by Bliss Bennet
“Your father?” Benedict’s stomach fell. He’d pictured Dulcie reading his letter a million times—laughing, sneering, sharing it with his friends, shredding it into tiny pieces and feeding it to the pigs. But that it might have been intercepted by a parent—that he’d never once imagined. “Lord, Clair. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Yes, as was I when my father informed me that I would not be returning to school again.” A wry smile crossed Dulcie’s face. “And when he forbid me to write back to you. I did so wish to tell you how accomplished I found your translations of Xenophon.”
“Accomplished?”
“Yes, accomplished. From what my father shared with me, your translations were not only remarkably accurate, they were rendered in quite elegant prose.”
“The accuracy and elegance of my prose—is that what you remember about that letter?”
Dulcie crossed his arms and perched on the arm of the settee. “Well, Father did mention something about certain amorous wishes you expressed towards my person. But he did not deign to share any of the more salacious details. Perhaps you’d like to tell me of them now?”
Benedict felt his flush spread to his ears. “I’m no longer a child, smitten by calf-love for the most popular boy at school.”
“No, you are certainly no child.” Dulcie’s eyes roamed with shocking directness up and down Benedict’s body. “And I am no longer a boy who must heed his father’s orders. If I wish to write to you, or to sit in front of you half-garbed while you take my likeness, or to grab what I imagine is your eager and lively prick and frot you until you spend in my hand—why, who is there to object?”
“No one,” Benedict whispered.
“No one,” Dulcie echoed, then reached up to pull Benedict’s head to his.
God, he was kissing Dulcie, pressing his lips to Dulcie’s, nudging his mouth open and shoving his tongue deep inside it. No, not Dulcie, but Clair, the boy he’d worshipped from afar for so long, the boy still there beneath the man he’d spent months warily circling.
Whenever he’d dreamed of this moment, he’d imagined gentleness, something sublime, even spiritual. Yet this kiss was crass and lewd, all tongues and teeth and need. Not just on Clair’s part, but on his own, his body thrumming with the sheer necessity of his desire. He wanted to bite Clair, devour him, suck him down like sweet honey from the comb.
Punish him for staying hidden for so long.
“God, Pen,” Clair whispered, his voice low, yearning. “I’ve missed you so.”
With a groan at the sound of that old pet name, Benedict pushed him to the wall and shoved a leg between his. Yes, there it was, Clair’s cock rising against his thigh, twitching under the pressure. Slim and elegant and proud, he’d imagined it, just like the man to whom it belonged. God, would he have the chance to actually see if he was right? The thought was almost enough to make him spend there and then.
He grabbed Clair’s waist, forcing him to hold still as his own hips pressed and released, pressed and released. Clair clutched at Benedict’s arms, as if trying to stop himself from falling.
A loud thump jerked him from Clair’s hold. His mother’s portfolio lay on the floor beside them, jostled from its perch on the table by the intensity of their rutting.
Clair gulped in a deep breath, then swiped a thumb over the swell of Benedict’s lip. “Well, well. It seems someone has learned a few things about kissing in the years we’ve spent apart. Alas, this is neither the time nor the place to discover how far your studies have progressed. Perhaps, after Friday’s meeting. . .”
Benedict blinked, struggling to shake free from the daze of arousal. “What meeting?”
Clair laid a silencing finger over his lips. “No questions. It’s a surprise I’ve arranged, particularly for you. Be ready; I’ll fetch you in my carriage at half past five.”
He grabbed Benedict’s neck and pulled him down for one last lingering kiss, leaving him open-mouthed as he made for the door.
“And bring your sketching pad and your charcoals. And your best arguments in favor of establishing that museum you’re so intent upon. I’ve some people I think might be interested in hearing them.”
With a wink and a grin, Clair sauntered from the room.
“Gentlemen, I give you tonight’s topic: Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The scene: Bottom’s transformation from weaver to ass. Before we begin to sketch, Viscount Dulcie, our guest this evening and an amateur thespian of some renown, will read aloud Bottom’s lines, as well as those of his fellow rude mechanicals, to help inspire our pencils. Lord Dulcie, if you would?”
