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"I WOULD HOPE NOT," Henry huffs in return, but the smile has not left his face at the teasing. "Because I might be encouraged to stop. . ." He smirks, but it disappears as they continue to kiss each other. His tongue caresses the other's lips before he's poking it through with a moan. He cannot help himself, it seems, when he is in a mood like this -- especially when Benedict responds so well. Henry dips all his fingers in the paint and drags it across Ben's chest, his neck, everywhere. He wants them covered. He can feel the paint smearing as their bodies rub together, and he laughs. 

"Ah -- " He lets out a soft gasp as the cold paint touches his back. Henry closes his eyes, enjoying the way Ben's lips trail across his neck. "Oh, I think you know, Bridgerton." He teases, leaning his face into Ben's to smear the paint further. He grips at his shoulders to center himself, and then he starts grinding over his lover. It's friction he absolutely needed by the tent in his trousers, by the blush on his cheeks, by the moan that escapes his mouth. "Mm, right there... just like that." He whispers, moving one hand behind Ben's head, hugging it close as those lips work magic across his skin. 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

IS SHE APPROACHING? Henry sighs to himself, hiding his face behind his easel to mask his displeasure at being bothered. He goes back to mixing the color of the flowers, waiting for her to get closer. "You are forgiven, my lady." He says when he collects himself, putting on the picture of politeness once more. Though there is a hint of something beneath the exterior that is new for Henry --

My husband is an artist. 

Henry knows most of the artists in London, hell -- most of the artists in England. He has never seen this woman before in his life, and she is beautiful. Her hair is golden, cascading over her shoulder, glowing in the morning summer sun. How has he never seen her before? Certainly, he must have known her. Nothing clicks in his mind, though there is a new discomfort settling in his stomach. He doesn't hear what she says after that, not at first anyway. Her husband is an artist. How many single artists did he know that could've gotten married in the last half-year? 

No, no, no -- no. No. (Is he allowed to think no? When he told him this is exactly what he wanted?) 

"Oh, is he, my lady?" He asks, giving a smile. "I perhaps know him. Who is your husband?" His stomach is twisting; his heart is racing. Let his paranoia be wrong. What will he do if it is true? Nothing. He will do nothing. She asks about his subject matter, and he turns his attention back to the piece. "Ah, yes. The Queen has commissioned a view of Hyde Park of her favorite spot." Henry motions out to their current place. 

Tag: ali

LET US JUST SAY that Henry would be interested in being pushed. . . but that is perhaps for another time. Though the night is still young. Henry pauses at the tone of Hippolyte's voice when he questions Connor's secrets. Granville understood Morrison's hesitance, of course. Men like them had to be careful, and there was no shortage of external and internal hatred for what they were. As confident, as sure as Henry is of himself, of his wants, of his needs, there is still a small voice at the back of his head. . . one that sounded very much like his father, chastising him for his chosen path, for his life of indecency. Henry's brow raises curiously. "Yes. It seems so." He says softly in agreement, glancing away to descend further into the party. 

Though just from the appearance of the other doctor, Henry starts putting two and two together. Chef des traveaux anatomiques? Henry wracks his brain for his French, translating the position in his mind -- oh! He must be a professor of sorts. He smiles pleasantly at the opportunity. "I see! I sometimes lecture at the Royal Academy of Art. I do sometimes miss university. There is a certain freedom that you cannot... recreate. Especially when so young." He sighs wistfully, remember Ignacio. Was that man Henry's first love? Potentially. He is a far memory now. He continues to walk forward, not realizing that Hippolyte is not directly behind him. 

Henry goes to speak to him once more when he hears the call out of Thorvaldsen. With his interest immediately piqued, he turns back on his heel, going toward the marble statue. "You have an incredible eye," Henry comments, turning to him curiously. "Ganymede Offering the Cup. Bertel Thorvaldsen finished the sculpture in 1804. The original owner of the statue had it up for auction in Rome last I visited, and I could not resist. I have not had the pleasure of meeting the man himself -- not for lack of trying. But the way he sculpts form," Henry always gets excited when he talks about art. He reaches for the chiseled chest of Ganymede. "The subject manner perhaps speaks for itself. Has Ganymede not been a symbol of our people for so long for his attraction of Zeus?" He traces over the ruffles created in the stone. "The amount of skill Thorvaldsen has with a chisel -- it is an extension of his hand." He shakes his head, awed by the talent. "I had to have it as soon as I laid my eyes on it." Henry pauses, reaching to gesture to the face. "The delicate features of his face are perhaps my favorite part of the piece. . . This is a beautiful man. And it is almost as if he reaches to pour us a glass, no?" 

