The Artist's Muse

The Gallery

The opera was a lovely hit. Many couples walked away smiling from the event with minimal drama. Mister Benedict Bridgerton, however, walked away licking his wounds after disappointing Lady Danbury in his failure to woo her niece. It appears the universe is vexed with Mister Bridgerton.

Miss Cressida Cowper spent the night sitting between two potential suitors, but while they appeared to be interested in her, she spent the night hunched in her seat to distance herself from them the best she could. Miss Cowper, I would advise you not sit in a manner too often. It does not bode well for your posture!

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 25 AUGUST 1815

x.x.x

Benedict stared at the large sculpture in front of him. The gallery had opened a new exhibit for, well, Benedict wasn't quite sure what art form he would call it. He could not determine what he was looking at. It would be rude to ask for artists were quite protective of their masterpieces. Benedict could not imagine spending hours and days chipping away at a sculpture only for no one to know what the masterpiece was meant to be. It would be a horrific feeling.

With a small nod of what he hoped appeared to be appreciation, Benedict turned and moved on. It appeared that all of the pieces followed the same manner as the sculpture. If it was the new form of art, Benedict would remain in the past. He had no desire to create unmeaningful art.

As Benedict wandered throughout the gallery, he avoided making small talk with the artists positioned around the rooms. He acknowledged that perhaps if he had stopped to speak with one, he might have gained more insight into the works, but he did not wish to. It made him wish to go back to his own studio and create a piece that was concurrent with the times.

"Fancy seeing you here," a familiar voice said behind Benedict while he was looking up in disdain at a painting.

Benedict turned quickly. Lander stood behind him, an amused look upon his face as he watched Benedict. Benedict's heart pounded in his chest. He had vowed to himself that he would have nothing to do with Lander. It had been much easier when Lander was not around.

"You missed our session," Lander said as he stepped forward to peer up at the painting. "I thought perhaps something was amiss. Then I saw you at the opera and realized that perhaps you were avoiding me as you are Flor."

Benedict swallowed hard. Of course, Lander would have spoken to Flor and discovered how upset Benedict had been. Of course, he would have deduced Benedict was avoiding him like a child. How could Benedict have believed he was capable of maintaining his distance from Lander? He had known there would have been questions, but he was not prepared to answer them. He had been. It was simple to state he was looking to wed a lovely woman who was not Flor, but he could not say the words.

"It does not appear in good taste to pursue a woman who is promised to another," Benedict finally said. The words felt thick on his tongue. "I am searching for a wife of my own."

"Oh," Lander said, sounding truly surprised. "I did not take you as one who would admit defeat so easily."

Benedict looked at him sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

Lander smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. "Please do not take offense. I just believed you had more fight in you."

"I have plenty of fight in me. You and Flor both stated I would never have a chance to marry Flor."

Lander's smile slowly faded. "And that statement shall remain correct, Benedict, until it is proven to not be the best option."

Benedict did not press him on what he meant by that. He did not particularly wish to know. The answer would probably just be as heartbreaking as being told Benedict would never marry Flor.