Dulcie rose from in his comfortable seat and accepted the proffered folio from John Chalon, tonight’s host of the Society for the Study of Epic and Pastoral Design. More familiarly known as the Evening Sketching Society, the group of eight professional painters gathered each week during the London season at one or another’s lodgings to draw, paint, and critique each other’s work on a subject set by the night’s host. They weren’t the most innovative, but still, they were men well worth Benedict’s acquaintance. It would be wise to persuade practicing artists, as well as the connoisseur set, of the value of his museum plan if he wished it to move forward.
Dulcie had originally intended to ask Polly Adler to accompany him when he’d received his unexpected invitation from John Chalon and his brother Alfred to be a guest at this week’s Society meeting. But not even Lattimer Leverett’s taunts that he’d been lax in forwarding his courtship of the girl could sway him from his new plan. Lord, the memory of the heady haze of pleasure in Benedict Pennington’s eyes after their surprisingly carnal kiss at his sister’s wedding breakfast earlier in the week! What he wouldn’t do to bring that look back to the man’s eyes again.
Including extending to him this coveted invitation.
The eyes of most of the artists were fixed on him as he cleared his throat and began to read from the play. But the only pair he cared about were dark and intense, thick brows brooding like thunderheads over their shadowed depths. Benedict gazed not at Dulcie, though, but down at his two elegant hands, clasped tightly atop his knees. Hands that had only a few days before held Dulcie’s hips tight against the wall, squeezing and caressing with a strength he’d never imagined the schoolboy of his memories would one day possess.
“This is to make an ass of me, to fight me if they could,” Dulcie read in the swaggering voice he’d adopted for Bottom. Yes, there, a slight lifting of Benedict’s lips, although his eyes still remained downcast. He continued, his entire performance aimed at Benedict, then gave a sweeping, exaggerated bow when he reached scene’s end. The entire company cheered and applauded; one fellow even threw out a provocative whistle. Not Benedict, alas. But he’d make him laugh before it was over, or his name wasn’t Sinclair Milne.
“A capital performance, my lord.” John Chalon accepted the folio from Dulcie and laid it on the table beside them. “Now, gentlemen, you have two hours to do what you will to depict the moment of Bottom’s transformation. We will reconvene at ten o’clock for supper, after which we will offer our critiques of each other’s work.”
Dulcie been mistaken in telling Benedict that he’d need to bring sketch pad and pencils to the meeting. Whichever artist played host for the week, it seemed, provided not only refreshments—bread, cheese, and plenty of beer—but also all drawing materials any member or guest might require. Dulcie helped the younger Mr. Chalon distribute the paper and pencils, India ink and sepia, hoping he’d not be equally mistaken in believing such a gathering might help Benedict shake free of whatever aesthetic malaise he’d been suffering under.
It took far longer for Benedict to begin to draw than it did the professional painters, although Dulcie could not help but admire the ferocity of his scowl. Dulcie forced himself to roam the room, watching the other men at work, some tossing aside their initial efforts, others, more satisfied, going on to embellish with ink and wash their first ideas.
By the time he returned to t
he corner where Benedict had set up his small easel, the artist’s imagination seemed to catch, his frustration given way to intense concentration and a hand that flew across the page. He’d taken a seat somewhat apart from the rest of the group, preferring a semblance of solitude rather than the chatter in which the other artists indulged.
Dulcie stepped closer, trying to catch a glimpse of his efforts.
Benedict frowned without looking up. “Move away, Dulcie. I don’t wish anyone to look yet.”
“But I am not just anyone, am I? Please? Just a quick glance?
“Move away, I say. I can’t concentrate with you hanging over my shoulder.”
“Far be it from me to discompose the genius at his work,” Dulcie said, allowing just a hint of pique to creep into his voice. But Benedict paid him no heed, already engrossed again by his pencil and paper.
What a rude, gruff fellow. Too bad Dulcie should find such heedlessness to the opinions of others so damned appealing.
