by Bliss Bennet
If Clair had been here, he would have given Beaumont a sly set-down, one so clever the fellow would in all likelihood have believed he was being praised instead of mocked. Damn, how he missed the way Clair had of easing their way in society.
He summoned the footman without comment.
“To Sir George Beaumont and Mr. Julius Adler,” Agar Ellis toasted after the footman had filled his glass. “There are few gentlemen of my acquaintance who marry so true a spirit of beneficence with such a care for the good of the country. Now, at long last, we will finally boast a collection worthy of our fine nation.”
“And one which shall allow us to educate the public taste. By acting now, we may curb this strange taste for innovation that prevails in the present age.”
“Strange taste for innovation?” Benedict asked, prickling. Dulcie had decried Beaumont’s slavish veneration for the Old Masters. Would his conservative views keep more modern, experimental works from being displayed at the new museum?
“You may not be aware, Mr. Pennington, having spent so much time out of the country,” Beaumont proclaimed with a self-important air. “But too many British artists of present day believe that all that has hitherto been done in the arts is fit only for the flames. Why, I’ve heard some call Titian, and even Claude, the black masters, and warn each other with earnestness not to paint like them! But now that they will have before their eyes the finished works of the greatest artists, they will surely learn the proper respect for their superiors.”
Benedict’s foot tapped against the carpet. “Can one not appreciate the accomplishments of those who have come before, yet still wish to explore new directions in one’s own work?”
“New directions? Bah. Such pretenders to artistic taste simply dash away without any knowledge or reason, and thus produce the most disgusting nondescripts possible.”
Beaumont turned to Sir Charles with a frown. “Now, you must be sure the Prime Minister appoints only disinterested connoisseurs to superintend the Gallery, gentlemen of taste who understand the hierarchy of artistic genres. None of us wishes to see such eccentricities as Hogarth’s modern moral subjects, or Turner’s dreadful landscapes, marring our Gallery’s walls.”
Benedict stifled a laugh. Beaumont must have been spending a good deal of time with Lattimer Leverett, to parrot his words with such accuracy.
“Indeed,” Sir Charles said with an apologetic glance in Benedict’s direction. Before Beaumont’s arrival, they had just been speaking of their admiration for Turner’s landscapes. “Your recommendations for suitable candidates will be most welcome.”
“Thank heavens I returned from the continent in time to prevent one such unsuitable gentleman from cajoling his way onto the Board here at the British Institute. To think he believed his own bizarre collection would suit our national gallery! His Carracci would, of course, have been more than acceptable, but the Fuseli paintings?”
The skin on the back of Benedict’s neck tingled. Another man had thought to join Adler and Beaumont in endowing the new museum? A man who owned a Carracci?
“A Carracci?” Agar Ellis asked, longing edging his voice.
“Yes, but he wouldn’t give it unless we accepted all the others.” Beaumont gave a visible shudder as he threw a familiar portfolio onto the table. “Just take a look at these dreadful sketches. Some mad Frenchman, I understand. And there, outside in the passageway, an indecent thing he has the temerity to own is a portrait of himself. How dare he bring such rubbish here?”
“He’s here?” The tingling shot down Benedict’s spine.
Beaumont sniffed. “Yes, just out in the passageway. Wanted to worm his way into our meeting today, but I refused. You all agree, I’m certain, that we are not interested in accepting such dubious gifts. Pennington? Where are you going? We are not finished here!”
But Benedict had pushed back his chair and rushed through the door.
Dulcie’s booted footsteps echoed hollowly as he paced the marble floor of the lower vestibule of the British Institution. The three galleries at the top of the stairway above were empty, the paintings on display during the spring and summer all taken down, carefully packed in boxes and crates to be returned to their aristocratic owners. And the works by so-called modern artists to open in January were still to be hung.
Dulcie doubted he’d be there to see them.
