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"SIR GRANVILLE, YOU WILL WALK A HOLE IN THE FLOOR IF YOU CONTINUE."  It is concern laced in his valet's tone as Henry paces the room.  He has been doing a lot of thinking.  He has even considered shaving the beard, trying to be more of himself  again - but who was he before Benedict?  Before Alfred, even?  Who was the man that courted Lucy under the guise of a rouse?  Who is the painter behind the brush, the artist behind the painting?

Who is Henry Granville, and who does he want to be?  Who does Benedict need him to be?

Certainly not the fool who threw him aside as if he were nothing.  Six months ago feels like a dream.  He had been scared then.  Terrified at the idea that Lord Bridgerton would threaten him.  Jail and a noose around his neck for -- for DARING TO LOVE his brother.  What an awful thought.  He pitied Henry, sure.  But what is the honorable thing to do? 

Fuck that.  The honorable thing is love.  LOVE and BEAUTY and FUN are all this world needs.  There certainly isn't enough of it, which is why Henry hosted his nights of painting, of conversation, of sex.  Who is the man who returned from France?  

He stares at himself in the mirror, finally halting in his pacing.  He stares at himself, taking note of the way he's aged over the years.  The lines around his eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way his wrist will ache sometimes after holding a brush for too long.  There is still much, however, that this man can offer to the world.  He must not let this set him back.  He will win Benedict Bridgerton's heart again, and he will suffocate this world with his works. . .  Even if it will takes years after he is gone for his work to resonate with a more open-hearted audience. 

"I am fine."  Henry says, and he does not feel fine.  No, even as he tries to change his mind, there is a heaviness to his shoulders.  The weight of this world, of this society, is so heavy.  But Benedict's deadened gaze gave him the strength he needed to hold it up higher than before.  No more will he let those thoughts plague him.  He is fine;  he has to be fine.  For Benedict.  For Lucy.  For himself.  "He had said it had been good to see me."  Henry's voice is softer as he adjusts his waistcoat.  "I should hope he feels this way again today.  Lest I be greeted with a punch at the door should he finally have come to his senses."  He teases;  he needs levity in this moment.  His valet adjusts his cravat.  Henry wants to look good for this.  To remind Benedict what he has been missing.  To give Benedict the world as a man put together. 

He's here!  A voice calls out from downstairs.  One of the footman.  Henry exhales a deep breath and lets the last few days, last few months, wash away.  

In no time, he is downstairs, hand hovering over the lock on the door.  Why does he freeze here?  Is he afraid?  How -- terrible, that he should be afraid.  But is there not a lot riding on this meeting?  Does this not determine how his life continues?  Will he be alone again?  Will Benedict at least accept him to try?  Henry lets out a shaky breath that he had been holding in. . . and he opens the door with a straight back.  He looks upon Benedict Bridgerton with a smile that almost reaches his eyes this time.  "Bridgerton."  He greets in a similar fashion as the first time Benedict graced his doorstep.  

Perhaps this is a new beginning after all.  "Please, Benedict.  Come in."  Henry steps to the side, allowing him entrance.  His staff has disappeared into the servant halls of the studio;  he does not have many here, not the same at the house -- but then again, he is never at the house.  Not really.  He prefers to be in his studio and not that stuffy house granted to him by his unloving father.  "I trust you've been well?"  There is a question in his voice as he closes the door for him.  "Would you like tea?  Conversation?  Throw ourselves into painting?"  It seems that he cannot stop talking, the nerves gripping him at the throat.  He is trying to keep it together for this man, and perhaps the weight of the world is beginning to push his shoulders down.  He is desperate.  He does not want to be alone.  He does not want to continue hurting this man before him, but -- -- he has been hurting, too.  "Anything.  Anything, Benedict."  And his voice catches in his throat now, as the heaviness consumes him.

"Tell me -- please -- tell me what I can do." 

Perhaps he is still a man lost, but maybe they can build each other back up again.  Or perhaps Henry is just fooling himself.

Tagging: Benedict Bridgerton

SLEEP HAD BEEN A STRUGGLE.  Lucy found him sometime after Benedict had left to confront him on the shouting and discovered a broken man on the chaise lounge, drunk out of his wits.  The hangover continues to affect him even now.  He takes a wet rag from a footman, pressing it to his temple.  He should be more dressed up for Benedict, but he figures the younger will understand -- all things considered.  Lucy has gone out to leave him alone time with Bridgerton.  ( He rolled his eyes at the way she'd said it, but the headache made that hurt even more.) 

"Benedict Bridgerton, Sir Granville,"  Dennis announces -- and the footman gives him a pointed look before leaving he and Benedict alone. 

Henry shifts to stand at the table in greeting.  "Ah, Bridgerton,"  he greets, and he offers a hand to the chair at the other side of the table.  They are not in the dining room;  there is no need, and it is still a mess from the party the night before.  He really needs to pay his staff more.  At least he keeps the nicer apartments clean, so that they have a place to rest in between cleaning up all of his parties.  "I almost did not expect your arrival.  I am chuffed that you took my invitation to heart."  

He forces a smile.  It is hard to smile.  The headache pounds, and he is grateful for the spread that his cook provides for them.  It should help.  He can still remember the anger in Alfred's eyes, and he can remember the surprise in Bridgerton's upon Henry's weakness. . .  Ah, he will have to address that, wouldn't he?  He admitted that it hadn't been a regret, but he . . . wonders what Benedict might now think of him, having the time to process what occurred the night before. 

