THE GRUDGING CONSORT

seventeen

Exhaustion was not a state with which Arthur was familiar. He had a strong constitution, an iron will, and the ability to use the latter to enhance the former. This feeling of utter enervation was new and unpleasant. Tom’s constant attempts to drive him to retaliation — and thus make Arthur show himself poorly in Owen’s eyes, he was sure — had drained him of all his reserves. Caroline’s collapse had merely been the last straw. Gods, but she was terrifyingly lifeless in his arms as he bore her upstairs, her arms dangling limply and her head lolling on Arthur’s shoulder. A faint moan as he laid her carefully on her bed had been a welcome sign, but then Arthur was chivvied out of the room by seemingly every female in the house, and the door shut firmly in his face. Dr. Fellowes was admitted when he arrived, and then Caroline’s maid Kitty shut the door again as Tom tried to ask how Caroline did. Arthur took a sour pleasure in Tom receiving the same treatment that he had. He, Tom, and Owen sat a silent, dreadful vigil outside Caroline’s door for what felt like years, but the clock had only chimed the hour twice before the doctor emerged again. “She fainted from lack of sugar in her blood,” the doctor said without preamble. “Too much exertion, too little to eat, and she showed every sign of hypertension. I have her resting comfortably now. You, Mr. Drake,” he said to Tom, in much the same tone as he might have said you filthy vermin, “must take more care with a lady in her condition. She must be kept calm. She’s not in any danger now, but an episode like this, later in her pregnancy, could be very dangerous indeed.” Tom began some form of weak protest that the doctor overrode at once. “She is your responsibility. And if you cannot spend more energy caring for her than you do attempting to defend yourself when you have so clearly been negligent in your duties as a husband, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.” Tom sputtered into silence, and Dr. Fellowes favored all three of them with a brisk nod. “I’ll return in the morning to look in on Mrs. Drake. Until then, I prescribe quiet. Good evening.” He put on his hat and strode down the corridor. “I’ll see him out,” Owen said, and trotted after him. Arthur watched him out of sight around the corner, a swell of love so powerful he could hardly contain it leaving him momentarily breathless. The way Owen had dressed Tom down earlier still rang in his ears. He loved Owen, loved him to distraction, adored his every look and gesture and wanted to kiss him every moment of the day, but the fierce pride he had felt in him that evening was new. Arthur shook his head to clear it a little and turned to Tom; he found then that he had nothing whatever to say. He was quite done. Tom studied the carpet with fixed attention. “I suppose I ought to go in,” Tom said. “I suppose you ought,” Arthur replied grimly, and turned on his heel. He went straight for Owen’s bedchamber. Arthur tried not to wear out his welcome there. He left a decent interval between Owen’s retiring and his knock on the door, refrained whenever he thought Owen might need a night of solitude, and often slipped from the bed before dawn. Tonight he simply needed to sleep, and he needed to do so with his beautiful, splendid, generous husband wrapped in his arms. Undressing was the work of a moment, since he left his clothing tossed every which way, and then he slid between the sheets and closed his eyes. He woke with a start to find Owen lifting the covers to climb in beside him. His golden hair was mussed, and he had changed into one of his prim nightshirts, garments that Arthur had found ridiculous when they first married and that now delighted him. He loved sliding his hands beneath the edges of the linen, tracing the hidden contours of Owen’s supple form sight unseen. And then he was privileged to remove the shirts, unwrapping Owen as if each night was his name-day, and Owen the best gift he had ever been given. “I’m sorry I left you the task of closing up the house,” Arthur muttered, his voice sleep-roughened and his mind fuzzy. “I didn’t mind. You looked done in.” Owen pressed himself up against Arthur’s side and laid his head on his chest with a heavy sigh. “Goddess. I don’t know if I’ll move again until tomorrow. Or perhaps next week.” Arthur wrapped him tightly in his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Doubts, held at bay by the distraction of Caroline’s illness, rushed back in. Tom had certainly shown himself in the worst possible light that evening, but Owen had loved him once, with all his faults. Had loved him enough to choose to marry him without any extenuating circumstances, a sign of favor Arthur couldn’t claim. He clutched Owen a little more tightly — too tightly, he realized when Owen let out a squeak of discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he said again, loosening his hold. “I just — sweetheart, you were magnificent tonight.” The head on his chest shifted a little, probably a shake of the head. “Sitting there and picking at my dinner, too much a coward to defend you?” Owen asked ruefully. “The way he spoke to you — Arthur, was he always that way? And I simply didn’t notice?” His husband speaking of Arthur’s own brother with such obvious disgust oughtn’t to have made him happy. Under other circumstances he might have been horrified. Arthur smiled up at the bed canopy, faintly visible in the light from the fire. “Only with me,” he sighed. “You don’t have a brother, or you might