THE GRUDGING CONSORT

fourteen

“Where are you, sweetheart?” At the sound of Arthur’s voice, Owen looked up from the desk where he sat going through a truly daunting stack of correspondence. “In the study!” he called back. A moment later, Arthur appeared in the doorway connecting the study to the library. He was dressed for riding, with tall boots and a perfectly tailored caped brown coat that flattered his broad shoulders. Not that they required flattering. They were quite perfect unclothed as well, particularly when Owen clung to them as Arthur thrust inside…he shook that thought off as much as possible. They’d only gotten out of bed an hour before, and if Arthur had any inkling of what Owen had on his mind, he’d drag him back upstairs without any care for the business of the day. Arthur strode toward him and came around the desk, smiling as he always did when he first saw Owen after a separation, no matter how brief. He braced one hand on the desk, wrapped the other around Owen’s nape, and kissed him soundly. By the time the kiss ended, Owen felt a little dazed, and he somehow had raised his hands to clutch at Arthur’s lapels. Arthur gazed down at him out of heavy-lidded eyes. “I could postpone my meeting with Henslow.” Owen let go of Arthur’s coat and gave him a gentle shove. “Not on your life. You bought an estate, and that means meeting with your land agent. He’s wanted you to inspect those cottages for weeks.” “I can’t kiss you in those cottages. Why in Mirreith’s name would I want to inspect them under such dreary circumstances?” “If you go, and satisfy Mr. Henslow that you’ve given him your full attention, I’ll put all this aside when you come home.” Owen infused the words with as much lascivious intent as he could; he still flushed rose-red every time he tried to flirt with his husband, but at least he flirted, rather than stammering. Arthur’s eyes went a little wide, and he dived in for another kiss. Owen ducked out of the way, laughing, and then laughed all the more when he was inevitably caught. “Arthur, really. When you come home, mmph—” At last Arthur released him, and he fell back in his chair, mussed and panting. “I’ll hold you to that,” Arthur said darkly, winked, and was gone. It took a few minutes of dreamy contemplation before Owen could bring himself to right his cravat, smooth down his hair, and turn back to the papers spread across the broad mahogany desk. It was Arthur’s desk, and the way Owen rather drowned in the enormous chair set behind it proved as much, but these days Owen used it as often as his husband did. With a perfect appearance of innocence, Arthur had offered him a cushion to boost him up in the chair; Owen had not even deigned to reply. He sat on the cushion only when Arthur was out of the house and couldn’t possibly catch him at it. Owen hadn’t meant to involve himself in Arthur’s affairs; he had assumed any interest would be treated as unwanted interference. But one unseasonably cool night in August, about a month after they married, they had been sitting by the fire in the library after dinner, companionably going about their own pursuits. Owen had just made up his mind that the fascinating content of a travelogue of the Antipodes was outweighed by its arid style when Arthur sighed, cursed, and dropped the pile of documents he held on the floor on his way to the brandy decanter. He knew Arthur had been investing heavily in several copper mines down the coast from Trewebury, and he thought the papers most likely pertained to that. His curiosity rose up, momentarily overwhelming his fear of a rebuff. “Are those reports from the mines?” Arthur turned with his filled glass in hand, and then gestured at the decanter. “I beg your pardon, do you—?” Owen shook his head, disappointment settling heavily in his stomach. Of course Arthur wouldn’t want to discuss it with him. He looked up in surprise as Arthur continued with, “You’ll wish you had, when you look at these. They’re not reports on output or on the engineering side of it. Those I can at least understand. These are the agreements the previous owner drew up with his initial investors, and with the banker who both invested and loaned some of the others funds for their own stakes. And then he sold the bloody thing, and half the investors sold out, while some of the others mortgaged other property to invest more, and now they’re all claiming different shares, but as far as I can tell the interest was compounded incorrectly…” Owen set down his book, took the papers Arthur handed him, and paid attention. He looked up from the last page two hours later to find Arthur sipping his brandy, eyes fixed on him in bemusement. Bemusement slowly shifted into intent concentration as Owen began to explain it to him. “You’re telling me, then, that it’s Mr. Trenwith who owes the fifty guineas to Mr. Lott, and I now own Mr. Lott’s stake in the mine? And also half his house? With the other half mortgaged to the bank.” At Owen’s nod, Arthur sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “That was not what I understood from all that nonsense. Not even close.” “I could very well be wrong.” Owen knew very well he was not wrong, but intelligent, confident men of the world were seldom pleased to be corrected by their pretty young husbands, as unfair as that was. Better to avoid Arthur’s displeasure, even if it made him cringe a bit to placate him. “It is written in