How strange, to feel almost like a ghost, the spirit of Viscount Dulcies past, haunting this familiar building. He’d not be welcomed here much longer, not after tipping his hand to Sir George with his rash offer to donate his truly modern collection of paintings to Benedict’s museum. How shocked that hidebound traditionalist had been to discover that Dulcie’s taste so differed from his own! He’d never support Dulcie being named to a seat on the Institution’s Board now, not after seeing how Dulcie’s tastes disregarded the tenets of connoisseurship Beaumont had spent his life espousing.
No, Dulcie would never see the word “Director” printed next to his name in the Institution’s annual catalog. Yet somehow he could not find it within himself to mourn the dashing of his longtime dream.
No, what truly made his heart pound was whether Benedict would understand all he meant to say with his offer.
He stared again at the portrait he’d carried here himself, rubbing a restless finger across the new frame he’d had especially commissioned for it. No swags or festoons or cartouches, just a plain gilt moulding, one that would not distract the eye from the painting within. He hoped Benedict would think it the right choice.
How much longer would he have to wait?
The sound of footsteps on the floor above brought his restless pacing to a halt. He grasped the finial atop the staircase’s post, squeezing tight.
“Dulcie.” Benedict halted above him on the landing, staring down at him with those dark, intense eyes. Did he see a man he still cared for? Or was that beloved Clair only a ghost to him now?
With careful, deliberate steps, Benedict came down the staircase, then strode over to the wall where Dulcie had propped his portrait. Benedict stared at the painting for several moments, brow furrowed.
“How did this come to be here? I thought I had left it behind, in my studio.”
“As you did me?”
Benedict frowned.
“Yes, you are right. It was only what I deserved,” Dulcie quickly added with a wave of his hand. “But when it came time for me to go, I found I could not abandon it.”
“Because you couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else seeing you so?” Benedict asked, his eyes fixed on the painting. “Even the stray housemaid, come to straighten and dust?”
Dulcie gave a wry smile. “That is what I told myself at the time. I’d lock it away, hide its secrets from all the world. Maybe even destroy it altogether.”
Benedict clasped his hands tight behind his back. “And yet here it is. You’ve held on to it all this time?”
“Yes.” Dulcie moved to stand beside him. “Instead of closeting it away, as any sane man would have done, I hung it in my bedchamber. And stared at it, night and day. Marveling not over your talent, which of course is prodigious. But at how you were able to see something about me I was not even aware of myself, and then have the bravery to commit it to canvas.”
Beside him, Benedict took a deep breath “And what is it that I saw, Dulcie? What do you see when you look at your portrait?”
“I see a man—” With the blood pounding in his ears, Dulcie could barely hear his own words. “I see a man who loves.”
He slid his hand down Benedict’s arm, then teased open his tightly-clutched fist. His fingers threaded through Benedict’s, smooth against rough, frost against heat. Yes, this, this is where he belonged, by this man’s side, hand in hand, together.
If Benedict would only take him back.
For a painfully long moment, Benedict’s hand lay stiff, unresponsive, within Dulcie’s. But at last, a shudder ran through his frame, and then his palm pressed Dulcie’s and held fast, as i
f he would never let go.
How extraordinary, the lightness suddenly bubbling up inside him. He’d been so afraid of how vulnerable loving another person, loving Benedict, made him. And yet now that he’d said the words, he didn’t feel vulnerable at all. No, he felt safe, and strong, and so full of joy he could barely contain himself, even in the hallowed halls of the British Institution. If Beaumont thought his taste in paintings shocking, just imagine how he’d react to finding Dulcie kissing Benedict Pennington in front of the noble bust of Sir Joshua Reynolds!
He took a step closer to Benedict and pulled their clasped hands around his own back.
With a sigh, Benedict pulled Dulcie closer to his side.
“Shall I tell you what I see?” Benedict asked, his eyes still fixed on the portrait. “I see a man willing to throw away any chance he had of ever becoming a Director of the British Institute, making a foolish gesture when a simple apology would have done.”
