The Tale of Two Artists: The Vicomte Montfaucon [Bridgerton/Frev Benedict/OMC]

[Cyper]

Summary:
To the Ton, Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon is an eccentric French aristocrat, an artist, and a man with an inconvenient habit of avoiding society whenever he can. A chance meeting in moonlit gardens leads Benedict Bridgerton down the path of unexpected friendship, and perhaps something more, as he soon discovers there is considerably more than meets the eye to the mysterious Vicomte then his shabby coat, strange humor, and refusal to at least pretend to enjoy society.

After all, there's a reason Adrien is so reluctant to speak of France.

AN: Howdy, first time posting on here (a friend of a friend pointed me in the direction of QQ) so please bare with me. Some info on 'Vicomte'. This is crossposted on Ao3/FFN, and technically is part 3 of TToTA, but it's the first part I've written, so eventually I intend to write the rest of the story and post it as well. Uh, beyond that, this is my first attempt at writing romance so I guess we're gonna experience that together. Also I'm about halfway through a reading of Les Mis, and it shows so much. So, let's begin.

Chapter 1: The Vicomte and the Inconvenience of Unplanned Acquaintances

The Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, to the aristocracy of London, was many things. Eccentric. Quiet. Skittish. Other. The Vicomte had not attended high society's balls for over three months, by this point, and frankly would have continued that trend, had the weather not been so extraordinarily fine. This, perhaps, is not the reason most men of status would be present, that being connection, but it is Adrien's. Fine weather, and a pond practically begging to be put to paper. He had no desire for connection, socialization, or anything that would require beyond the base necessity of interactions.

The garden with the pond was well kept, in bloom and teeming with life. The pond itself was shining, the moon reflecting off the water, partially hidden by the hanging boughs of the trees surrounding it. Lanterns, strung across the walkways, cast a golden glow across the water. There were flowers, though Adrien would not have been able to say for certain what kind, other than that their scent was pleasant, and mingled well with the fresh air and the faint sound of music drifting over the breeze. The garden with the pond was considerably more pleasant than the ball itself, there was no doubt.

The Vicomte sat against a low stone wall, sketchbook propped against his knee, looking out at the sight. He had removed his coat, draping it over the portion of the wall he leaned against. It was a ragged, battered thing, blue worn to almost slate in some places, frayed and patched and about twenty years out of fashion. This, coupled with his overall wrinkled appearance, shirt clearly in need of an iron and trousers nearly acceptable (if one did not look to closely at the knees), plus a wellworn navy waistcoat with tarnished silver buttons, spoke for his care, or lack thereof, regarding acceptable fashion. His slate cravat, an overhand 'knot' and no more, tied with such simplicity that it appeared almost an act of rebellion against those strangling the gentlemen inside. His oxblood hair, shaggy, tinged with the beginnings of grey, clearly having escaped whatever attempts, if any, had been made to tame it. Adrien had stopped caring about fashion sometime in '93, if he ever had cared to start.

The Ton, to its credit, had stopped caring about his lack of caring sometime in the early 1800's. To them, he was an enigma, but a familiar one. At first, they regarded him with fascination, then suspicion (though that did not last long), then amusement. He was French. He was clearly of aristocratic birth. He was an artist. And he was awfully silent whenever the political state of France was spoken of.

Adrien dipped his pencil into the tin of graphite dust beside him, cocked his head like a quizzical beagle, and added another line to the pond. It wasn't particularly hard to draw, no, this was downright child's play. But nowadays, simple was best. Simple kept his mind from wandering. Simple was safe.

The sounds of the ball, of idle chatter and dancing and music and whatever else entertained the highborn masses trickled out. Adrien ignored it, focused solely on the paper in front of him. Another line. A pause. Another line. He was so focused, he nearly missed the crunch of leaves and grass and sticks coming up behind him. Nearly.

Upon looking up, Adrien noted the newcomer with mildly detached interest. The man was tall and lean in build. Hair tousled in the way that framed fine features. Eyes maybe blue, maybe grey, hard to tell in the lighting of the fading dusk. Had the blues of his clothes not rather neatly blurred his silhouette against the dusk, Adrien might have missed his presence altogether.

