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A blossom under the cheek
London, 1815
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath love's mind of any judgement taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is love said to be a child
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1.1, 9-14
“I do not yet see how this constitutes a mask.”
Anthony squirmed a bit in his chair as his wife’s deft fingers smeared and blended the rouge into his cheeks. Outside their bedchamber, he heard the shuffle and clicking of heels, murmurs and laughter of his siblings, the semi-distant voice of his mother calling for help arranging the clusters of lilacs. Kathani tightened her grip on her husband’s chin, steadying him.
“Enough with your wiggling, Anthony. If you are to be the little God, your cheeks must be flush, no?”
The squeeze of her thumb and index finger on his cheeks pushed his lips into a pout and she could not help but press a wet kiss to them. His shoulders slackened at the touch of her lips, and the grip on his gilded bow and arrow loosened. Kate nibbled on his lower lip and traced it with the tip of her tongue. When she heard his soft responding moan, she grinned and knew he’d behave for the rest of his dressing. She pushed him back against the chair, giggling at his dazed and languid expression. Anthony took in the whole sight of her: the dress crafted of shimmering olive-green silk, the crescent curves of her breasts pushing against the fabric, the berry-tinted rouge upon her gorgeous dark skin. Her lips curved into a smirk. She rolled her eyes and raised her question in a sigh.
“What are you looking at?”
“The ravishing Gorgon maiden of my dreams.”
The deep brown of Kate’s eyes softened. She cocked her head to the side and gazed at him. She touched the wiry serpents in her hair that Hyacinth made for her, then the necklace of rubies that formed a sparkling wound at her neck. “You must not forget fearsome.”
Anthony nodded slowly and straightened his back. “Fearsome. Formidable.”
She moved closer to straddle him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Indeed.” She smiled down at him. Her blushing God of love draped in eggshell cotton, little wings fastened to his back. Kate’s brows furrowed, her hands resting on his neck.
Anthony’s eyes mirrored her concern. “Something is troubling you, love.”
She caressed his neck with the back of her hand. “Is it not angering? Medusa’s fate at Perseus’ hand?”
Anthony turned to kiss her fingers. “Cruel, indeed,” he whispered. “And certainly not heroic of him.”
She looked into the mirror behind him, admiring her own hair-raising stare. “I am glad she lives tonight.”
“Alive, alive, alive.” Anthony pressed kisses down her neck between each affirmation. He delighted in her squirming and pleasured gasps. His cock stirred as she grinded on his thigh, exposed by the short hem of his toga.
“If it were up to me,” she growled into his ear, “You’d be wearing nothing but these wings to the ball.” Anthony laughed darkly. “Not much of a masquerade, then. And mother would have us arrested.”
Kathani laughed as she rocked against him. “Perhaps not. But it is artistically accurate.” She nodded toward the Cranach painting in the room, the one they purchased together: in a garden, Cupid wore nothing but powder-blue wings while bees surrounded his face. He was grimacing at the sting, looking up at his mother. Venus mit Amor als Honigdieb. Venus with Cupid, the honey thief. The blossom of red under the cheek from the sting of love. Anthony rushes to it now, desiring the pain of it, the antithesis of numbness. His former self would flee the swelling.
~*~
Cupid complaining to Venus
Kent, 1793
As Cupid was stealing honey from the hive A bee stung the thief on the finger
And so do we seek transitory and dangerous pleasures
That are mixed with sadness and bring us pain
–-Epigraph (translated from Latin), of Venus mit Amor als Honigdieb, Lucas Cranach the Elder
Violet’s soft palm guided him to the garden’s edge. Anthony looked out at the bounty before him: a vista of lavender, striking orange and goldenrod-yellow. He looked up at his mother, nearly bursting from glee. “Shall we pick some, Mother?”
He tugged at the skirt of her dress. Violet matched her son’s excitement. “I would love nothing more.”
They ran hand in hand and fell to their knees in the dirt, giggling all the while. Anthony’s fingers grazed a cluster of lilacs. He so loved the gradient of purples in them; a single bloom could hold magenta, mauve and lavender. The flower-picking was delayed by a distraction; higher up in the lilac bush, he heard a soft droning sound. Parting the blossoms, he encountered a lively beehive. The endless hexagons of the wild honeycomb transfixed him. Looking cautiously to his left and right, he reached his hand to see if he might taste some of its sweetness. He reflexively pulled back his hand to reveal sticky fingers and a prick of sharp pain. Anthony’s eyes widened as he looked at the raised bump on his reddening skin—he tried to stop the tears but they fell regardless of his boyish will.
“Mother! Help me, help me!” His little chest heaved, bird-like in its speed.
Violet stood abruptly and ran to him. “Darling, whatever happened?”
She hugged him tight then gently pulled his arm out to examine the tiny wound. “I—I—,” he could not let the words out for the pain on his skin. He gazed up at Violet.
She took him by the hand to the patch of flowering mint nearby, plucked a few leaves, and headed down into the kitchen. She crushed the leaves, placed them into a square of cheesecloth, and poured cool water over them. “Your fingers are quite sticky, love.” She kissed his hand and raised her brow, pressing the pouch of mentha to the sting. “How did that happen?”
The coolness of the mint leaves slowed Anthony’s rapid breath. He looked down, face hiding a bit of embarrassment. “I found where the bees live, Mama.”
Violet nodded slowly and exhaled. “Ah, I see. And you found their honey, too?”
Anthony sniffled, nodded. “Yes. It hurts.”