For a moment, the thought of searching for Connor leaves his mind. His interest is entirely on Hippolyte and his appreciation for art. "Are you a collector of art yourself, Doctor?"

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy

HENRY EXHALES A DEEP SIGH when Benedict rises. He is very conscious of his nudity at this point; this is not a conversation to have nude. Alas, this is the reality he must deal with. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his mouth, staring at the curves in Ben's back from the light coming in through the windows, behind the curtains. It is too quiet as Benedict processes. He lets his mind go blank for a moment, just trying to wrap his head around everything. . . He purses his lips together. The silence persists, and he considers speaking. He waits, however. He wants to hear Benedict. 

Then you and my brother are the same. A shiver runs through his spine, and the scowl that forms on his face is very uncharacteristic of Henry Granville. He usually is so reserved, so polite. He bent over backwards to keep his life the way it is, and it is unwinding in front of him. He has fought all his life for love, for some kind of acceptance in his suffocating world, and to have Benedict just -- 

Henry stares at the ceiling, not at Benedict, as he breathes heavily in and out. He is controlling himself. Ben has no idea what it is like, not if he is the one to do such public things. Henry was foolish to give into those desires, to want something that should be normal but can be very deadly. His jaw is clenched, teeth gnashing together somewhat as he tries to contain the rage swirling inside of him. He understands on some level why Benedict is angry, but this poncy, privileged Bridgerton has never known the fear. He has never been in a situation that nearly cost him EVERYTHING. 

"How dare you," Henry says, and he stands. He must walk away; he must remember himself. He is the foundation. If he crumbles now, what will be left of everything? Or will life go on without him. "The man you knew who spoke about courage, who -- " Frustrated, Henry grabs his shirt off the floor and pulls it over his head. Now he is the one with his back facing Benedict. He aggressively grabs his trousers and steps into them, heart racing in his chest. He begins to see red, and all of the pain that had built up from Alfred, from his conversation yesterday is bubbling up to the top. He let himself lie over after both instances, giving in to others -- but this? No.

"You say you understand the danger," Henry says, and his voice is low. His eyes are shimmering with anger and tears once more as he faces Benedict again. He should have kept his mouth shut. This is arguably worse than earlier, because Henry did not expect to feel so deeply. "And yet -- and yet -- do you understand, Benedict, that if anyone else had caught us, that we would both be in jail?" He is shouting. Henry Granville is shouting. "Do you not realize the position your brother puts me in? If this persists -- if this --" He exhales shakily, putting a hand over his chest. "He would protect you; it is obvious he cares very deeply about you, but me? If we do not comply with his wishes, I could be sentenced to death!" 

Does he think Lord Bridgerton would be that cruel? Henry does not know. The conversation yesterday made him feel disgusting, and even still his skin is crawling. "Your brother calls us dishonorable! He will never understand. Love -- love -- I thought I understood what love was! The man who spoke about courage is gone, Benedict Bridgerton. I have been lying to myself for years. I am nearing forty, and it has been the same shit over and over and over again since I am a teen. You must hide in the shadows. You cannot have true happiness because it always ends in heartbreak! You are so new to this, and your beautiful head does not comprehend the true realities of this life! If your brother did not know, we could have managed, but now we would have a watchful eye on us! Scrutinizing! And if we do not bend to his wishes, what then? The noose?" He rubs a hand over his neck and imagines it. Henry looks away from Benedict, staring at the floor with wild eyes as he recalls the conversation he'd had with his father all those years ago.

"I am tired." He says, finally. Henry exhales a deep breath and rubs his hands over his face to try and soothe himself. He wants to curl up in a ball and sob. That is what he truly desires right now, but he cannot do that. "I am tired of fighting for my happiness. How many times must I be knocked down? How much pain must I endure before I realize that perhaps I am not meant to be happy? The things I think are beautiful all turn to ash in my mind. I feel -- I feel -- " He falters, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as the sobs bubble up. He cannot hold them back for a moment, allowing himself to cry. Henry inhales sharply a few times as he collects himself. 

