by Bliss Bennet
Benedict jerked under his touch. “Dance? With you?”
Dulcie’s imagination leapt at the image. “No, alas. We’re at no military ball, where the lack of ladies might necessitate the forming of all-male couples. In fact, several ladies this evening have remained without partners while you’ve been out here sulking by yourself. Not the thing, Pennington, not if you wish Lady Saybrook to win over her detractors.”
“I fail to see how my dancing with some lady I barely know can help Harry.”
Dulcie shook his head. How could someone so intelligent be so oblivious of even the most basic of social graces?
“Does not your refusal to stand up with Lady Saybrook suggest your own contempt for her? And will not other ladies follow your example? Especially when they can take out their ire at being slighted by you by slighting your new sister in return.”
Benedict glanced back towards the ballroom, then turned back to Dulcie with a wan smile. “Surely no one will dare slight her, not after the great Lord Dulcie has given her the stamp of approval.”
“Come, such sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” Benedict’s words may have been caustic, but their tone was more weary than bitter. He took a step closer. “If I can put aside our disagreements to support Lady Saybrook, why cannot you?”
Before Benedict could reply, an unpleasant laugh sounded from the doorway behind them. “Lord Dulcie and Mr. Pennington at odds again? Who knew tedious Lincolnshire would prove so entertaining?”
Dulcie whipped around. Lattimer Leverett stood by the back entrance to the Assembly Rooms, a thin smile sharpening his features. Over his shoulder Dulcie spied George Norton, his mouth agape.
Damnation! The last thing he wanted was to set off yet another scandal.
“Leverett. A pleasure, as always. I did not expect to meet you here.”
“But you must know my lady wife claims relation to the Sheffields,” Leverett answered as he stepped outside into the courtyard. “Failing to attending the Stuff Ball would be a decided slight to her family, as well as to one of the county’s leading landowners. And of course, I’m always happy to visit my friend Norton here. But I don’t believe you have any such connections requiring your presence, Dulcie.”
“I am here to give countenance to the new Lady Saybrook. This is her first introduction to society.”
“Ah, yes, a Miss Atherton, I understand. Shall I engage her for the next, Norton, do you think?” he asked, turning to his companion with a smile that set Dulcie’s teeth on edge. Leverett, unlike Benedict, had sarcasm down to an art. “Or would I be risking the safety of my toes by stepping out with the daughter of a steward?”
“Stay away from my new sister,” Benedict hissed before Norton could offer any opinion on the matter. “As if her standing in society would benefit from being patronized by the likes of you!”
Dulcie grabbed Benedict’s hand, a fist tight under his fingers.
“And your presence lends her countenance? You, a painter who laid himself open to the basest of accusations by wearing his heart upon his canvas?” Leverett gave an exaggerated shudder. “How can you bear to be in his presence, Dulcie, knowing how likely the fool is to embarrass you with his sentimental attachment to your person?”
“How kind of you to fear for my reputation. Happy for you to never be in danger of such a fate yourself,” Dulcie answered. “Your lady wife is notable for her lack of sentiment.”
Leverett’s eyes narrowed. “My wife knows her place. As do any others I choose to engage with, don’t they, George?”
“On their knees before you, heads bowed and mouths shut?” Benedict taunted. Damnation, why must he always be provoking Leverett so?
Leverett took a step closer, lips twisted into a mocking sneer. “Mouth open, in your case, wasn’t it, Pennington? Back when you knew what it was to respect your elders, as George here does. Go inside, George.”
Beside him, Dulcie felt Benedict tense as Norton took a few cautious steps back into the passageway.
“Respect his elders?” he asked, glancing between Benedict and Norton. What the hell was going on here?
“I was once his fag-master, after all. Just as you yourself were.” Leverett turned back to the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the hovering Norton. “All the way inside, George. Back into the ballroom. Now.”
Dulcie laid a questioning hand on Benedict’s shoulder as Norton ducked his head then disappeared from sight. Good God, the man was shuddering.