“I know, love.” She stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his scalp. “It will not sting forever. Trust me.”
Anthony frowned and pressed her knowledge. “How do you know?”
She dabbed the cool cloth around the pink of his skin. “Because we have each other to clean and soothe the wound, and we have time to let the pain fade.”
“You know, Anthony,” Violet continued, “that the bee who stung you was trying to protect something.” Anthony wore a shocked expression. “What?”
Violet rocked him gently and spun an image for him. “Deep in the hive there is a great Queen. She is a bee of great stature and responsibility. She is mother to almost all the bees in the hive. Her children make the honey to stay nourished and strong.”
Anthony wiped away a stray tear with his sleeve. “So they sting to protect the queen and the honey?” Violet smiled. “Yes indeed, love.” Anthony gazed at the wound on his arm, now a calmer pink instead of an angry red. He held his arm close to his chest and pondered the bold protectiveness of the bees; their insistence upon a sweet shielding.
~*~
Kent, Summer 1815
On an extended holiday, Kathani turned to her husband and suggested they forage for honey. Anthony’s fear of bees and their sting was not lost on Kate; in fact, it was why she wanted to practice honey hunting in the first place—to face the frightening parts together. Whenever a thunderstorm raged, he coaxed her outside and encouraged her to look up into the deep gray sky, letting the wind stir the sheets of rain. They let themselves be still in the midst of it: hand in hand, soaked to the skin.
As ever, her logic was sound. They ventured out into the woods—this time without their guns— to search for clusters of pine and oak. She lifted her skirts, stepping gingerly and deliberately over the logs and rocks in their path. He followed close behind her until he heard that familiar droning sound. Kathani whispered in his ear with the excitement of a child and pointed upward. “Look, Anthony, up there!”
The hive was hanging, fortified and delicate, on a thick branch of an oak tree. His child-self stopped in his path, watching his courageous wife walk ahead of him. He took a breath and managed to put his left foot in front of his right until he sat upon a fallen log, readying his thigh for her to use as a ladder’s step. Kate pulled a pipe from the bodice of her dress, packed it with tobacco she’d squirreled away and struck a match. He watched as she billowed white smoke into the hive, calming the laboring bees. They both noticed how he tensed whenever her hand moved close to them; she whispered down to him: I am alright, we are alright. She pulled a small section of honeycomb from the hive’s cavity, watching the dark amber slide down her hand.
Upon returning to Aubrey Hall, they placed the piece of honeycomb in a glass jar and sealed it with a cylindrical cut of cork. It sat on their table as they lunched, the evidence of the bees’ labor dripping into a languorous pool at the bottom of the glass. Kathani’s cheeks flushed at the sight of it. She kindly dismissed the staff for a break, grabbed the jar and walked with a swiftness toward Anthony.
“Come, my Lord,” she smirked at him.
In their bedchamber, he shook the honeycomb gently onto her back and leaned down to lick its bounty from her skin. Malt and molasses. She moaned with abandon when he slid himself inside of her and gripped the soft handles of her hips with his sticky hands. He whimpered when she reached behind him and took his hand, pulling his chest flush with her back. She licked and sucked the forest honey from his fingers. She whispered to him I am so proud of you, my darling. The afternoon blurred and blistered under the insistent heat of their sex, crystallizing in the sun.
No sweetness without risk.
~*~
The giggle of the Medusa
London, 1815
“Through this sting was Amor made wiser. The untiring deceiver concocted another battle-plan: he lurked beneath the carnations and roses and when a maiden came to pick them, he flew out as a bee and stung her.” –From the Idylls of Theocritus, Third Century BC
The tuning of the violins and sound of running feet outside their bedchamber at Bridgerton House shook Anthony from his daze. His Kathani was stroking his hair, admiring her handiwork with the rouge she applied to his cheeks.
She posed a pertinent question. “Shall we make our entrance to the masquerade?”
They mirrored each other’s nod and quirk of the brow, smiling with a slyness.
“They can wait one more moment, can they not?”
They fell into a gentle yet frenzied kiss. Anthony took her tongue into his mouth, gently sucking, while he moved his hands to her chest. He moved to lick paths across the hills of her breasts, savoring the warmth of her skin. He asked her to stand against the side of their bed while he sank to his knees and lifted the silk of her dress. She fisted his hair in a pleasured moan when he found the center of her, soft and wet. The sight of her cunt transfixed him in all its layers, flushed mauve and tasting of sharpness and salt. He licked her, soft and pleading, then firm and insistent, until she had to muffle a shriek into her arm.
“My turn.” Her inner thighs trembled as she pushed him onto the bed with a giggle. She lifted the hem of his toga to reveal the hardening length of him, flush with want. He loved her like this; completely unhinged, wild. He watched in awe as she swallowed his cock. He did not know how to tell her without sounding ridiculous, but he always felt safest in her mouth. Given the skillful persistence of her lips and tongue, he did not take long to come. Anthony growled and gently lifted her into his lap.
“Who needs the rouge now? I am your flustered little God for as long as you’ll have me.”
At long last, they finished dressing and entered the masquerade to an eyeroll and a smile from the Viscountess Dowager. Anthony chuckled into his wife’s ear: It was their house, they could be late if they wished.
In the distance, Kate noticed her brother-in-law, dressed in inky-black silk, dart outside after a lovely lady dressed in silver.
“Anthony, do you know of her?”
He pressed a kiss to her cheek before he went to fetch her some lemonade and confessed:
“I cannot say that I do. Though I’ll interrogate Ben soon enough.”