“Ah, but you underrate the grandeur of my gesture!” Dulcie laughed. “I also cast away any chance I have of serving on the committee appointed to oversee your new museum, too. In fact, I just may have to resign my membership in the British Institution altogether now that Sir George and Sir Charles know the extent of my rebellion against the tenets of correct artistic judgment.”
“But it’s your most cherished dream, Clair! How can you stand to give it up?”
Dulcie laid his head on Benedict’s shoulder. “My dearest Pen. Don’t you realize? The concern in your voice is more than recompense for any mere trifle I’ve lost by this morning’s work.”
“But will you not regret it? You could tell Beaumont, tell Sir Charles, it was all just a joke, and they’d welcome you back, I’m sure of it. I’d not gainsay you.”
“But then I’d have to deny my true opinion of your work.”
“Then you don’t agree with Leverett? You don’t find it vulgar?”
Dulcie pulled Benedict’s arm more tightly about him. “Not in the least.”
“And you don’t blame me?”
“Blame you? Blame you for what?”
“For letting him fuck me. Or for refusing to allow him to keep fucking me.”
A large lump rose in Dulcie’s throat. Benedict thought he’d blame him, when it was all Dulcie’s fault?
With a quick glance up the staircase to ensure they were still alone, Dulcie pulled Benedict behind the colossal plaster statue of Achilles that stood in an alcove by the front door of the British Institute. He’d heard it was meant to portray the hero mourning his lost concubine, but Dulcie preferred to imagine Achilles grieving instead for Patroclus, his male lover. The way he’d felt all these weeks after Benedict had left him.
“Do you remember the passage from Xenophon I set you to translate, all those years ago?” Dulcie asked, reaching out a hand to raise Benedict’s lowered head.
“The sweetest of all and the most erotic is when he fights with you and argues,” Benedict recited, color rising in his cheeks.
“Yes, but before that, Hiero says this: “But what I long for, I wish to receive from a willing lover, and with friendship. How could I blame you? Leverett is the one at fault, or rather, Leverett and myself, for leaving you all unsuspecting to his care.”
Benedict shook his head. “I thought you knew. All along I thought you knew, and wished me to do what he told me. I was so angry, but so ashamed, too, when I brought my brother’s sword from home and threatened to gut him with it if he ever touched me again. I thought you’d think me a disappointment.”
“A disappointment, for defending yourself? Never. I have no respect for Leverett, or for any boy or man, who forces unwanted attentions on another.”
Benedict bent his head. “But can you respect me?”
“Respect you? Foolish man, don’t you know I feel far more than simply respect for you?” Taking Benedict into his arms, Dulcie whispered in his ear. “Man with a lover’s glance, I seek you out, but you hear not, unknowing that you are the charioteer of my soul.”
“That’s not Xenophon,” Benedict said.
“No, it’s Anacreon. And he as he writes elsewhere, I am mad for Benedict, I gaze at Benedict, I love Benedict.”
“You love me, Clair?” Benedict asked, not questioning his somewhat free translation.
“Yes, my wild, sensitive artist. Yes, for now and for always.”
Throwing discretion to the winds, he cradled Benedict’s face in his hands and kissed him before his lover could catch sight of the tears threatening to escape his eyes.
The touch of Benedict’s lips, the feel of his thick hair threading between his fingers, the sound of his eager pants as Dulcie traced kisses down the rough column of his throat—he’d never felt such an intoxicating mixture of lust and liking and love. Saint Valentine, Saint Dwynwen, perhaps even Eros himself must be smiling down on him today.
A clatter on the staircase behind him had him pressing Benedict even closer to the wall. “Shhh!” he urged, more caution to himself than to Benedict, who silently took his earlobe between his lips and gave it a seductive tug.
“I do regret the loss of the Carracci,” Sir George Beaumont’s voice drifted through the entryway. “It would have made a fine addition to the treasures of the nation.”