“Pen?” He gave his lover’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“He told me I had to serve him,” Benedict whispered. “After you left Harrow.”
Dulcie frowned. “But that was simply the way things worked there. You ran errands for me, cleaned my study, and had the chance in return to peep into my books and pictures, and to interact with a fellow in the sixth form. And when I left, you did the same for Leverett.”
“But it wasn’t the same! The kind of serving he had in mind had nothing to do with cleaning out his study, or carrying messages for him. He never wanted to talk, or debate, or just sit together in companionable silence, as we used to do. He only wanted—” Benedict bit his lip.
“What did he want, Pen?”
“He wanted what you had of me, he said. He wanted me to pleasure him. To make him spend.”
“But you and I— we never—” Dulcie could barely shape the words.
“But did you brag to him?” Benedict’s voice cracked. “Tell him how I hero-worshiped you? How I would have done anything for you?”
Leverett chuckled. “Dulcie never had to say a word. Such an expressive countenance you had, even then! Almost as pretty as a girl’s. Such a pity you proved so squeamish about fucking. Why, Dulcie, did you never introduce him to the pleasure? I showed you how to go on, back when you were my boy.”
Benedict grabbed Dulcie’s arms and jerked his body to face his. “He fucked you?”
“Of course I did,” Leverett answered before Dulcie could bring himself to speak. “It’s what older boys do, if the younger prove amenable.”
But Benedict seemed unwilling to take Leverett’s word for it. “Clair?” he asked, giving Dulcie a gentle shake.
God, how excruciating. His initial enthusiasm curdling into distaste at the awkwardness and the mess of it all. The way he’d broken out in a sweat as Leverett’s cock prodded his arse, the disgust he’d felt as Leverett’s spend leaked out over the hours that followed—no, it was not a memory of which he was particularly fond.
But Benedict seemed willing to stand here all night until he answered.
At last he gave a short, sharp nod. He had agreed to it, at least that one time.
Benedict’s lips thinned, and Dulcie could practically hear his teeth grinding together. Could he be jealous of Leverett? Angry that Dulcie had allowed the other man such a liberty when he’d refused to grant Pen the same?
But then Benedict’s fingers dug into him, as tight as a vise, and he knew it was something more.
“Did you want him to?”
“I thought I would. But I didn’t like it, didn’t want to—”
“And did he make you? Even after you told him to stop?” The wildness in Benedict’s eyes frightened him.
“No!” Dulcie shook his head with vehemence. “And I stopped visiting his room altogether soon after. He didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
The hands on his arms suddenly loosened, and Benedict’s head bowed. “I’d kill him if he had,” he whispered.
Dulcie fought the sudden sick certainty rising in his mind. “But he hurt you. Didn’t he?”
“Oh, please, Dulcie. Enough of such maudlin prattle,” Leverett interjected. “You should come away, before he makes yet another scene.”
Dulcie winced. He’d sounded just like Leverett when he’d repudiated Benedict back in London, hadn’t he?
Ignoring Leverett, he turned to Benedict. “You didn’t want him to. But he made you think you had to.”
“He only wanted me to keep my mouth open while he shoved his filthy prick in it. Or to keep it shut while he spent in my hand. ‘Dulcie may like to sport with a prattler,’ he told me, ‘but I prefer my boys to keep their tiresome thoughts to themselves.’”
Dulcie feared he might vomit. He told me you’d given me to him. How light he’d made of Benedict’s admission all those months ago. Bloody hell, had the twelve-year-old thought he’d given Leverett the rights to his body?
“Why didn’t you tell him we never did any such thing?”
“What should it matter?” Leverett interrupted. “Even if you hadn’t, it was clear he wanted to. Disgusting, it was, the way he followed you all about the school, like a calf bleating for its dam! Why, he should have thanked me, for giving him what he was too afraid to ask for himself.”
“I didn’t want it!” Benedict cried. “Not from you.”
“Then why did you let him?” Dulcie asked, touching his hand to the other’s face.
But Benedict jerked away. “I didn’t think I was allowed to say no.”
