Disclaimer: I don't own "Bridgerton" or any of the show's characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Area woman wants to know when Colin Bridgerton will get a clue.
Warnings: drama, romance, romantic tension, masturbation, Colin is an entire young himbo in the wild, unresolved sexual tension, unresolved romantic tension.
Every Aphrodite is valid (just ask Zeuxis)
"An ode to the female form, is it not?"
He startled at the sudden voice. Getting a delighted look from the elderly woman at his right. Quite pleased with herself when he visibly jumped.
He bowed, offering his arm.
"My apologies," he greeted, eyes on the crowd walking through the gallery in a motley promenade. Most barely giving the paintings a passing eye. Too engrossed in conversation. Gossip. Scheming. "We have not been introduced."
She chuckled. Throaty, honest and not all a titter.
It was refreshing after so many days immersed in Bath's tedious society.
"I believe my virtue is quite safe, sir. Still… I have decided to be unpredictable today. Breaking the rules isn't only for the young."
His smile was genuine when she dared to wink at him. Finding her refreshing.
"Forgive my boldness, mum. But you seem used to getting your way. I will follow your lead."
"Age can be an advantage," she hummed, finally taking his arm. Silver hair dressed in an elegant net of pale pink pearls. "As I often tell my children."
He laughed, drawing the attention of a group of women pretending to study the bust of something or other.
"We are in threat of being discovered, sir," she teased, leaning close like they were sharing confidence. "Perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand. I couldn't help but notice your attention. A true representation of beauty, wouldn't you say?"
He nodded, turning back to the painting. Only then realizing he'd been standing there for some time. Clearly enough to become a curiosity.
"It is," he admitted, coloring slightly. Feeling strangely seen by her watery eyes as she fixed him with a knowing look. "I find something about it...intriguing."
He struggled to put his thoughts into words. Wanting to explain this wasn't a matter of a green behind the ears boy staring open mouthed at his first sight of female flesh. This wasn't that.
It... spoke to him.
His eyes roved over the thick thighs of the woman in the painting. Her cherub cheeks rouged and swollen with good health. She smiled, seemingly at him alone. Shy. Sweet. But clearly desirous. Her delicate hand outstretched. Beckoning him closer.
"Some would say it's a visage of...indulgence," the older woman continued. Looking towards the crowd of afternoon dresses and glinting silks. "Certainly, an example the young ladies here do not follow."
He barely cared.
The woman was a vision. Her breasts hung naturally, bare and heavy. Caught in motion as they swung to the side. The undersides hiding lush flesh that rolled gently down the muse's ribs. The curve of her lips exaggerated by the ample trim of her waist. Pale skin supple and beautifully stark when set against a blaze of red hair.
His fingers itched at his sides, wanting to touch. A well-placed flower - an orchid in bloom - hid her center. But he was sure her nethers would be crowned in the same fiery color.
"But then, the current fashions are not always to everyone's taste."
His mouth was dry when he looked up. It took a moment to realize he had neglected to answer. Coloring as she took him in. Much like a cat who'd cornered a robin and was now deciding what to do with it.
At least she wasn't… offended by his lapse of manners.
Or perhaps he'd spoken too soon.
"You will join me for dinner, I think," she told him thoughtfully. One finger pressed to her lips to stall his stuttering. "My daughters' children will benefit from your company. But for now, we must allow others to appreciate her beauty."
He felt almost bereft as they walked away. Struck with a confused bout of longing that refused to lessen as the hours, then days, past by. Quickly becoming a phantom curiosity he could not shake.
He detested puzzles.
He returned home months later, rich with experience and new acquaintances. Including Lady Greenwood and her family. While he was sure the matriarch would have been pleased if he'd shown interest in her granddaughters, they'd parted on warm terms. In fact, he intended to speak with mama about entertaining them later next year.
The woman in the painting never left his thoughts. Indeed, it was worse than that. She quickly came to haunt his dreams as well. He found her often in the dark, when he was alone and his cock was aching. He could close his eyes and hear the hush of her skin against the bed clothes. The weight of her as she sat astride him. Encouraging his hands to cup her breasts, rolling pebbled nipples until her sighs turned to moans of pleasure. But try as he might, her features had become blurred. He could picture every fine part of her. But not her face.
He couldn't fathom what that meant.
It couldn't be...
It was close to a year after he'd first seen the painting when one of the servants informed him there was a large package waiting for him in his rooms.
He knew what it was in less than a breath. Just from the opening paragraph of Lady Greenwoods letter. Heart racing thick in his throat, near choking with impossible excitement as he read quickly.
"…The opportunity to acquire this piece came to me unexpectedly. And I knew immediately who was best to own her. She deserves to be appreciated for all that she is and so I leave her in your capable care..."
He ripped the paper and twine. Baring the canvas to his hungry eyes. And her face- her face wasn't like he remembered. He lowered himself into his dressing chair, considering it. He supposed over the intervening year he'd created his own idea of her features. All those nights in the dark? It wasn't surprising.
Her face was lovely. Enchanting even. But it was markedly different from his imaginings. Why?
It wasn't disappointing, but it confused him.
A knock brought him out of his thoughts.
"Come in," he answered. Looking up as Eloise popped through the door and galloped towards him.
"Finally! I have been dying of curiosity!" She trilled, coming to a sudden stop as she inspected the painting with a confused frown. "I had no idea you were a lover of art, brother. Though, I can see why the subject attracted you."
He chewed down on a retort.
"She is beautiful," Eloise added after a moment. Leaning in closely enough that her hair brushed his shoulder. Surprising him by not commenting further, as she was wont to do. Quick with a tongue that seemed heavy with barbs of late.
"Indeed," he answered cautiously, before chancing a look around the room. Trying to decide where best to hang it. "I was admiring it when Lady Greenwood made my acquaintance. She recently acquired it and thought it would serve me best here."
Eloise cocked her head, then smiled as if she had just placed something.
"She reminds me of Penelope! Save for her face. How lovely. I hope you will show it to her, I know it might not be proper, but-"
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Shocked. The truth of it like the whistle of a cannon ball. Hitting just as pointedly as if it had struck him between the eyes. Suddenly understanding why the painting's face had changed since that day.
Penelope.
Good god.
He wet his lips as Eloise prattled on, but he wasn't listening. Wondering, as he supposed he ought, why he'd imagined her features - her lush curves - on those nights when the candles slowly wet themselves. It was like he didn't know himself. Blind to nothing but what had been right in front of him, patiently waiting for his attentions.
Why?
He resolved to know the answer, someday.
But for now, the woman in the painting still smiled for him.
Yes, perhaps her smirk was now a bit self-satisfied for his liking.
But he supposed he deserved as much, considering the circumstances.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
- Zeuxis was an innovative Greek painter. Born in 464 BC. Although his paintings have not survived, historical records state they were known for their realism, small scale, novel subject matter, and independent format. Zeuxis is said to have died laughing at the humorous way he painted the goddess Aphrodite, after the old woman who commissioned it insisted on modeling for the portrait.