"I love you, and you love me. There has been no greater joy in my life, truly. But you have the opportunity to still love a wife and not be damned to this life. You can write it off as a one-time jaunt, as a fun tryst of your youth." Henry wipes his tears away before blowing out another deep sigh, brushing his fingers through his hair. "You can avoid this. You can still escape this agony." He shakes his head. "We were reckless, and this has always been my greatest fear. The only solution for me is to go. Is to leave, and allow us all to move on with our lives." 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

IS HE BEING INSPECTED? Henry watches the doctor's eyes as they look down his body. Why is he so giddy? He really is coming across as someone who is inexperienced, as if he hasn't spent the better part of two decades with men. Alfred could be like this sometimes, with his sleek command, but there was just something about Hippolyte that absolutely entranced Henry.

He realizes, then, that he never knew Connor had any friends by that name. Who is this mysterious, handsome stranger? He cannot catch his breath, it seems, as Hippolyte leans in closer to him. Is it the alcohol? Or does he want to close the distance between them and -- heavens, Henry! The door is open. Already this is scandalous enough that they could be caught, but. . . still. 

Henry swallows thickly, shivering at the touch beneath his chin. Is it the gloves? Is it -- he leans into the touch on his cheek instinctually, and let it be known that Henry Granville is a bottom. "Yes. Of course." Wow, this has been illuminating. Is he touch starved for this kind of... energy? Of this kind of dominance? Perhaps. He regains his senses a moment latter, turning on his heel to lead the doctor into party. The door is promptly closed behind Hippolyte, keeping out the world as they enter this new realm. 

Goodness, with the way Henry's acting, it's as if he didn't run this hedonistic parties! Henry rubs a hand over his mouth and chin, remembering the touch from just a moment ago and missing it. Connor, Connor. . . right, where is Morrison? Which room? As Henry leads him from the foyer, Hippolyte is greeted with the half-dressed bodies of men and women alike. Some are tangled together on the staircase or on a chaise (or, hell, even the floor), while others are drinking and laughing. There is plenty of art hung around the walls, mostly of the nude form, with busts and statues of other art pieces carefully curated throughout his home. Each room has it's own dedicated space -- whether it is for drugs, painting, or an orgy. "I'm afraid I haven't see him in some time," Henry says, glancing up the stairs. Usually upstairs is off limits, but you never know. "We may have to do a bit of a search." He finds himself more grounded now, and partygoers say hello to him as he passes.

Henry sticks his head into a room where a naked man is being sketched by two women and a man sharing a bottle of what looks to be absinthe. One of the women, a gorgeous ginger with plump features, looks over to him, and he gives a wave, "have you seen Doctor Morrison, dear?" 

"My apologies, Granville. I have not." 

He gives a nod and turns back to Hippolyte. "The good news is that this is not some extraordinary manor, so there aren't too many rooms to find him in." He smiles. "What is your practice, Dr. Barthélemy? I'm afraid Connor has never mentioned you before, so I don't know anything about you!" Henry speaks as he continues down the hall, urging him forward.

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy

HENRY STARES AT HIM, a look of desperation in his eyes. He reaches to put his hand over Connor's on his knee, giving it a squeeze. "Thank you," he whispers in response, and for a moment it is a soothing comfort from someone else not involved in the situation. "Yes, yes. . . that is a good point." Henry nods, considering Connor's thoughtful words. He finds himself brushing his thumb against the doctor's hand, quiet and considering for a moment,. His mind is somewhat racing and yet still at the same time. He has perhaps drank too much. (No, he definitely has.)

Alas, when has that stopped him before. They are perhaps the only two left awake. . . Henry hasn't been keeping track of his guests for a few hours now. If it is just them, then. . . well, perhaps. . . 

"Would you be interested in offering me a distraction?" Henry asks like the slut he is. Alfred does not care; they know their own urges, their hungers. Sometimes they cannot satisfy each other's needs, but they still love each other deeply. And he and Connor are always so... compatible. "I would be . . . ever so grateful." He scoots a little closer to Connor. 

Tag: Connor Morrison