"Do sit down.  As you can see, I am. . ."  And he holds up his hands as if the gesture look at me.  He is only in his shirt and suspenders -- waistcoat and coat be damned.  He almost considers drinking some ale as they eat.  Or perhaps brandy. . .  His heart's all torn apart, and it's clear that he's simultaneously more put together and more wild than the night before.  He sits unceremoniously and moves to take a plate of meats and cheeses, filling his empty before him.  "You must forgive me for the state of the place, but you attended the party last night, so you understand. Don't you?" 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton
Sequel thread to: The Colors Disappear

HIS BROW RAISES CURIOUSLY as she asks for a look.  Henry considers before taking a step away from his canvas to allow her to view his piece. He has been working on it for countless mornings (at least, they feel countless these days). The broad strokes are all there now, paint moving as though it was one with nature. He is doing the detail work on the path, on the trees, on every flower. The Queen expects no less, of course. Henry wants it to almost seem like a fantastical view of the park -- something familiar and yet fantastical. A piece worthy of a palace. 

However, any pride about his work dissipates as she speaks the name of her beloved.

Lord Benedict Bridgerton.

The breath leaves him all at once.  Why?  Why should he care that Benedict wed in the time that he was away?  He broke the boy's heart.  The time away was enough for someone to be romanced and betrothed.  It feels so quickly an engagement and marriage, but who is Henry to judge?  His marriage to Lucy was swift to quell his father and brother's fears.  He remembers the tearful gaze.  He remembers the pain in those beautiful blue eyes as they parted ways for what felt like forever.  

Henry has no claim to Benedict's heart, and yet. . .  and yet. . . He blinks away his emotions.  Sure, he has drank himself to near death in France for months, but that does not mean he has forgotten his place.  "My lady,"  he says suddenly, giving her a bow.  "My apologies.  Had I realized your were Ben---" His voice catches, "Bridgerton's wife, I would have remembered my manners!"  He rises, keeping his expression as neutral as he could manage, but if one looked too closely, they could notice something was off.  "Sir Henry Granville.  It is an honor to meet you, my lady.  And it is good to hear Bridgerton has been sharing his works with the world now.  I remember when he was just starting out."  He smiles tightly. 

Tag: ali

Oh. Henry stumbles forward into Connor's grip, looking up at him with widened eyes. He hadn't been expecting that -- which is his own fault, considering he knows how Connor can be in the bedroom when the two of them are alone. Henry cannot explain the feeling over him. (Though, the author would definitely say he's fallen into some kind of subspace, so logic is lacking somewhat.) "I --- " Henry tries, but he swallows back his words and flushes once more when Morrison demands his obedience. Yes, okay. He can focus on that. This will help him. Just let them take control and soothe away this uncertainness. 

"Yes." He says, and his mouth is quite dry when he does. Henry wets his lips. "Yes, sir. I do intend to behave."

Henry's ears prick up when he hears Hippolyte's voice behind him, asking him that question, paired with the touch along his shoulders. Honestly, he would say he is pretty patient, but . . . there is such a temptation in that statement. He finds himself yearning to know that answer, inhaling ever so sharply as his voice gets closer and he feels him against his behind. Oh, they are going to ruin him. This feels better than being apart from them. 

"Is there?" He asks, turning his head slightly to regard Hyp. "Perhaps I will need... a demonstration." 

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy & Connor Morrison

There is something endearing about children. Henry's so far removed from his childhood now that he barely remembers being so bold and precocious. It's adorable. "Older siblings usually are," he comments, and then a rather wistful look fills his eyes. He thinks of his own siblings; he hasn't spoken to Hugh and Helen beyond pleasantries at events in years. Henry has been alone on that front, but he thrives in it. He fills those roles with all of his friends. Family is not as important to him as it is to the Bridgertons -- and he has his legacy in art. He does not need an army of children carrying on his family name. 

He watches as she adjusts and uses his brush to measure out some things. He continues to work on the canvas, starting to add in his base colors after the sketching stage. "Oh, I do." Henry answers. "Though posing help us really understand how the body sits. It allows for a more... authentic look." Henry does not usually exaggerate features in his portraits of real people. That is more for the interpretations, the allegories, the streams of consciousness. "I paint all sorts of things for myself. I do display those works in different galleries, but I am usually hired for my portraiture." 

Oh, that smile. . . he grabs a piece of parchment to quickly sketch out the most important lines of it. He imagines Violet will prefer a more demure expression, but Hyacinth smiles just as brightly as her brother. Perhaps it is a Bridgerton trait -- that the carry sunshine wherever they go. (Except, perhaps, for Lord Bridgerton; the young man is always so moody.) "What kind of books do you enjoy? And is that so? I love Italy. I have been more times than I can count. Venice is my favorite. Talk to me in Italian. We can practice, if you'd like." 

Tag: lennie1

"DARLING," Henry says as he moves the brush as an extension of his fingers, concentrating on the canvas before him. He looks past the painting to his subject, the lovely soprano operatic singer. Siena Rosso is a gem in the artist community; she is well known for her pipes, but perhaps not entirely famous enough to be recognized in a crowd. It's a shame, really. Henry knows her talents well, and he thinks that she should be internationally renowned. Alas, he can only do so much. So he pays her to let him paint her. It's become somewhat routine now after their first few sessions, and she is a wonderful model.

Usually.

"Darling," he says again, stopping at the end of his stroke, the red gliding across the page. "I do need you to stay still." For a moment, he studies the younger woman, considering her demeanor. His brows furrow curiously. "Is there something on your mind? You can always always talk to me, Siena." One can tell how relaxed he is in her presence, considering his own state of dress; he is only in his shirt, suspenders, and trousers. He likes being comfortable in his studio. He puts a hand on his side, not realizing there's some paint on it, and manages to smear it across the beige cloth. 

Tag: Nina Ashmore
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