“Here, Dulcie. Come and tell us of all the doings at the British Institution,” called out Mr. Bone, one of the younger artists in the room. “You know how we love to hear about the faults and foibles of the connoisseur set.”
Dulcie smiled. No men, even ones with lofty artistic pretensions, could resist a good gossip.
The hours passed with remarkable speed, even though Dulcie himself never took up a pencil or pen. Instead, he carefully guided the conversation from gossip to the more serious topic of public support for the arts, a topic that spilled over into the supper hour. During the earlier, working part of the evening, Benedict had remained silent, fixed on his own work, but at table, Dulcie’s introduction of the idea of a national art gallery gradually drew him out of his shell. By its conclusion, Benedict’s passionate championing of the scheme had even Mr. Cristall, the oldest and most doubting member of the Sketching Society, nodding in agreement.
Benedict’s quicksilver smile as both Chalon brothers vowed to speak in favor of his scheme to other professionals of their acquaintance—now, that was a sight well worth committing to canvas.
Dulcie rubbed his hands together as the table was cleared and John Chalon set up a standing easel at its head. He would relish this last portion of the meeting, when the evening’s paintings and sketches would be placed, one by one, on the easel at the head of the table for all members of the group to review and comment on. The Society’s members had a reputation for being far more candid with each other than any professional critic. Dulcie loved a good insult, especially when given under the guise of being helpful. And he was never shy about voicing his own opinion of a work of art.
But no matter how many times he tried to draw Benedict into this part of the conversation, his companion seemed far more comfortable listening to criticism than in giving it.
“Thank you, Lord Dulcie, for your insightful comments,” Mr. Chalon acknowledged. “But what of our other guest? Mr. Pennington, what do you make of Mr. Stump’s composition? Has he captured the spirit of Shakespeare’s scene?”
Would Chalon’s direct question draw Benedict out? Dulcie moved to the edge of his seat, eager to hear his answer.
“Spirit?” Benedict asked haltingly. “I am not certain I—I do not understand the question. Does not the spirit of the scene depend upon the actors who embody it, as much as the lines they speak?”
“Yes, perhaps so,” Chalon conceded. “Shall you give us your opinion of the technique, then? What have you to say about the balance of the composition, or the depiction of bodies in motion?”
Benedict gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid I am far more interested in emotion than in technique.”
“How do you mean, sir?” asked Mr. Stump.
“It is what is in here”—Benedict pounded a fist to his chest—“rather than what is in here”—tapping fingers against his temple—“that draws my attention when I first view a work of art. Your sketch, Mr. Chalon, and that of Mr. Leslie, and yours, too, Mr. Bone—when I look upon them, I feel the terror of the mechanicals, their dismay at the sight of their friend and leader so awfully transformed. Bottom is at the center of these two pictures, and the mechanicals in this one, but Bottom’s outstretched arms in Mr. Chalon’s and Mr. Leslie’s, as well as the way you’ve both drawn the mechanicals leaning away from the creature—I feel he is more a figure of fear, than of comedy in these. If your aim was to evoke that feeling in your viewers, I would give the laurels to Mr. Chalon, for his Bottom is a touch more menacing than Mr. Bone’s, with his body reaching out towards the other men. I also find the expressions on the faces of his compatriots more fearful.”
“How unusual. You speak as if you are a viewer, rather than a fellow practitioner,” John Chalon said, his eyebrows rising.
Benedict shrugged, his eyes skittering away from Chalon’s. “I would never presume to tell a professional how to go about his business. I can only tell him how his drawing makes me feel.”
Dulcie shook his head. Here they all were, arguing about the length of a line or a position of a tree, and Benedict cut through all their petty squabbles, right to the heart of the matter. Dulcie could always find fancy words to explain his preferences, but when it came right down to it, wasn’t it how strongly a work made him feel that made him eager to add it to his collection, or to champion its creator to his fellow connoisseurs?
“What else, I wonder, is going on inside that fascinating mind of yours, Pennington?” Chalon nodded towards the sketching pad which Benedict had laid on the carpet beside his chair. “I confess, I am curious to see what you have done, working away off in that corner by yourself.”