not be surprised by it.” Owen lifted his head. “I always wanted one. I thought he would be my dearest friend. I dreamed of having a companion I could trust with anything.” Owen smiled a little sadly. “Someone who wouldn’t laugh at my being goddess-blessed.” “Spoken with the naiveté of someone with no siblings. If you had a brother, he would have mocked you more than anyone else. Although he might also have thrashed anyone else who dared.” “Would you?” Owen asked, eyes bright with curiosity. “I’d thrash anyone who looked at you sideways,” Arthur said, and then felt a little foolish. He sounded like a lovelorn schoolboy, not a respectable man above thirty. His absurdity earned Arthur a charming blush, though, and better yet, a quick kiss full of that familiar affection he craved at least as much as he did Owen’s passion. “No, not me. Tom. Even after everything, would you still defend him?” Arthur considered that, absently stroking a hand up and down Owen’s slender back. “Right now? Probably not.” He hadn’t wanted to face the truth of that, and saying it aloud hurt more than he thought it would. “I hoped this visit would mend things. Give us all a chance to learn to live with one another, even if we couldn’t forgive. I should have known better. Owen, that thrice-damned saucer, of all the things to drive me past the limit of what I could forgive!” Owen’s face twisted into an expression of uncharacteristic fury. “That drove me to distraction too. To pass off your thoughtfulness as his own — and how much would you lay on its being Mrs. Drake who found it, anyway?” “You’re almost certainly right about that.” Arthur hadn’t thought of it himself, but — of course she must have. Tom would have danced a jig naked in the town square before he spent ten minutes searching second-hand shops for a piece of china for Owen’s mother. “I’ll tell her, of course. Once Tom’s safely away from Trewebury, since I don’t want to see my mother taken by the constables for murder.” Owen dropped his head back on Arthur’s chest, and Arthur laughed despite himself, picturing Mrs. Honeyfield killing Tom in a rage, perhaps using a shard of broken china as her weapon. As it did most nights, the urge to tell Owen the truth welled up, a well-nigh irresistible pressure behind his ribs. I love you. The words echoed in his mind, but if he spoke them aloud they could never be recalled. Fear froze his tongue — not fear that Owen would mock him, or be cruel, never that. It wasn’t in his nature. But his pity would be more humiliation than Arthur could bear. Owen’s soft lips tracing his collarbone jolted him out of his fugue of longing and confusion. A moment later, Owen’s fingers trailed down his torso, drew little circles on his abdomen, and then wrapped around his c**k. Worn-out as he was, he still hardened in that knowing grasp. Gods, but he was tired. He could, possibly, rouse himself enough to spend, but the effort required to get there felt as far beyond him as the moon. Owen moved, following the same path with his mouth that he had with his hand. “You don’t need to,” Arthur gasped, feeling that he ought to receive a medal for his heroism in discouraging Owen’s obvious intent. “I came to your bed tonight for nothing more than your company. I wanted to sleep with you in my arms.” A nip to his stomach, followed by a soft laugh against the skin just beside his hipbone, made all Arthur’s muscles tense for an instant. His c**k jerked in Owen’s hand. “You still can,” Owen murmured. “After.” And then the slick, heavenly heat of his mouth engulfed the head of Arthur’s prick, and he dropped his head back to the pillow with a groan of pure delight. “Gods, Owen, that feels — I can’t —” He buried his hands in Owen’s hair as his hips thrust up involuntarily. Owen moaned around him, increasing his pace as if spurred on by Arthur’s loss of control. He braced one hand on Arthur’s thigh and wrapped the other around the part of his prick he couldn’t fit in his mouth, and abruptly, it was too much. Arthur’s hands clenched, probably too rough against Owen’s scalp, as he spent every drop into his throat, pulse after pulse of exquisite pleasure running through every nerve. With one last lick, Owen pulled back, drawing a final shudder from Arthur’s body. He drifted, breathing hard, finally connecting the rhythmic motion near his hips and Owen’s hitching breaths. “Come here, love,” he said roughly, his voice thick. He pulled Owen up and slipped his hand beneath that absurd, wonderful nightshirt, finding Owen’s hard prick and pushing his hand away. Arthur wrapped his own around Owen in its place and stroked once, twice, and then once more; Owen’s back bowed, his eyes shut tight, and the little broken sounds he made were sweeter than any music Arthur had ever heard. Owen dropped to the bed, completely limp. With the last of his waning strength, Arthur gently manhandled him out of his shirt and used it to clean them both, before tossing it away from the bed, somewhere. “At least those shirts have one use, anyway,” he said as he bundled Owen into his arms and fell down, down, down into the pillows, his head spinning. “They keep my shoulders warm,” Owen mumbled into Arthur’s neck. “You’ll need to keep me warm instead.” Arthur tucked the blankets up to Owen’s chin and pulled him closer, until there was not so much as a fraction of an inch between them anywhere. He wanted to reply, to say something suitably gallant — tell him how Arthur would do anything for him, care for him to his dying breath. Within seconds, they were both asleep.