As it were, Adrien set his pencil down, sliding his spectacles on, clearly making a show of acknowledging his observer before, "May I help you, Monsieur?".

A moment's pause before, "I beg your pardon, I did not mean to stare.", a pause before the stranger pushed on, "You've left out the lanterns."

"I have. And the drawing is better for it." Adrien responded, "If I were a wagering man, there's something else that's drawn you here."

There's a minute, probably less, but time has a way of moving slower when answers are expected. This was one of those moments. "I was curious."

"About the art?"

"And the artist." The stranger's answer is honest, at the very least. Adrien appreciates that much, though catching anyone's interest was decidedly not on his checklist, now or ever again. Clearly the universe had other opinions. "Generally, one attends society balls to socialize, make connections… You appear to do the opposite."

Adrien hums slightly, "Astute observations, Monsieur-?" he fishes for the man's name, one of the rare times he intentionally intends to continue a conversation.

"Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton."

Adrien hums again, "One of the brood." His words, though they might seem overtly aggressive or negative, contain a tone of amusement, perhaps joviality. Adrien stands, knees cracking slightly, "Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon." A hand extended, "What curiosities can an old Frank satisfy?".

The stranger, Benedict, Adrien reminds himself, seems to run through a list of dozens of questions, settling on the most important for the time, "Why are you outside?". The question is simple, yes, but rather loaded.

Adrien takes a moment, glancing around, "I prefer the outside compared to-" here he pauses, almost as if looking for the right words.

"To the ball?" Benedict offers, and though Adrien nods, something in his steel eyes state otherwise.

"To an embarrassing degree."

"And the drawing?"

"Landscapes are peaceful."

"Peaceful?"

Here Adrien stalls, humming slightly, "Nature is hard to misinterpret. She can be fierce, no doubt, but likewise her beauty and calmness is hard to miss. People…. Not so much." Silence falls for a moment, "And that makes three." Adrien closes his sketchbook, setting it down, reaching for the ragged blue coat, "I fear you've exhausted your allowance for questions one evening."

Benedict blinked, "My allowance?" he asks, watching Adrien shrug on the coat.

"Three."

"What happens after three?"

Adrien's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but the movements towards one, "You will have to wait until our next interaction to learn more." The smirk, for that's what the grin is most certainly growing into, "Three is a perfectly polite number for riddles." He picks up his sketchbook, tucks it under one arm, nods to Benedict, and begins to walk past, "Good night, Monsieur Bridgerton."

It was only after Adrien was well on his way home when it struck him that he had intentionally invited the Englishman to speak more. Certainly, the punchline writes itself.

 

[Cyper]

AN: Figuring out formatting, it's going great-

Chapter 2: The Inconvenience Becomes Persistent

By the time Adrien had returned to his small studio, located in the quieter part of London (though, cities are, by nature, never truly silent), he had replayed the conversation over multiple times in his head. Something, he wasn't quite sure what, but something regarding it was sitting…. Odd.

Adrien was, by nature, a quieter man. He didn't seek out attention, not anymore at least, and was particularly wary of those who came bearing questions. Questions mostly regarding his time before he became the permanent fixture the Ton now knew him as. Before the quiet painter, before, before, before. But Benedict Bridgerton, it seemed, was different in that aspect. Adrien hummed curiously, unlocking his door and entering.

The studio itself was quaint. A simple two-floor building, the first floor an open space with plenty of windows for lighting. That empty space was, naturally, taken up by several canvases in various states of completion. Paintings, drawings, supplies, equipment spread out on the two tables pressed together. And notably, a canvas (or at least, one would assume) hung on the wall, covered by a fine cloth sheet, one which blocks the viewer from seeing what lay beneath. This was, naturally, Adrien's Magnum Opus, and perhaps the work he was both least and most proud of.

