THE GRUDGING CONSORT

eleven

Attending to his newspaper was impossible. Arthur dropped it to the table and looked up at the breakfast-parlor door, which remained as stubbornly closed as it had been the last time his attention had wavered. Less than thirty seconds before, probably, although he refused to notice that. He frowned down at his coffee, which had dared to go cold, just as his toast had. With an oath, he dumped the cup into the slops bowl and poured a fresh one, which then sat untouched like the first. Should he go upstairs and knock on Owen’s door? That would be intrusive, but did he not have the right as Owen’s husband? He should have stayed the night. He had fervently, desperately longed to stay the night in Owen’s bed, arms wrapped around that sweet, perfect form that had driven him to madness. Owen, splayed beneath him on the bed, with eyelashes fanned over his flushed cheekbones and parted lips red and swollen, every curve and angle of him begging for caresses and kisses and worship, limp and worn-out from Arthur’s frenzy — he saw it again each time he closed his eyes. It had required superhuman restraint not to take Owen again, and again, until his lungs burned and his muscles gave out. Instead, he extricated himself as gently as he could, cleaned Owen with a cloth from the washstand, and pulled the blankets gently around him, allowing himself only one kiss to the pale, smooth shoulder peeking from under the coverlet. And if he had remained — what then? Owen’s reluctance had almost overwhelmed his desire, last night. This morning, that reluctance might have grown into shame or regret, and Arthur couldn’t bear the possibility of facing either of those on waking. Since Owen had yet to appear, shame or regret seemed likelier than ever. Both of those stalked Arthur, too, every moment that he sat like a coward with his coffee and his paper, leaving Owen alone. It was half past nine. Surely country-bred lads woke early, didn’t they? Earlier than this. Worry crept in. If he had hurt Owen, if his young husband was distressed, in pain… Arthur had half-resolved upon charging upstairs, propriety be damned, when the door opened at last. After a brief hesitation, Owen entered and shut the door behind him. He glanced at Arthur, met his eyes for an instant, and then blushed and hurriedly turned to the sideboard without a word. “Good morning.” Arthur kept his voice even with herculean effort. Owen jumped, the tongs he held clattering against a dish. “Good morning,” came the reply, so low Arthur could hardly make out the words. Owen lingered over the dishes set out, dithering from one to the other in a way that had Arthur grinding his teeth with impatience. Finally he turned and sat at the table, taking the chair to the left of where Arthur sat at the head. As he sat, he winced, imperceptibly perhaps to a less focused observer. A wave of fierce, primal satisfaction roared through Arthur, fighting a brief and losing battle with his conscience. He could not quite triumph, much as he wished to. Not when Owen had not offered so much as a smile to show that he was quite all right. To Arthur’s right a wall of windows let in a wash of pale golden light, illuminating Owen’s face perfectly. Or it would have, if he hadn’t ducked his head to examine a china plate holding far too little to justify such a long time spent filling it. Arthur could see just the curve of one soft cheek and the solemn line of Owen’s jaw as Owen fiddled with his napkin and lifted his fork to poke at the little mound of scrambled eggs. He didn’t take a bite. Arthur cast around desperately for something, anything to say other than a direct inquiry about Owen’s state of mind. “I can ring for something else, if there’s nothing there that suits you.” A short laugh met that, and then Owen said, “I can’t imagine what else they could have in the kitchen.” He didn’t lift his gaze from his plate. “May I pour you some coffee?” “No, thank you. I don’t like it.” And then Owen looked up sharply, his face turning pink with embarrassment. “But it doesn’t matter! Whatever you prefer. I don’t need anything.” Arthur already had his hand on the bell, and he shook it once, knowing the footman outside the door would be alert for the sound. He stepped in an instant later. “Bring a pot of tea, James. And tell Mrs. Hobson that we’ll have both coffee and tea at breakfast from now on.” James sketched a bow, and the door shut again behind him. “Really,” Owen said, voice small, “I don’t need tea. You needn’t put yourself out.” “I’m not putting myself out. Am I in the kitchen making the tea?” At Owen’s look of misery, Arthur abandoned teasing as an avenue for soothing him. “Owen. Why on earth would you think anyone would be put out by making tea? And who gives a damn if they are? This is your home, and your servants. You can order anything you like.” Owen worried at the eggs with his fork, and Arthur bit his lip against the urge to tell him to put them out of their misery. “I don’t want to be a bother,” Owen said tentatively. “I’ve only been here less than a day. I can’t just — march in and begin ordering everyone about.” Arthur tried, and signally failed, to imagine Owen marching and ordering under any circumstances, and he couldn’t hold in a chuckle. To his surprise and delight, that won him a glance under Owen’s sinfully long eyelashes and a rueful little smile. Still, a smile it was, and Arthur’s heart beat a little faster. Surely he couldn’t have hurt Owen, or frightened him too much, if he could look at Arthur so sweetly. “The marching about might be a little much, but yes, you very much can order everyone about, and I wish you would, if it means you’ll speak up when there’s something you need or want.” That smile widened just a bit, and Arthur almost reached out to lay his hand over Owen’s — but then the door opened again, and James stepped in with the tea, and the moment was lost in the bustle of moving things about on the table and pouring Owen a cup. They sat in silence after that, Owen drinking his tea and at last taking a few bites of a muffin, and Arthur finally sipping at his coffee. This cup had gone cold as well. He couldn’t bring himself to care. As Owen toyed with the crumbled remains of the muffin and made no move to refill his teacup, it became clear that breakfast was over. He would try to tempt Owen with something more to his taste later on, but for now he would leave it. If his husband was too nervous to eat, the thing to do would be to make him feel at his ease, not pester him about his appetite. “Let’s go out,” he said. Owen raised his eyebrows. “Out? I thought it was rather more the thing to