A Sinner without a Saint

by Bliss Bennet

  He buried his nose in Clair’s groin, breathing in his musk, and moaned as the muscles of Clair’s abdomen jumped. His lover moaned, too, as Benedict pulled back once again and swirled his tongue about the salty tip. A breeze whispering through the curtains tickled the back of his neck, urging him forward once again. He gloried as Clair’s breath caught, just as his cock lodged at the top of Benedict’s throat. Lord, had he ever felt as connected to another human being as he did to Clair at this moment?

  From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Clair’s hand, his fingers clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, as if he desperately needed to grab hold of something, someone, but was too afraid to reach out and take what he needed.

  Benedict grasped that hand, and then the other, moving both to the back of his own head. “Fuck my mouth, Clair,” he whispered in a voice so husky he barely recognized it. “Let me drink you down.”

  With a feral moan, Clair’s hands tightened, his hips lifting and falling, lifting and falling, filling Benedict’s mouth, filling Benedict’s soul.

  He moaned his own pleasure as, with one final thrust, Clair flooded his mouth with seed. The sight of Clair’s face, tight with rapture, sent Ben quickly tumbling in his wake, spending in his breeches like the greenest of lads.

  They lay there together for long, quiet minutes, Benedict’s head resting atop one of Clair’s thighs, Clair’s fingers tracing languid furrows through Benedict’s hair.

  So this must be what it felt like to fly with the seraphim, filled to overflowing with fire and exultation and joy.

  The scrape of a door behind him jerked him from the warmth of his reverie. Damnation! Had he not told the servants to keep away?

  By the time he had scrambled to his feet, though, whoever had had the temerity to interrupt them had disappeared.

  “Clair? Who was it?” He swallowed, hard. Clair had been facing the door, his naked body on full display. Bloody hell. Had he soothed his lover over a past blackmailer only to lead him into the snare of another?

  But Clair only shot him an unconcerned smile as he moved about the room collecting his abandoned garments. “Nobody to concern yourself over, dear boy. Just the housekeeper’s cat. You see, even the beasts of the fields cannot wait to see my handsome portrait. Which you will never complete, not if I remain here distracting you so.”

  “But Clair—”

  His lover stifled his protest with his own lips, capturing Benedict’s mouth with a kiss with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Hush. I’m off to Milne House, to steal away a bottle of father’s finest champagne. We will need something effervescent with which to celebrate, after you’ve put the finishing touches on the painting.”

  Before Benedict could say another word, Clair bent a knee to retrieve his rumpled cravat, then padded, barefoot, out the door.

  The door that Benedict was certain he’d closed behind him earlier in the morning.

  What cat could pull open a door?

  On any other day, being asked to wait in the picture gallery of Julius Adler’s London townhouse for Miss Adler to receive him would have struck Dulcie as a blessing. The chance to contemplate, uninterrupted, several of the world’s finest paintings, and worship at the shrine of Art—was not that proper object for which civilized man was created?

  Yet the events of earlier this morning—the unimaginable eroticism of what Benedict had done to his body; the unexpected emotional connection that had followed in its wake; the antipathy and pity in Polly Adler’s eyes as she spied them entwined together on the settee in Benedict’s studio—no, today not even the agony of Coreggio’s Christ in the garden, nor the innocent voluptuous delight of a young Apollo learning to play on the pipes, could call forth the most intense desires of his soul.

  Today, all those desires had but one focus: protecting Benedict Pennington from harm.

  “Viscount Dulcie! How kind of you to call. I hope I did not keep you waiting overlong.”

  A smiling Polly Adler strode across the room and held out a welcoming hand. Whatever distaste she had felt at discovering Dulcie and Benedict together, Dulcie with not a stitch of clothing about him, she now kept carefully hidden.

  Surely she was too innocent to understand what she had seen. Unless her continental travels had somehow opened her eyes to practices of which most Englishwomen would never speak?