If one were to continue past the unfinished work and clutter, a small set of wooden stairs would lead up to a set of rooms. One, a bedroom with a small wooden frame and flock mattress, the bedding itself rather unkept and certainly not properly made up. Adrien never cared for the obsession of making beds look as though they weren't made to sleep in. A writing desk stood across from it. The other room acted as a sitting room, though it could be used for other things if the situation called for it.

In the back of the studio, a small kitchen area, one which also doubled as a place to launder his already beaten clothing if needed, contained a simple place to wash up, and a hearth for cooking. Overall, the studio was small, and Adrien liked it that way.

Adrien set his sketchbook somewhat haphazardly on a stack of papers. Drawings, attempts, that lay piled and abandoned. He made his way up the stairs, untying his cravat with one hand as his mind raced. Ultimately, cravat shed, collar unbuttoned, battered blue shirt hung with the most care he'd shown anything that evening upon a peg in the bedroom, Adrien decided upon the reason. Artist recognized artist. He may not know each Bridgerton specifically, and though Adrien tended to steer clear of the idle gossip of the upper classes when he could, he was well aware of the family's reputation, and the reputation of its individuals.

It certainly was new, and didn't hurt Benedict's rankings in 'People Adrien is willing to socialize with' that the man didn't inquire into the locked basement of Adrien's history. That, in particular, had been the fascination of the Ton, some twenty years prior. True, after it became increasingly obvious that Adrien would not be airing his secrets for another nation's high society to spread, embellish, and ultimately make theirs, they stopped. Adrien did what he never had before, and melted into the background. Present, but not there.

Benedict Bridgerton however, asked about none of those things, and that intrigued the Frenchman. Curiosity is natural, yet curiosity without ulterior motive was much rarer.

Adrien pulled a stool up to his writing desk, fishing a piece of paper out, picking out a well worn quill, and uncapping the inkwell. Then he stopped, twisting the feathered writing utensil in his hand, as if deciding what to write. Or, perhaps, to whom. Instead of waiting any longer, he sits up, dips the quill into the pot, and puts it to paper.

Dear Amelie,

I met somebody today.

He crosses the sentence out. Too ridiculous.

Dear Amelie,

There was a man at the ball today.

He paused. Better. Less conversational. She would hate it. Cross it out and try again. And again. And again.

By the time the moon was high and Luna's reflection filtered in through the window, there were several attempts at this, scrawled over the paper. Eventually, a hiss of air escaping, the quill returned to its drawer, and the paper tossed haphazardly to a pile on the side. 'Dear Amelie' falling gently atop several more of the same sort. Covering a multitude of 'Dear Amelie', 'Dear Georges', 'Dear Louis-Antoine'. Possibly other names, and dates as well. Letters never sent, or perhaps never intended to be sent.

Adrien takes his spectacles, letting them drop to the desk, before standing, unbuttoning his waistcoat in preparation for sleep. Clearly, the conversation in the garden weighed on him more than he expected. This played in his mind throughout the rest of his nightly routine.

By the time Adrien had extinguished the lamp and gone to bed, he had reached the particularly inconvenient conclusion that Benedict Bridgerton was interesting. More inconvenient so was that he was interested in seeing whether the Bridgerton remained so.

 

[Cyper]

Chapter 3: In Which the Vicomte Realizes the Inconvenience Makes Pleasant Company

The next morning brought clear skies and the fresh urge to go… somewhere. And so, not one to leave work unfinished, except when the muse demanded, which was rather more often then he appreciated (hence the many half-done works lying forgotten). That is how Adrien found himself back in the garden from the night before, a fresh page opened to, and once more against the stone wall.

The drawing itself, perhaps, was not the only reason for returning to this specific scene, though it is the reason Adrien allows himself to consider.

The pond itself had not changed all that much since his last visit here. Boughs still hanging, flowers still in bloom, the smell aromatic. Adrien's mind, though partly focusing on his work, wandered while his hand moved. His eyes fixed on the pond itself, not necessarily looking at the pond, but rather at the reflections shining back at him. The important part about this fact being, the reflections allowed Adrien to see the happenings behind him. It was this purposeful positioning that allowed Adrien to see when a figure, blurred in the shifting water, began to approach. It seemed, against all odds (though, frankly, looking back the odds were not very strong to begin with), that the man plaguing Adrien's thoughts had returned.