“But perhaps you may persuade Lord Dulcie to donate it without the others,” Sir Charles answered.
“Perhaps. But not at the cost of a place on the superintending committee!”
“No, indeed! We need gentlemen of superior taste, gentlemen who understand what artistic subjects are most likely to be conducive to the virtue and happiness of the public.”
“Such as the gentlemen currently serving on the board of directors of the British Institute?”
“Indeed.”
Dulcie pressed his body closer to Benedict’s as the door closed behind the gossiping men. Lord, how had he survived all those weeks apart?
“I’m sorry the new museum won’t be interested in acquiring any works outside the currently accepted canon,” Dulcie said with a consoling kiss to Benedict’s own ear.
“Or any superintendents who espouse anything but Beaumont’s views on what constitutes proper art,” Benedict added. “I’m sorry if I’ve cost you your chance to be a founding member of the museum.”
How correct the words of Tibullus: Slide your shining arms around a young man’s torso, and all the wealth of kings seems meaningless. “No matter. I doubt I’d have enjoyed working with that conservative bunch.”
“I wonder . . .”
Dulcie’s breath caught at the sight of Benedict’s face, dreaming of some amazing future no one but he could ever imagine. “You wonder what?”
“What if we opened a museum of our own? One which gives the new, the innovative, the experimental a place to shine? I’m sure I can find an artist or two willing to display his work.”
“Benedict, this hardly seems the time for such a venture. Not when all the efforts of the artistic set will be focused on this new National Gallery.”
Benedict’s shoulders slumped. Dulcie had only just declared his love, and already he was not taking heed of his lover’s feelings. Damn him for a blockhead.
“Perhaps not just now,” he said, taking Benedict’s hands in his. “But shall we dream about it for the future?”
A shy, pleased smile stole across his lover’s face. “You’d dream about the future, with me?”
An image of two sets of bachelor rooms in the Albany, a connecting door between them, rushed through Dulcie’s brain. Paintings hanging on every available wall space, except for in Benedict’s studio. A constant stream of collectors and artists, all committed to celebrating not just what art had once been, but to the possibilities of what it could someday be.
And at the end of each day, a warm, loving Benedict, alive in his arms.
“The only dream I have is of a future with you. Be careful, Pen, you’ll knock poor Achilles right off his pedestal!”
But Dulcie soon forgot his concerns for
the plaster Greek hero, caught up in the wonder of being kissed, being held, being loved by Benedict Pennington. Ghost no longer, but flesh and blood hero, the love of his heart.
WANT MORE OF THE PENNINGTONS?
Sibilla’s book: A Man without a Mistress
A man determined to atone for the past
For seven long years, Sir Peregrine Sayre has tried to assuage his guilt over the horrifying events of his twenty-first birthday by immersing himself in political work—and by avoiding all entanglements with the ladies of the ton. But when his mentor sends him on a quest to track down purportedly penitent prostitutes, the events of his less-than-innocent past threaten not only his own political career, but the life of a vexatious viscount’s daughter as well.
A woman who will risk anything for the future
Raised to be a political wife, but denied the opportunity by her father’s untimely death, Sibilla Pennington has little desire to wed as soon as her period of mourning is over. Why should she have to marry just so her elder brothers might be free of her hoydenish ways and her blazingly angry grief? To delay their plans, Sibilla vows only to accept a betrothal with a man as politically astute as was her father—and, in retaliation for her brothers’ amorous peccadillos, only one who has never kept a mistress. Surely there is no such man in all of London.
When Sibilla’s attempt to free a reformed maidservant from the clutches of a former procurer throw her into the midst of Per’s penitent search, she finds herself inextricably drawn to the cool, reserved baronet. But as the search grows ever more dangerous, Sibilla’s penchant for risk taking cannot help but remind Per of the shames he’s spent years trying to outrun. Can Per continue to hide the guilt and ghosts of his past without endangering his chance at a passionate future with Sibilla?
Kit’s book: A Rebel without a Rogue