  “My dear Miss Adler!” he said as he bowed over her hand. The odor of oil and turpentine clung to it, just as it did to Benedict’s. She still must be finding time to dabble with her oils, despite her grandfather’s displeasure. “How sly you were, returning to town days before you originally planned. Why did you not send word? If I had but known, I would have sent all the flowers in Covent Market to celebrate your homecoming. But I’m afraid you must settle for this humble songbook, which at least has the grace to share your name.”

  Dulcie handed over the copy of Polyhymnia, or Select Airs he had dashed over to the bookseller on Oxford Street to procure for her before tearing off to Adler’s Pall Mall townhouse. A poor gift to one whose true passion lay in the visual, not the vocal, arts, but the just-published volume had been the best he could do on such short notice.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Color flushed her face, more from embarrassment than from pleasure at his gift. “I wonder if I might ask—”

  “Your grandfather did mention he enjoys listening to you sing,” Dulcie interrupted. Distract, divert, evade—his forte.

  “Grandfather would prefer I do almost anything besides paint,” she replied with a dampening frown.

  “Still, perhaps it may contain one or two songs to your liking? I am available as a partner for duets, whenever you may find yourself in a musical frame of mind.”

  Miss Adler lowered her head to hide an amused smile. Yes, he teetered on the edge between charm and babble. Still, better to be regarded as a fribble than to be charged as a deviant. “Your instrument is in the drawing room, is it not? I am no virtuoso, but I dare say I can pick out a tune or two.”

  “Lord Dulcie.” Miss Adler took a deep breath, then gestured towards a pair of chairs in the middle of the picture gallery. “I don’t think you came here today to entice me into singing with you. You were worried, weren’t you?”

  “Worried that you had forgotten me during your weeks in Kent?” Even he felt the strain of the false smile in the muscles of his cheeks.

  But Miss Adler did not smile in return. “I did wish to forget. But after what I saw this morning—”

  “Yes, it was a particularly lovely morning. Far more temperate than one is accustomed to finding late summer—”

  “Please, my lord. This is difficult enough as for me it is, without your continual interruptions. Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she’d shocked herself with the rudeness of her words.

  Perhaps it would be better to get it all out on the table. He waved a careless hand. “Pray excuse my incivility. You wished to say?”

  “I wished to ask you—to enquire—no, to discuss with you—” The poor girl’s face blushed as scarlet as an officer’s regimentals.

  Perhaps they could speak around the issue, without ever naming it directly. “I believe I can hazard a guess as to what you wish to discuss. You wish me to cease my courtship.”

  But instead of agreeing, she shook her head with such violence, a few pins fell from her coiffure. “No, no indeed, my lord. That is not what I wish. But I do have a . . . A counterproposal, if you will.”

  “A counterproposal? You intrigue me, dear girl.” Was it to be blackmail, then? He could hardly imagine a genteel young woman stooping to such a thing.

  But then, he’d not imagined Copeland could ever be persuaded to betray him either.

  Dulcie waved a careless hand before lowering himself into the chair beside hers. “Please, do proceed.”

  Polly took a moment to gather herself before leaning forward, her elbows balancing on her knees in an almost masculine manner. “Let me begin by assuring you that I have no intention of rev
ealing to anyone what I witnessed earlier today.”

  “A simple embrace between a painter and his model?” Dulcie crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Hardly worth noting, to be certain.”

  Miss Adler’s eyebrow rose even higher this time. “A simple embrace? With one party completely unclothed?”

  “Yes, it is rather eccentric to model for one’s portrait as naked as a needle.” Dulcie relaxed into his chair and spread his hands wide. “But you should know by now I am not one to conform to convention.”

  “No, nor is Mr. Pennington. I simply did not realize that you both snubbed your nose at the same particular convention. A convention most would regard as sacrosanct.”

  Dulcie widened his eyes in theatrical display. “My dear girl! I know those of an artistic temperament are prone to flights of imagination, but surely—”

  “Lord Dulcie. Do not treat me as if I were a child,” Polly interrupted. “I may have been educated in a convent, but I am not as innocent as all that. I know precisely what I saw. ”

  Dulcie waved a dismissive hand. “A bit of affection between friends.”