“I did not anticipate such an honor, sir,” Benedict said with a worried glance towards Dulcie.
“Come, come. No honor to suffer the slings and arrows of their outrageous criticisms, surely!” Dulcie urged. “Give it over, if you please.”
Benedict rubbed his ear, then pulled a page from his sketchbook and handed it to Chalon.
A sudden laugh, just as quickly suppressed, jerked Dulcie’s attention away from the curious, and quite unexpected, smile lifting up the corners of Benedict’s lips. Some of the artists gazed back and forth between Benedict’s drawing and Dulcie, while others chuckled and exchanged knowing grins. What the devil had Benedict drawn?
Pulling out his quizzing glass, he stepped in for a closer look. There, braying at a low-hanging moon, lay Shakespeare’s Bottom the weaver, his head magically transformed into that of a donkey. But instead of the humble clothing appropriate to an ancient peasant, Benedict’s Bottom wore the fancy waistcoat and tight-fitting frock coat of a nineteenth century gentleman, garments remarkably similar to the ones currently adoring Dulcie’s figure.
The laughter nearly burst from his chest.
“You think me worthy of the lovely Titania, do you, sir?” he asked Benedict. “I had no idea I ranked so highly in your esteem.”
“Ah, he doesn’t acknowledge your knavery, Pennington,” Mr. Leslie said with a chuckle. “No one can make an ass of Lord Dulcie.”
“Still, best keep him away from the ladies, sir, or they’ll be declaring their love for him on first view, just as Titania did,” quipped the younger Mr. Chalon.
“Methinks they should have little reason for that!” exclaimed Dulcie, raising his eyebrows at Benedict.
“And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days,” Benedict answered, capping the Shakespeare line, a game in which they had often indulged while at school. His eyes caught on Dulcie’s for a brief moment, then shied away.
“Come, sirs,” John Chalon exclaimed. “We are not here to recite lines from the bard, but to comment on the art they inspire. Now, what do you make of the composition of Pennington’s scene? Bottom, alone, without Titania or the other denizens of her forest?”
The conversation continued until the clock on Chalon’s mantel struck midnight, the signal for the breaking up of the meeting. As the other artists gathered their belongings and bid their hosts
good-night, Benedict moved to reclaim his drawing.
“I’m afraid not, Pennington,” Mr. Chalon remonstrated, pulling the paper from Benedict’s grasp. “Did not Lord Dulcie tell you, all sketches done of an evening remain the property of him at whose house they were made?”
Benedict frowned. “You do not sell them, do you, sir?”
“Oh, heavens no. But perhaps someday we all will be famous enough that this new national art gallery you speak of will welcome their donation,” Mr. Chalon said with a smile. “I hope, Mr. Pennington, if you are still here in London in the autumn, you will join us again?”
Benedict’s smile was almost wider than Dulcie’s. “I would be honored, sir. And perhaps we might discuss then your ideas for suitable members to sit on a committee of superintendence for the proposed gallery?”
“The composition of that group is likely to be decided by the politicians rather than the artists, I fear. But I’d be happy to offer some names that you might put into the ear of your brother Lord Saybrook, or of any other political fellows of your acquaintance.”
“Lord Dulcie might be the best man to make such arrangements. I understand he might soon be named a Director of the British Institution. All the political men who take an interest in the arts are to be found there.”
“Indeed,” Chalon said with a wry twist of his lips. “The nobs are always ready to instruct us in our own business. You proved a quite refreshing exception this evening. Bid you good-night for the nonce, Pennington. Lord Dulcie.”
“I wonder what Miss Adler would have made of such an evening,” Dulcie said as they gathered their hats and gloves from the Chalons’ manservant then made their way down to the street. “She complains she has no one with whom she can discuss art, other than you and myself.”
Benedict nodded, but his attention seemed focused on something else, some vision that only he could see. Without warning, he grabbed Dulcie’s hand and pulled him down the pavement in the direction of Mayfair.