A low moan sounded in Dulcie’s ears. Where had it come from? Not from Benedict, surely? Lord, from himself?
With a shout, he whirled and grabbed Leverett by the lapels. “You bloody cur,” he snarled, shoving him against the wall.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Leverett spat out, eyes fixed not at Dulcie but on Benedict. “You certainly learned how to say no.”
“Only after you fucked me, then slapped me afterwards, saying it wasn’t the same,” Benedict said, then laughed wildly. “Oh my God! You meant Dulcie, didn’t you? Fucking me wasn’t the same as fucking Dulcie.”
“Indeed,” Leverett acknowledged with a cruel twist of his lip. “A sniveling, puling coward hardly makes an attractive eromenos.”
But Benedict only laughed again. “You wanted me because you were jealous, didn’t you? Jealous of my friendship with Dulcie. If you couldn’t have him yourself any longer, you’d settle for what he’d had. And turn me against him in the bargain.”
“Leverett?” Dulcie asked, his voice unsure even as his grip on the other’s cravat tightened. “Jealous?”
Leverett rolled his eyes. “Now Dulcie, don’t listen to the ravings of an intemperate madman.”
“Mad, am I?” Benedict’s laugh scraped harsh in his ears. “Haven’t you done everything in your power to keep us apart since my return to London? That ridiculous bet? Encouraging Dulcie to wed Miss Adler? Denigrating my art, and encouraging Dulcie to do the same?” Benedict pointed a finger at Leverett. “Who else but a jealous man would go to such extremes?”
“Dulcie, really. Will you allow him to make another scene?”
“What, were you afraid it would make you too vulnerable if you told him?” Benedict said.
“Told him what?” Dulcie asked.
“That he loves you, of course.”
The words hung in the air for a long, moment, stunning them all into silence.
But at last, Leverett spoke. “Me? Love Dulcie? You truly are mad.”
His voice sounded as it always did, all scathing amusement, but still, his denial fell flat. And when Dulcie tried to catch his eyes, to read his true feelings, Leverett only looked away.
Good God. Leverett, nursing a tendre for him all these years?
Even if it were true, Leverett would never admit such a thing. Hell, he’d never protested when Dulcie stopped coming to his rooms back at school, never asked him even once to return. He’d only striven all the harder to best him in the classroom, and on the playing fields, to prove himself the superior. Didn’t Leverett use people, for status or financial gain, and insist on being the acknowledged superior in all his relationships? Tender feelings would make him seem weak, vulnerable, and he’d never stand for that. Admitting he loved someone would force him to be the supplicant, the subordinate. Why, he might even be rejected, if the one he loved did not love him in return.
“How ironical,” Benedict said, his voice edged with scorn. “You both feel love, yet are both utterly incapable of admitting it.”
Dulcie shuddered. Both? Could Benedict truly equate his feelings, his behavior, with Leverett’s?
“Come, Dulcie,” Leverett said with a scornful glance in Benedict’s direction. “Such vulgar emotional displays are unbecoming a gentlemen.”
Dulcie shook his head. By continually hiding his fears, pretending he had no weaknesses, it was Leverett who had made himself vulnerable.
Is that what Benedict had been trying to tell him, that night back in London when he’d left Dulcie behind? That hiding from the ones you love made you the vulnerable one?
“As you don’t love me,” Dulcie said as he dropped his grip on Leverett’s cravat and took a step closer to Benedict, “it won’t matter in the least when I give you the cut direct whenever we are in company in future.”
Leverett’s nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Dulcie smiled brittlely. “Care to wager on it?”
“Gentlemen!” a stern voice interrupted.
Dulcie turned and saw Theo Pennington, Lord Saybrook, standing in the doorway, hands on his hips. Even more surprisingly, young George Norton stood behind him.
“Norton told me I might find my brother here,” Saybrook said. “Benedict promised my wife the next dance, and I’m certain he does not wish to disappoint her.”
Leverett scowled at Norton, but the younger man only frowned. Had Norton finally realized some elders were not worthy of his respect?