  “Say rather, an act for which you both could be hanged.”

  Dulcie’s stomach churned. “What, do you imagine us conducting occult rituals in poor Benedict’s studio? Sacrificing innocents on a pyre of canvas and turpentine?”

  “Your caution, I see, will not allow you to give voice to the truth. So I fear I must speak plainly.” Her eyes turned away from his, fixing fixed on the hands turning restlessly in her lap. She took a deep breath, then another.

  “You see, I am well aware that relations of the bodily sort can be engaged in by members of the same sex, as well as with those of the opposite. And that some gentlemen have a decided preference for such acts, and such unconventional partners.”

  Dulcie jerked to his feet. “My dear Miss Adler! You have entirely mistaken—”

  “And not just gentlemen,” she interrupted, her voice wavering. “Some ladies, too. Do you take my meaning, sir?”

  Dulcie struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. What was he meant to infer from such a statement? That Polyhymnia Adler was of a Sapphic inclination? He sank back into his seat.

  “If that is indeed true,” he asked after a long pause, “why would you wish to discuss such things with me?”

  Miss Adler leaned forward, a hand clasping his arm. “I have often thought it would be an event to be devoutly wished, for a woman of such a nature to meet with a man of such a nature.”

  “Indeed? And will you share the reasoning behind such an odd wish?”

  “Because then they might wed, and keep the eyes of the world from prying into their intimate affairs.”

  Ah, a glimmer of understanding at last lit his brain. “Leaving each free to pursue their own interests?”

  A smile spread over her face. “You do take my meaning, my lord. I, for one, would wish for a husband not intent on burdening me with babes. One who would leave me free to pursue my art.”

  “You do not long for motherhood?”

  “No. A child would only distract me from my art. But I understand that if I wish to secure a husband acceptable to my grandfather, I may have to be flexible upon this point. I would consent to do my duty if an heir were absolutely required. But nothing further.”

  “And in turn, you would not mind if your husband entertained himself with his own friends and pastimes?”

  “I would not. Especially since we share a friend in common. You see, Benedict Pennington has been my champion these many months, helping convince my grandfather to tolerate my ‘dabbling’ as he likes to call it. I would not wish any harm to come to him. And if I can promote his interests in any way, I will do so.”

  “You could marry Pennington.” Dulcie suppressed the involuntary grimace that rose at the thought.

  “I once thought to do so. But now that we’ve returned to England, grandfather is set on my marrying a nobleman, rather than just the brother of one. In fact, he is set upon my marrying you.”

  “A fate you hoped to evade, I take it, by your flight to the countryside earlier this summer?”

  “Indeed. You can’t imagine how angry Grandfather was, especially when you did not immediately follow us. Yet what I saw this morning makes me inclined to appease him, rather than continue my protests. Do you not think we could rub along famously together, now that we have a right understanding of the wishes and desires of the other?”

  Dulcie’s mind raced, playing out all the possible repercussions. Miss Adler’s proposal could solve several of his problems in one fell swoop. His father’s insistence he wed; his reluctance to cheat a potential bride by withholding the secret of his true proclivities; even the need for an heir, if he could but bring himself to bed a wife when neither expected any satisfaction or pleasure from the act. Marrying Miss Adler would even take care of that ridiculous bet with Lattimer Leverett over Adler’s paintings.

  But the paintings . . . What would such a marriage do to Benedict’s plans for a national museum?

  “Ah, you’ve realized the one stumbling block, haven’t you?” Miss Adler grasped his hand. “Mr. Pennington. He’s not one for pretense, as are you and I.”

  “No, he’s not. And he’s likely to protest even further once he hears that many of the works of art he hoped your grandfather would donate to his museum scheme will now be a part of your dowry.”

  “Yes, but as Grandfather has got a bee in his bonnet about my marrying into the aristocracy, those paintings will be a part of my dowry in any case,” Miss Adler said. “Is it not better that they go to a friend? A man who understands and sympathizes with his plans for a national museum, rather than to a gentleman with no artistic understanding, one who would likely only hoard his new riches rather than share them with the world? How Mr. Pennington would admire the man generous enough to donate such works for the public good, especially after being disappointed by my grandfather . . .”

