buds on a small plate on his table, and ripped, discarded papers around his feet. The one on his easel showed simply an outline - the farthest he ever got, before deciding it felt wrong, in a strange manner he couldn't put into words, and ripping it off.
He heard soft footsteps behind himself, and then Henry was leaning over his shoulder, taking a peek at his failed attempts to capture the model, who had by now already left, which meant Benedict was simply slouching on his chair, wine glass in hand, feeling nervous and frustrated.
Henry chuckled.
“I am certainly not saying there isn't a resemblance, but I expected a little more detail - I did bring a very beautiful man to model for us today, after all. People were quite taken. Or are you perhaps inventing a new direction in art? Simplicity and… outlines?”
Benedict couldn't help but laugh, so much he nearly choked on his drink, which he sipped in an attempt to disguise how disappointed he was with himself with nonchalance.
“I'm afraid not. I… there are outlines.” He fumbled with his pencil. “I draw the outlines, the rigid lines, the skeleton. Yet, I cannot bring it to life. And then I give up.”
Henry circled him, turning the easel to himself and inspecting the outline more carefully, His shirt barely remained on his shoulders and his hair was ruffled. There were traces of smudged black makeup around his eyes.
“Not an “it”, a “he”, Benedict. You are not drawing a lifeless model, nor a study, You are drawing a man, a person, a living thing. You behold your model as a manifestation of Beauty itself, and thus you adore him. Adore him so thoroughly, and you will wish to create his likeness in charcoal, as a starving man wishes for his hunger to be sated. There, you will make Beauty, and your love - eternal. Make art as you make love.”
Benedict shuddered, taking a deep breath.
“I… I do know beauty. At least for me. I know what I find beautiful. And I…” Benedict's leg was shaking and he was avoiding looking Granville in the eye. “I see beauty in him. I do. And do I wish to make it eternal, I want to draw him as religious men pray, damn it.” He paused, taking another deep breath and feeling it sweep through him. “I simply find myself not doing so. Only outlining. Not feeling. I am afraid, most likely. Yes. I am. I've never been very bold.”
Henry poured himself a glass of wine, now looking at him deeply, and understandingly. Benedict couldn't bring himself to look away again.
“You need not be bold. You need to be brave. Courage is silent, and loving. However, it does not make it easy. We have a long war left to wage, one which we did not incite, but like all wars, it is… stubbornly persistent.” He chuckled, weakly, without humour. “ This war is to be waged with stolen kisses, soft embraces, quiet nights, dresses, breeches, makeup and top hats. Still, I cannot promise you comfort, nor rest, only hiding and paranoia, except for one small pleasure. Knowing yourself. And being true to yourself, no matter what it cost.”
With his last word, he leaned in, and pressed a soft, wine-stained kiss behind Benedict's ear.
“Would you allow me to draw you?”
Benedict knew what hung in the heavy air, unsaid. Henry might've as well asked him to discard all reservation, all pretense, all thinning-by-second hopes and delusions that he may simply walk away from this life, perhaps even - in the worst-case scenario - his reputation, and the reputation of his family, chances of marriage for all the unmarried Bridgerton children, and a great number of other things he cherished, for a chance to love. Love, as in life. How he truly wished to, in a way that made his heart dance and palms shake.
He truly was a most selfish man, as it barely took him a second to quietly breathe a “yes”. He decided it was worth everything in the world when he saw the light quirk of Henry's lip. He was a fool as well, but he can hardly be blamed.
“Well then.” Henry showly stalked closer. “Perhaps… we should delay our session for some other day, as it will soon dawn, and I do not think we should still lovingly gaze at each other then, should you agree? I rather like being alive and breathing.”
Benedict couldn't hide his disappointment, but Henry was right. He did choose a life of secrecy. “Love is for fools, and all fools may be lovers, but I am not that much of a fool, Granville. My mother would kill me for arriving late to dinner if I were hanged.”
Henry now laughed, loudly and cheerfully. “Did you come up with that one yourself, Bridgerton? A poet as well?”
“Not I, my Lord, my sister. She is the family poet, I'm afraid.”