"Monsuier Bridgerton. How pleasant to see you again." Adrien's voice was dry, perhaps a mite deadpan, but the twitch in his lips betrayed both the speaker and observer.

The figure paused, and for a brief moment Adrien wondered whether he had misidentified the blur in the water. Just a moment, however, and his assumption was proved correct when the figure spoke,
"And you, Vicomte." A slight pause before, "Is the pond such a muse that calls to you?"

Adrien set his pencil down, turning ever so slightly as to bring Benedict into view, "Something of the sort. I suppose I did extend the invitation, didn't I." His attention, turned back towards the pond, seems to forget he is addressing the other, "How curious…"

At this point, Benedict had taken the initiative to not stand conspicuously behind the other artist, coming around the stone wall and taking a seat next to the Vicomte. Tucked under his arm, a sketchbook of his own.

Adrien cocked an eyebrow, watching the younger man flip open to a page already well worked on. The same scene, near mirrored on Adrien's own paper. The pond, the boughs, the moon shining off the water's surface. Near mirrored. Where Adrien's lacked any sign of humanity, no lanterns or silhouetted people in the distance, no sign of any manmade interference, Benedict's view of the same scene contained just that. The reflections of the lanterns on the water, illuminating the dusky scene, and off in the distance, just noticeable enough, the attendees of the past night's ball. Dancing, talking, and existing.

"You added the lanterns." Adrien noted, looking back at his own work, void of any hint of people. A conscious choice.

Benedict took his time in responding, "I did. I rather like them."

"They obscure the water." Adrien hums, adding some shading to the trees, "Though I suppose that is more accurate to reality."

"You don't draw people, do you? As if all the world is empty?" Benedict asks, noting the distinct lack of society in Adrien's work.

Adrien cocks his head, looking at his own before he answers, "Perhaps I prefer it that way."

"Perhaps." Benedict takes some time, scratching away on his own paper before pressing on, "That makes two. I get one more question, best make it count." he grins at the Frenchman next to him. And for once, Adrien is not opposed to the expression.

Adrien lets his lips twitch upwards, not necessarily a full smile, but better than the smirk that haunted so many of his earlier years. The expression did not reach his eyes in full, "One more indeed."

Benedict did not ask his third question immediately, instead turning back to his own work. Adrien, under the guise of examining the scenery, takes a long look in the younger's direction. There were, Adrien suspected, more than three questions behind those eyes. It was, it seemed, more of a question on how many meetings such as this would it take for all those questions to be answered, and how many meetings Adrien would allow.

Then, after much deliberation, "What do you paint?". Oddly simple, all things considered, though Adrien wondered if Benedict realized the answer was more complicated than the answer he was going to give.

"Landscapes, mostly." Adrien took a long look at his drawing.

"Mostly?"

"People, once."

"Why did you stop?" Benedict's eyes flickered to the empty scene.

Adrien paused, pencil hovering where it was, "That," he gave a moment's pause, "is a fourth question."


AN: Moving the AN's down to here. The Narrator is such a menace, I swear this was not intentional. Oh well, it'll get worse before these two figure their situation out.

 

[Cyper]

Chapter 4: In Which a Question Is Asked, An Answer is Given, and the Vicomte Realizes He May Have Revealed Too Much

The immediate aftermath of Adrien's statement was silent. Benedict didn't seem bothered by his abruptness in shutting down that particular line of questioning. Benedict also didn't seem urged to point out that, technically, that was question five. Whether because he had not realized this, or because he did not want to wait until they crossed paths again, though it seemed increasingly likely to happen sooner rather than later, we cannot be certain.

The silence was intermittently broken by Adrien humming softly, punctuating the occasional stroke of his pencil on paper. Benedict, to his credit, did not immediately pursue any other line of questioning, content to pencil in his view of the pond alongside the older Artist.