  Dulcie caught his breath. Benedict looking to him not only for his physical pleasure, but as the benefactor who made his most cherished dream come true? Ah, Polly Adler knew just where to thrust her sword. The possibility of such unadulterated admiration shining from his lover’s eyes nearly made him shudder.

  “You are not completely opposed to my plan, then, I take it?” Miss Adler asked, laying a hand on his arm. “If Mr. Pennington can be persuaded to accept it?”

  Dulcie laughed in bemusement. “No, I am not opposed. But I’m not at all convinced that even my glib tongue can reconcile Mr. Pennington to such a course.”

  “Then allow me to broach the subject with him. He is far less likely to vent his spleen on a lady than on a lover. And I think I may be able to bring him to see reason, where someone for whom he cares deeply might not.”

  “He does care for you, Polly. Do not doubt it, not for an instant. If we wed, you will gain not just one champion, but two.”

  “But you will always be first in his heart. No one who had seen what I saw this morning could ever doubt that.” A hint of melancholy tinged her smile before she visibly shook it off. “Nor that he will always be first in yours.”

  First in Benedict’s heart? Dulcie laughed, shying away from the unfamiliar fluttering sensation in his chest. “But my dear girl, have you not heard? Viscount Dulcie has no heart.”

  Polly grinned. “Of course he doesn’t. How foolish of me to even imagine such a thing. Now, do go and have a word with Grandfather before you leave. He’s quite put out by your lack of attention. Happily for you, we had no copy of Debrett’s in Kent for him to scour, searching for other suitors to replace your dilatory self.”

  With a light touch on his back, Polly pushed Dulcie towards the door. He tumbled out into the passageway, nearly dazed by his sudden turn of fortune. Was he indeed going to marry? And perhaps even provide his father with the heir for which he so longed?

  And give his lover the foundation for a museum?

  What had he done to have Fortuna, St. Anthony,
and all seven of the Lucky Gods shining down on him today?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Pennington. Mr. Adler awaits us in the South Gallery. Do you know Mr. Agar-Ellis?”

  Benedict bowed his head to Sir Charles Long, anticipating thrumming through his every nerve. Next to the King’s most valued art advisor stood George Agar-Ellis, a leading proponent of government support of the arts in Parliament. His presence today in the vestibule of the British Institution suggested that Benedict’s lofty dreams of a national museum might at long last be moving towards a concrete plan of implementation.

  “Mr. Pennington.” Agar-Ellis held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet the author of that impassioned letter I received earlier this summer. I couldn’t agree more that there is a pressing need for a publicly funded museum devoted specifically to the visual arts.”

  “An equal pleasure, to meet such a vocal advocate of government support for art of all kinds,” Benedict answered, grasping the other man’s hand in his. An interesting face, long and narrow, but with a lively intelligence in those dark eyes. Had anyone ever painted him?

  “I hope you will give me leave to use some of the arguments from your letter when I urge my fellow MPs to allocate funds for the establishment of such a museum,” Agar-Ellis said. “We’ve just had word that the Austrian government has unexpectedly repaid a sizable war loan, funds which I will argue should be earmarked for this vitally important project.”

  “This vitally important project will go nowhere, however, without Mr. Adler’s contribution,” Sir Charles interrupted, waving an arm towards the staircase. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

  The three linked galleries of the British Institution were far quieter now than they had been back in May, when the spring exhibition had been open to general visitors. The paintings borrowed from private collections for that show still hung on the walls, but since the beginning of September, only student artists had been allowed to view them. Benedict and his companions kept to the middle of the rooms, far away from the students with their easels and stools and canvasses, intent on studying and copying works they’d likely never again have the chance to view. That fellow standing atop a wobbly stool, attempting to get close enough to see the brushstrokes of a Poussin landscape hanging high up on the wall, had best watch out, or he’d be falling head-first right into the painting!