“Quite a sister you have there, my Lord.”
“Indeed.”
They fell into a silence, not an uncomfortable one, but pending. Benedict knew he could not stay, yet he could not bring himself to leave. Luckily for him, Henry decided to take the initiative.
“I would hate to keep you, of course, but we do still have some time. And I thought… well, all this must've been very draining, and not very rewarding, so perhaps… we could - “
Before he even had the chance to finish, Benedict lunged in, all his emotions and passions that before seemed to be held by a strong dam of resignation, now threatening to spill over. “Oh, god, yes we certainly could - “
Henry laughed again, in that wonderfully joyful and content way that made Benedict want to dedicate him a song, or a poem, or a painting - he had always been a rather hopeless romantic.
In the end, it only felt soft. They ended up on the duvet, kissing and occasionally gripping hair or fabric. It was exactly how Henry promised. When he felt the weight of him on his thighs, his painter's hands under his shirt, he knew that it would always be worth it. Henry's lips felt a little rougher than a woman's, and the whole affair felt very different. He had tasted the sweet flesh of the forbidden, and he feared he may never go back. He only kissed Henry, and yet it felt more exciting than anything he had done before, with a woman.
Henry began trailing kisses down his neck, and stopped to suck a small bruise into the bottom of his neck, leaving other careless marks on his way. As he did so, Benedict let his head fall to the headrest of the duvet, his mind swirling with rapid crescendo tones. He laid so, on his back, white shirt wide open and wine stained, hair a mess and his fingers still showing signs of his struggles with charcoal, an man that looked as if Aphrodite herself watched over his birth, kissing his chest as if it were his one-way ticket to the divine kingdom, and the world spun.
It spun, more rapidly with his each quivering breath, paintings and notes and smells clouding all coherent thought, the scale ringing in his ears going mad with desire, and fear, and he felt as it he stood on a cliff, seconds before surging into the abyss below him, and in that moment - it all came to a halt.
Henry drew back, his marks made and points proven, and promptly stood straight and unbothered (though, perhaps, only on the surface) and grinned at Benedict, still trying to gather the shards of his sane wit.
“I would hate it if your mother waited on you for too long, Benedict darling. This should've given you a taste. A rather small one, yet still - something.”
Benedict could have punched him square in the face for that, but he also wanted to kiss him, so perhaps it was not the best course of action. “Damn you.”
“Ah, well, we probably are, aren't we?”
He was on the damp streets in minutes, ushered out by Henry's sweet grins, yet he couldn't be mad even if he tried.
~~
When his coachman finally pulled over at the familiar sight of his family home, and he made his way into the spacious entrance hall - new sunlight already peeking through the lowest windows - he noticed he was not the only one returning in the small hours of the night (or morning), from, apparently, romantic escapades.
His lordship, the viscount, his honourable rakeness Anthony Bridgerton stumbled through a door leading to the kitchens, a bottle of wine very not-firmly in hand, barely catching his steps before he inevitably would have landed on the floor and smashed the undeserving bottle.
Benedict hurried to his side and caught his elbow, managing to stand him upright, at which his elder brother huffed and fought him off.
“My brother! My own flesh and blood!” Anthony was swaying on his feet and attempted to climb a chair for a better dramatic effect, but quickly gave up, and began making his way towards a small table. “Sneaking off --- sneaking off god knows where… and returning in the middle of the night!” He caught Benedict's collar, then nearly ripped it off, then finally let go, slumping on the floor. “-- bite marks on his neck!“ The scandal in his voice was mocking and breathy, and he swayed some more.
When Benedict finally managed to get his brother into a decent sitting position and made sure he drank water, Anthony managed to regain some semblance of coherence, and began what he perceived to be kid-hearted, harmless prodding.
“So. Brother dear. What's her name?”
Anthony was grinning in a quite unsettling manner, and kept hitting Benedict's shoulder.
Meanwhile, Benedict's mind rushed through a severe drunken panic, followed by several stages of grief, before he decided it would serve him well not to say anything, and simply play at being too drunk to form coherent thought.
“Hnsgh.”
He rolled his eyes and flung himself onto the divan.