stay home, the day after?” Arthur swallowed hard, images of what this day was after flashing rather vividly through his mind, and Owen blushed, clearly thinking along similar lines. “After being married,” he added in a rush. “After the wedding.” His emphasis clearly excluded any other events of the day before. Arthur wanted to push the issue and see if he could win a rather more explicit reference to their nighttime activities. But that might be a little cruel in the face of Owen’s confusion. “Hang whatever’s more the thing. We can do as we please.” He took a deep breath, praying that he was about to make Owen happy, rather than embarrass him further. “Let’s call on your parents.” Delight flashed across Owen’s face for a moment before wariness took its place. “You can’t possibly want to?” Indeed, he did not want to. The Honeyfields had stayed for a portion of the afternoon the day before, along with several friends and well-wishers who had been invited to the wedding breakfast; they had lingered when the other guests departed, and Arthur suspected they had not wanted to leave Owen alone with him. Perhaps, he thought rather guiltily, they had a fair point, given the way he had behaved last night. Not that Owen had objected overmuch, but his mother and father might have a rather different view of the way he had debauched their son. “There’s nothing I would like better,” Arthur said with staunch cheer. “And I’m sure they would be glad to see you.” To make sure he hadn’t chained him to the bed or locked him in the attic, no doubt. Owen’s answering smile lit up his whole face this time, and his eyes positively glowed. “Then — may we go at once?” He sounded as eager as a child with a birthday present. Arthur pushed back his chair and held out a hand. “I only need my hat.” Owen took his hand, and even gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, and Arthur was quite certain that any number of hours in the Honeyfields’ cramped drawing-room, subjected to suspicious glares, would be well worth it. “More tea?” his mother asked, her tone all solicitousness. Owen hid his wince as Arthur, his polite smile growing rather grim about the edges, held out his cup for the third time. He had never once seen Arthur voluntarily drink tea. He suspected that his mother had noticed too, and had forced the issue on this occasion because she had. She set the teapot down on the table at the end of the settee she and Owen’s father occupied, and resettled herself opposite Owen with an air of perfect innocence. Owen’s father simply sipped his own tea and stayed out of it, as he was wont to do. “Mama, not everyone likes tea as much as you do,” Owen said, trying for nonchalance. She had not wanted this marriage, but it was done and over, and surely she would reconcile herself to it. Surely she must. Owen sent up a heartfelt plea to his patron goddess that it would be before his mother refilled the teapot. “Nonsense,” his mother said, proving quite conclusively that Mirreith had chosen not to listen. Her tone had gone from bland to sweet, and every muscle in Owen’s body tensed. “You must learn your husband’s preferences a little better than that, my dear. I’m quite sure you’ve complimented my blend before, haven’t you, Mr. Drake?” Owen turned his head in time to catch the quick but speaking glance Arthur threw his way from where he sat beside him. It conveyed both gratitude for Owen’s attempted intervention, and a plea — perhaps for Owen to either stop making matters worse, or to offer Arthur a swift death, he wasn’t sure which. “Yes, of course, madam. It’s delightful,” Arthur replied after a moment of awkward silence. Arthur took a careful sip. Owen thought he heard him grind his teeth, hidden behind the rim of the cup. And that was more than enough of that. He loved his mother and father, truly, more than anyone in the world, but this was the outside of enough. Arthur must have the patience of Mirreith’s high priestess herself, and Owen had never been so mortified in all his life. He set down his cup and stood. “I think we had best be going,” he said, narrowing his eyes at his mother in a way he hoped added, because you’re being horrid. “It’s more traditional for newlyweds to spend time at home, but Arthur thought it would please you to see me today, and so he offered to escort me.” His father’s mouth opened, and for a moment Owen was sure he would say something pleasant, give one of the responses he hoped his praise of Arthur’s thoughtfulness might evoke. And then his mother spoke first, addressing Arthur, not Owen. “Is there some reason why you objected to his visiting alone?” Owen sputtered, and his father said, “Emma,” and Arthur’s strained voice cut through it all with, “What precisely are you implying, ma’am?” A cold silence descended as his mother’s face turned a shade of cherry-red that could not possibly be healthy, and his father gaped like a hooked fish. Arthur set his teacup down on the end table hard enough that the saucer cracked in two. The stillness broke with it. Owen’s parents and Arthur all jumped to their feet at once, putting them awkwardly face to face, and Owen reached out blindly for Arthur’s arm, grasping at his sleeve as if to — what? Arthur would hardly commit violence, but the tightness in Owen’s chest was suffocating, and the pressure behind his eyes built to the point of pain. He tugged, but it was like pulling at a slab of granite. “That china belonged to my grandmother,” his mother hissed. Oh no, oh no, if she was beyond shouting… “And not one piece of it has ever been broken. Not one!” Her voice rose to a pitch that could easily have shattered every cup and saucer in the house. Owen yanked again on Arthur’s arm. “We should go,” he tried again, his voice horribly faint. “Please, we ought to go.” “Emma, that is quite enough,” his father said sternly — a grave tactical error. Owen’s mother rounded on him, with a sharp, “I don’t think it is!” His parents began to speak over one another, their voices rising, and this was perhaps their only chance to escape. Owen wrapped his whole arm around Arthur’s and dragged him toward the door by main force. They were too far from the side door to get out that way; it would have to be through the hall. Arthur followed at last, and Owen tugged the door open and all but ran for the back of the house. If they went out the front, the whole neighborhood would see them fleeing. “Our hats are back there!” Arthur protested, and Owen paused long enough to turn his head and shoot him a look of utter disbelief. “Right,” Arthur said, as the raised voices behind them raised a little further. “Forget the hats; lead the way.”