“My apologies, Theo,” Benedict said, brushing past Leverett and Dulcie without a backward glance. “My business is finished here.”
“Then let us return to the ballroom.” Saybrook laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Mr. Norton will partner Sibilla and complete your set.”
Benedict nodded, then followed the two other men back into the Assembly Rooms.
Dulcie moved to follow, but Leverett grabbed him by the arm. “You’d best reconsider cutting me, Dulcie. No one at the British Institution will listen to your opinion at all, not if you think to champion Pennington’s art. And certainly not if you set yourself up in opposition to me.”
Dulcie stared pointedly at the gloved hand wrinkling his sleeve. After a long pause, Leverett finally removed it.
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Dulcie swept it against the spot where Leverett’s hand had lain. “Perhaps it is time, then, for me to throw my lot in with those who champion an alternative to the British Institution.”
Dulcie turned on his heel, leaving Leverett to sputter impotently behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“And so we are in agreement, gentlemen?” asked Sir Charles Long. “Sixteen paintings to be donated by Sir George Beaumont, and twenty five to be purchased at the agreed-upon price from Mr. Julius Adler?”
The nods given by the cabal of gentlemen seated around a table at the British Institution should have filled Benedict with pride. It was he, after all, who had brokered the agreement between the government, represented here today by Sir Charles and Mr. Agar Ellis, and Julius Adler, for the purchase of the most prized paintings in Adler’s collection.
Benedict had assumed Adler would want nothing to do with him after the debacle at his granddaughter’s engagement party. He’d not written to the merchant while he’d been in Lincolnshire for Theo’s wedding, nor had he called in Pall Mall after his return to town in the middle of October. He’d kept deliberately away from all of Adler’s usual known London haunts, not wishing to give his former patron the pain of having to cut him in public. But Adler, much to Benedict’s surprise, had called at Pennington House, and asked him once again to serve as intermediary between himself and the government. Polly’s doing? Or the fact that Sir George Beaumont, a member of the Board of the British Institution, had returned from his recent Italian travels determined to establish a national art museum in England, and Adler did not wish all the glory of being its sole benefactor to go to his fellow collector?
>
No matter. Adler seemed to think it best, in the interests of advancing his museum cause, to pretend Benedict had never painted the shocking work that had so rudely interrupted his granddaughter’s party. So now, the combined gifts of Beaumont and Adler would serve as the foundation for one of the most illustrious public collections of artwork in all of Europe, a collection that could be viewed not only by those with wealth and privilege, but by Englishmen of all ranks and stations.
And Englishwomen.
But Benedict could not seem to summon any pride, or even excitement, at the prospect. No, not even when he imagined his mother, or Polly, or any other young artist of the future walking the galleries, their minds alight with wonder. Ever since his break with Clair, he’d felt as flat as the varnish on the paintings over which they bargained.
Nor could he bring himself to put a single brush to canvas, or even a pencil to paper.
“Very good, gentlemen.” Sir Charles clapped his palms together and smiled. “Then I will ask the Chancellor of the Exchequer to request in his budget speech to the Commons the funds for said purchase, as well as for the purchase of Mr. Adler’s Pall Mall residence, to house these works of art.”
Adler only gave a wan smile. But Beaumont made up for all of Adler’s lack of spirits, crying a lusty “Hear, hear,” and patting the other man on the back.
Benedict stifled a laugh at the sudden memory of Clair, gossiping about Beaumont’s practice of carrying his favorite painting about with him whenever he set forth on a journey by carriage, in a case he’d had designed for the purpose. Clair, a wicked mimic, had caught the self-important mannerisms of his fellow collector perfectly.
“Let us have a drink to celebrate this grand new venture,” Adler said with a wry glance at his fellow benefactor. Dulcie had no doubt told him the story, too.
“Yes, indeed. Summon a footman, will you, Pennington?” Beaumont waved a hand in Benedict’s direction, almost as if he had sensed Benedict’s lack of deference and wished to repress his pretensions.