a most convoluted way. Perhaps when you read it over again, you’ll agree with me, or perhaps you’ll—” “No, absolutely not,” Arthur said with a shudder. “I am never reading those gods-forsaken buggering agreements again, and furthermore, I’m not reading the addenda they’ll no doubt plague me with soon enough. Clearly your comprehension is greater than mine, and so my congratulations, my dear, I’m handing this particular project off to you.” “Arthur,” Owen gasped, cut to the quick. He had gone out of his way to soothe his husband’s pride, and now this? “Don’t mock me, please! I never claimed to have any greater comprehension of — of anything. I know you don’t need my help. I know this isn’t any of my business.” Setting his brandy glass to the side, Arthur rose and left for the study without another word. Owen dropped the stack of papers on the table next to it as if they had burned his fingers. Tears rose up, choking, furious tears that he could only barely control. For Arthur to show such contempt for him after Owen had placed his trust in him, after Arthur himself had asked for his opinion. It was too much. Arthur returned from the study. Owen kept his eyes fixed on his lap, where a moment later Arthur set another stack of closely-written pages. “Have you ever read our marriage settlement, Owen?” He stubbornly stayed silent. He hadn’t. His father had written it, so of course it would be fair, and beyond that, he simply hadn’t cared enough to see what pittance Arthur had thought his hypothetical widower to be worth. Arthur sighed. “Please do me the favor of reading it now. And after, if you’re willing to speak to me, you’ll find me in my bedchamber.” Owen didn’t move until he’d heard Arthur’s footsteps fade away in the hall. Then, since no one would ever know if he had done as Arthur asked or not, he picked up the settlement and began to read. Within a quarter of an hour he was at Arthur’s door, barely pausing to knock before he burst inside. Arthur looked up from his book as Owen came in. He was seated by the fire, his stockinged ankles crossed and a brandy at his elbow, but tension showed in every line of his body. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Owen demanded, waving the sheaf of papers at Arthur. “You let me make a fool of myself when all along — it is entirely my business!” “Your father wrote the damn thing. How was I to know you were unaware of the provisions?” Owen winced. That was true enough, and he would be having words with his father about concealing Arthur’s generosity. A typical settlement gave a widowed spouse enough to live on; this document settled the whole of Arthur’s estate on him, leaving only a moderate sum for other bequests. Arthur set down his book and then hesitated for a moment, an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty crossing his face. “Do you acquit me of mocking you, at least? I meant what I said. You did make far more sense out of that mess of letters than I did, and since you own that share in the mine as much as I do you may as well take it on, if it interests you.” It was hard to believe in Arthur’s sincerity — but the settlement, with its provisions for treating Owen as a full equal in all aspects of their marriage, was right there in black and white. “You are really not just humoring me?” Owen hated the slight, betraying quaver in his voice. “Not in the least. And you know that, or you would if you stopped to think about how little I understood of what we both read, and how eager I am not to read it again.” Arthur uncrossed his ankles and held his arms open. “Come here?” Owen did, the settlement falling unheeded to the floor as he dropped into Arthur’s lap and wrapped his arms around his neck. “I’ll read them aloud to you when I’m cross with you.” “I’ll have to make sure you’re never cross, then.” Owen was far from cross for the next several hours. And some six weeks later, Owen still had yet to be particularly cross. He wasn’t naturally inclined to ill-humor in any case, but Arthur made it easy to be in a pleasant temper. Everything Owen could want appeared, often before he even thought to ask; they spent each night tangled in each other’s arms, Arthur showing him every possible way to take pleasure with a lover; Arthur consulted Owen on nearly all of his affairs, now, and often took his advice. Being spoiled, bedded to within an inch of his life, and respected for his business acumen all at once made a heady combination. If only the rift between Owen and his parents had healed, all would have been well. As it was Owen found it hard to forgive them. He knew they were motivated only by their love for him, but their mistrust of Arthur had nearly led to the end of their marriage before it could really begin. Although it still lacked a fortnight until the end of the three months Arthur had requested in order to prove his good intentions, Owen was quite convinced already. His parents were not so easily satisfied. During Owen’s brief, awkward visits — which he made alone — their pointed questions about his welfare had not decreased in frequency. Turning back to the letters awaiting his attention, Owen chose to leave those worries for another day. Eventually it would all work itself out; if slowly winning his mother and father over to Arthur’s side was the only real problem he faced, he was lucky indeed. He smiled. Being goddess-blessed did occasionally have its benefits.