Adrien doesn't look up from his work, "Your technique is good." He pauses after that, and it is clear to both that there's more Adrien wants to say.

Benedict frowns slightly, "I sense there is a 'but' coming.", his voice is light, but it doesn't take perfect sight to see that the comment, or the looming insinuation, bothered the Bridgerton.

"However, there is a 'however' coming." Adrien says, eyes flicking over, "Your technique is good, not perfect, but that comes with time. However, you focus on too many things. It's… crowded."

"Crowded how, exactly?"

Adrien's eyes flicker again, and his teeth run across his bottom lip quickly, as he clearly seems to be searching for the right way, the most passive way, to respond. "What, in this scene, is supposed to draw your eye?" He waits a half-second before continuing, "The pond, ideally. But here you have three subjects. The pond, the lanterns, and the people. Now, there's nothing wrong, per se, but it detracts from the whole image." Adrien stops, seemingly losing what words were to follow. Instead, he eventually settles, "It's not incorrect. Art can't be objectively incorrect, but it's worth asking yourself what you are trying to say in your art." Adrien finishes his monologue, not entirely unakin to that of Professors at the Royal Academy.

Benedict lets the criticism steep for a few minutes before he breaks the silence, which is just teetering on awkward, "Then why do you paint? What is your art trying to say?" he risks asking a sixth question. Adrien didn't call him on the extra two he'd asked, until he'd asked why he'd stopped. Perhaps one more would not be amiss? Newsflash, sometimes things that seem innocent may, in fact, be more telling than either speaker originally realized.

Adrien hums, "It is easier to remember, when there is something physical to look at."

It didn't take a genius to know that Adrien was not referring to remembering a pond.

"Remember what?" Benedict pushes lightly, hesitantly, as if approaching a rabbit or squirrel. The comparison is amusing, and not entirely wrong when labeled against the Vicomte.

And like a squirrel, hearing the snap of leaves and twigs in the woods, Adrien stills. He exhales sharply, like a dragon puffing smoke from its nostrils, and hums. He does not answer, instead clearly replaying the conversation, lips tilting downwards. "That…. Is not important. Not to anyone but myself." he finally forces out, voice almost monotone, a sharp contrast to the original light and bookish tone from before. Clearly, a nerve has been struck.

Benedict doesn't apologize, but he's smart enough to know when to backpedal, "Of course." He accepts the answer, not continuing down that particular conversation.

Silence falls again. There is a slight tension in the air, but it seems to fade away before Benedict's eyes, and the balance is restored. And, as seems to be the norm, the pair go back to drawing. Until, inevitably, Benedict becomes brave again. And when people become brave, they tend to make rather reckless in regard to impulsive decisions.

"There are better gardens at Bridgerton House."

Adrien looked up, a flash of genuine surprise making itself known before reverting back to his usual bored expression, "And you are inviting me to come paint them?".

"That is what I implied, yes." Though anyone with half a brain could see beyond that. Fortunately, though, our pair of artists remained very, very blind.

Adrien hums, "Well then, Monsieur Bridgerton, I accept."

The Vicomte de Montfaucon had agreed to paint the gardens and surroundings of Bridgerton House. He had not agreed to become closely acquainted with the rest of the Bridgerton Brood. This distinction, he would discover, was largely theoretical.

AN: And that's all I have prewritten, time to sit down and actually hash out the next few chapters.

 

[Cyper]

Chapter 5: In The Garden

Adrien hunched slightly, laser-focused on the scene in front of him. The grounds were, in fact, far better than his previous subjects. He would not admit this aloud. He also, initially, did not intend to admit that he was unsurprised to find the grounds more fruitful to paint, because he had seen this same image before, so very long ago.

This was, perhaps important to note, not the first time Adrien had been to Bridgerton House, though it should be considered that there were certainly fewer children running about. This particular factoid was brought to the forefront near immediately upon arriving, in the form of one Violet Bridgerton, who upon seeing the man, had greeted him with surprising warmth and remarked that he looked well. The ragged clothes and general air of unkemptness aside, he supposed he did look remarkably better than he did in 1797. The general state of wretchedness was gone, the anger quelled, the fire quenched. Yes, he was remarkably well, all things considered.

