Charcoal Smudges [Benedict Bridgerton x Henry Granville x Lord Wetherby]

Chapter 2

Benedict Bridgerton has always felt a little… Odd .

He doesn’t think that he’s ever felt it as distinctly as now, though; a fortnight since Lord Wetherby and the Granvilles had accompanied them at their dinner table. Benedict hasn’t seen either of them since. 

Well, that’s to change at this very moment.

Benedict strides over to the large property that is Sir Granville’s home. His cheerful steps are but a mere deception of the tempestuous stirring he feels inside of him. Benedict’s only anchor is his leather-wrapped sketchbook that he holds securely under his arm. It’s needless to say he had disposed of the more scandalous sketches.

Benedict had wondered how he would muster up the courage to follow through with this, but now that he finds himself here, he does not cower at the door. He does not linger. He simply knocks three times and is almost instantly met with Sir Granville’s radiating warmth. Benedict has a hard time not to stare. Everything about the other man is pleasant. His twinkling eyes. His winsome smile- most infectious.
“Ah, Bridgerton! What a pleasure seeing you here.”
“I would not miss any of your remarkable classes, Sir.”
“You flatter me,” Granville retorts. The man’s playful smile tugs at Benedict’s heartstrings. “Please, come on in.”

Not much later, Benedict finds himself seated in the luxurious studio that Granville’s home provides. It’s a lovely room; no one would dare disagree on that. It’s lively. Brushes and paint scattered everywhere. The chairs, the windowsills and even the floors are not spared from the wide array of colourful stains.
Benedict traces the rough texture of the empty canvas in front of him. His eyes dart forward. In the midst of the room, he sees the bared bodies of two young ladies tangled together in a soft embrace. They do not move, allowing for the art students to capture their every detail. Benedict thinks of his sister and her desire to lay with another woman in this manner. She would be so envious if she knew her brother could see what she never had.
“Endearing, is it not?”

Benedict’s fingers still on the canvas. He hadn’t noticed Sir Granville standing behind him. A rough, warm hand gently squeezes his shoulder.
“Certainly,” Benedict whispers. “Are they…?”

He cannot finish his question. It is too shameful to him still; to acknowledge that he consorts with the outcasts of society. Even his conversation with Eloise had been most difficult. It was easier to talk in riddles and hope the other person would then unravel them.
“Yes, they are,” Henry answers. It seems he is not burdened with the same internal struggle.
“I see.”
“Does it bother you?” Benedict’s head snaps up at that, and he finally meets the man’s gaze. Another riddle. Are you like us? That is the question Sir Granville so clearly asks.
“No, it does not bother me.”

Henry’s hand slowly moves up at that, his fingers brushing past the collar of Benedict’s white shirt. The shuddering breath that escapes Benedict’s lips seems to please the man. Sir Granville leans in.
“Perhaps,” he whispers, his voice sultry and quiet, “-you should like to start drawing them, then.”

As swift as the wind, Henry is gone. Benedict blinks, pressing his lips together in an attempt to regain himself. He shifts in his seat and flushes red when he notices the effect of Henry’s words on his manhood. 
Henry is right, though. Benedict is here to learn how to be a better artist. He should like to start drawing sooner rather than later. He hums quietly to himself, determined to ignore the burning in his loins. A piece of charcoal should do to help him stay focused.