Adrien had ignored Benedict's questioning look following that particular interaction, instead motioning for the younger artist to lead the way.

That was how he found himself in front of an easel, brush in one hand, capturing the image of a gazebo, wreathed in flowers, the sun hitting at just the right angle to cast the perfect shadow. Benedict was a few feet away, similarly set in front of canvas, brush angled, capturing some other scene. That other scene being the gazebo, with the inclusion of Adrien himself. A painting of a painter painting a painting. How alliterate.

Adrien was, for all accounts, fully engrossed in his work. Ragged blue jack hung over a bench, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cravat loosened ever so slightly, though not nearly enough to be considered indecent. Spectacles pushed firmly up on the bridge of his nose. A spare brush stuck behind one ear, and Adrien bore an expression of pure concentration. He was content.

It was because of that contentness, that when the sound of footfalls began to reach hearing distance, he did not initially look up to examine the newcomer.

The young man was unmistakably a Bridgerton. Brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and the sort of symmetrical features that made portraitists' lives considerably easier. He had Benedict's coloring, though little of his brother's particular expression, where Benedict often looked as though he knew a joke no one else had been told, this one looked as though he was genuinely interested in hearing it. There was something remarkably open about his face, made more so by the easy smile upon seeing the two artists. Yes, he was unmistakably a Bridgerton.

The newcomer did not immediately address Adrien, instead sauntering over to Benedict and peering over his brother's shoulder. There was a brief moment of silence until, "Interesting painting.", the man's expression, one of glee, gave it away that he was not interested in the gazebo on the page.

Benedict turned his head slowly, "Colin."

Adrien, finally tearing his attention from the oils and brushes and canvas, turns at the sound, finally noticing (or, more explicitly, finally taking a good look at) the newest addition to the garden. Colin Bridgerton, he filed the name away to match the face.

Adrien placed his tools down carefully, wiping his hands on a rag, paint-stained and clearly not the color of its creation, that hung from his pocket. Benedict, spurred by etiquette trained into the three of them, steps between them, "Colin, meet Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon. Vicomte, this is my brother Colin." he introduces the pair.

Adrien extends a hand, "The pleasure is mine, Monsieur." He shook the younger Bridgerton's hand firmly, but released it soon after.

"Vicomte… French, clearly. Where are you from in France, if you don't mind the question." Colin asks, tone quizzical, but clearly interested. "I have been to Paris, and Marseille, but I don't recall meeting anyone by the name Montfaucon." He's fishing for information, clearly.

Adrien, pausing, takes a moment to answer, as if weighing the correct response. He had to give an answer, it was only polite, but what version of the answer was almost just as important as giving one. Eventually, "I spent most of my youth in Paris, though my family had a number of estates dotted around the country." A short pause, "No, you wouldn't have met anyone by the name of Montfaucon. None living, at least." There's an expected moment of silence at the answer, as both Bridgerton's go through that loop of 'how to respond', before Adrien takes mercy on the poor English Aristocrats and continues, "Do not worry about finding a polite response, it was long ago, and a long time coming." He goes back to his painting, unbothered by the flash of wide-eyed astonishment.

Colin, emboldened by the seemingly unbothered response, forges on, "I did come across the name though."

"Pardon?" Adrien turns, setting his brush down and fully entering the conversation at this point, "In what context.". His sudden interest in something other than the gazebo takes both Bridgerton boys by surprise.

Colin blinks before responding, "There was a gallery I attended, and one of the paintings on display was titled 'Montfaucon at the Scaffold'-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Adrien stills, like a spooked deer, and interrupts, "That one… Tends to be embellished with every recreation." Adrien hums, "It is shoddy work."

Colin is confused. Benedict is confused. The only person not in this state of bewilderment is Adrien himself, who is very much aware of why the response illicits such bewilderment. Eventually, Benedict, who has sat through Adrien's art lectures at this point, breaks the silence, "Why?"

Adrien huffs, eyes locked on the gazebo, hand painting with the finesse of decades of experience. Then he answers, "It's inaccurate. It's biased. It doesn't tell the full story. The coat is the wrong shade of blue. Take your pick. It is shoddy work."

Benedict responds almost immediately, "You said yesterday that art couldn't be incorrect. Why is this piece any different?" Then, "It bears your name, you don't like that, I assume that you are the subject." He trails off.

Adrien hums, but doesn't confirm nor deny the fact, rather he starts down another path, "It was… a bloody time. Year 2 was not a pleasant time in France's history." Adrien eventually answers, brush strokes becoming harsher, wider. Benedict can see his grip on the handle tighten.

Benedict watched Adrien, hand movements restrained, but tense. The strokes had become heavier, less deliberate, the careful precision replaced by something almost violent. Whatever 'Montfaucon at the Scaffold' depicted, it had not merely embarrassed the man beside him, it had hurt him.

"If you intend to stare, Monsieur Bridgerton, at least do so at the painting." Adrien directs at the second son.

Benedict did just that. Colin had the expression of someone who had realized that he had stumbled upon something that he was not supposed to know. Adrien continued painting. And for once, no questions were asked. Small mercies, perhaps, for everyone involved.

 

[Cyper]

Chapter 6: In Which the Vicomte Makes an Effort, Society Takes Notice, And Two Artists Commit the Scandalous Act of Dancing

The awkwardness of that particular meeting did not stop them from happening again in the future. Adrien would arrive, set up somewhere on the grounds, and paint the day away with Benedict. Mostly uninterrupted, Adrien had seen neither hide nor hair of Colin, nor any other Bridgerton besides Benedict and Violet, since the first meeting. Regardless, there was no sense of unwelcomeness present, and Adrien found himself looking forward to these weekly, sometimes more often than that, meetings. Rarely were words spoken beyond those relating to art, and never did those words relate to years gone by. This in particular, was something Adrien found particularly pleasant about the younger man.

This was, of course, how Adrien found himself attending the next of Society's little soirees.

Adrien, in his studio, stood in front of the mirror in the sitting room. Blue worn waistcoat swapped out for a brown one, new, or at least made within the last few years. Slate cravat tied deftly, the linen wrapped around his neck before the ends were arranged in a restrained bow. It was a style heavily favoured by those he surrounded himself with in his youth, though Adrien himself had never been one for propriety, even then. His shirt, ironed and free of creases, the ivory coloring not burdened by paint stains or whatnaught. Shoes shining with more than a base wipedown with a rag. An oxblood jacket, the same color as his hair, still older in style but much less worn, compared to the blue one, completes the outfit.

It was, perhaps, worth noting that Adrien had not tied his cravat like this in years. It was also perhaps worth noting that Benedict Bridgerton was the reason he was attending the ball at all. Adrien, naturally, noted neither.

Adrien stares. He hasn't looked this put together in years. A hand drifts up, brushing the bow-tied cravat, ghosting over the fabric. The last time he had worn it like this, it was his 18th birthday, and hands that were not his own were solemnly tying it. One last parting gift before eternal separation. The memory surfaces, and is immediately Adrien pushes it away. Pushes away the memory of men long dead.

Adrien hesitated before the mirror. His hair, normally left to do as it pleased, was another matter entirely. He dipped his fingers into the small pot of pomatum and worked it through the unruly strands, combing them neatly back and to one side. The result was almost unnervingly orderly. The familiar wildness was gone, replaced by something that looked considerably more like the young man who had once moved through Paris and beyond. He did what he could to not think about the silver starting to peek through at his temples.

It was odd, seeing this version of himself again. This version, which he had tried so hard to tamp down, to forget. He gazed at his reflection critically, a small frown forming. The hair was neat, the cravat tied accordingly, the clothes clean and pressed and prim. He looked, by all accounts, completely presentable. This was, naturally, the desired outcome. Why it was the desired outcome, however, was a question Adrien had decided not to investigate.

Adrien sighed, turned, and made his way out to the street.
____________________________________________________________________________

Society, upon seeing the eccentric Vicomte de Montfaucon enter the ballroom, collectively experienced what could only be described as confusion of the highest caliber. Vicomte de Montfaucon was present. He was interacting with those who greeted him. He was well dressed. Vicomte de Montffaucon was here. And most alarming of all? The Vicomte de Montfaucon appeared to be actively looking for someone.

There was a noticeable pause, though quickly remedied, from those in sight of the entrance upon Adrien's arrival. Adrien, for his part, either did not notice or did not care enough to address it. He beelined for a glass, some light champagne that did little more than wet the lips, if beeline can be the correct term, while avoiding the many bodies crowding the hall. Then he, from his vantage in the corner, scanned the room, eyes settling on his target.

Benedict stood surrounded by, seemingly, about half the complete force of Bridgertons. His mother, Violet, was there, standing next to a woman Adrien assumed Eloise, if Benedict's descriptions were anything to go by. Beside Benedict, Colin, and one more of the Bridgerton men. Based on the third being clearly older than Benedict, Adrien assumed (correctly) that this must be Anthony.

Adrien locked eyes with Benedict, who had, up until this point, been speaking with his family rather animatedly. This ended abruptly, and Benedict's mouth hung open for just a second before he regained control of his expression.

Adrien took this as a cue. He approached, moving with a purpose, rather than meandering as if he did not know exactly who he intended to speak with. He approaches the group, inclining his head to the men, half bowing, hand at his waist, to the women, "Mesdames, Messuiers." His accent came thicker than usual as he turned to Benedict, "Monsieur Bridgerton. Might I borrow you?"

It was a perfectly respectable request. There was no reason whatsoever for anyone to interpret it otherwise. Several members of the Bridgerton family, unfortunately, possessed eyes.

Benedict, not gracing his family with a response to their questioning, or in some cases teasing, glances, he responds with a simple, "Of course, Vicomte."

Adrien offered a small smile, with Benedict following almost in an instant. Towards the outside, away from prying eyes and listening ears and the majority of high society. And more specifically, towards that very same pond that the two had made their first meeting a few weeks prior.

Though the two have been walking in silence for the majority of the trek, Benedict, looking Adrien up and down, taking in the more put-together appearance, breaks it, "You dressed nice." he offers out.

Adrien, facing away as he was a few steps ahead of the other, answers simply, "The occasion called for it." he pauses, "It was only proper."

"Proper- I would not expect you to care for propriety." Benedict's tone in light, and the statement, though not inherently funny, brings a genuine chuckle from the other man.

"Just because I do not enjoy the tripes and contrivances and rules of our station, does not mean I cannot follow them when the situation demands." A pause follows, "And when the situation demands, well, I would be a fool to ignore such calls." he finishes, just as the pair reach the pond where they had made each other's acquaintance.

The scene was unchanged, except perhaps a few more flowers were in bloom, and there was the faint scent of moss mixed in. The moon hung overhead, her reflecting rays shining bright off the pond's silver surface, and bathing the entire scene in just enough light to see. The faint sound of music floating over the silent air.

"We appear to be missing the dancing." Benedict notes, and Adrien cocks his head to listen to the faint sound of instruments drifting over the wind.

"I have never been the fondest of dancing." Adrien responded, ear still tilted to the wind.

"Why?"

Adrien hums before responding, as if thinking about the answer before, "Too many people knew my reputation, and that was far more alluring than anything the man underneath could provide."

Benedict pauses for a second before, in what can only be described as a fit of foolish bravery, extends his hand to Adrien and says, "Well then, to the man underneath?".

And, against all good sense, Adrien put his hand in the other's.

And they danced. Slowly, swaying under the moonlight.

Neither of our intrepid artists, naturally, noticed the significance of this. This was fortunate, for had they possessed the good sense to recognize it, this story might have progressed considerably faster. Here's to the oblivious pair.