THE GRUDGING CONSORT

seven

Arthur stared at Owen’s shocked face, wondering if the same degree of utter confusion was displayed on his own. The words had exited his mouth without his prior consent, and now they seemed to hang between them, like stones tossed in the air that hovered for a moment at their zenith before falling to crush everyone beneath. “You — I — what?” Owen asked, not so coherently. He shook his head, golden hair flying, and gazed at Arthur with something like pleading in his beautiful cerulean eyes, huge in his pale face. That look would have softened a harder heart than Arthur’s. “You can’t have just said what I thought you did?” Given such an opportunity to deny it, Arthur should have backtracked as quickly as possible. He should have laughed it off, cruel as that would have been, and run out the door, leaving Owen to be — well, to be the butt of every village jest, and to tell his kind and respectable parents that his future had been shattered, his good name destroyed. To face it all alone. Arthur was nine years Owen’s senior; he had a large fortune, vastly more experience of the world, and an arrogant lack of concern for the way others spoke of him that arose directly from those other attributes. With all that, he would have found Owen’s lot a heavy burden. To leave it all on Owen’s slender shoulders, to be borne without assistance? Impossible. No honorable man could justify it. A fresh surge of rage for his worthless brother, a dishonorable man if ever there was one, jolted through him like a galvanic shock. He would show himself to be better; he would be better. And if, intermingled with those creditable feelings, was a creeping, dark sensation very like triumph, he could ignore it. He had other, purer motives, and it didn’t matter that the idea of taking Owen, of having and possessing something Tom had so easily won and so foolishly lost, made his blood heat and his breath come faster. “I meant precisely what I said.” Arthur hardly recognized the low, almost feral tone in his own voice. He felt like a man possessed by one of the demons let loose by the ancient gods, those legendary beings who had entered the souls of man and enslaved them to their lust and greed. “We are both free men. Marry me.” Arthur watched in fascination as a brilliant scarlet flush crept over Owen’s cheeks, driving out his deathly pallor. “But why?” Owen whispered. He met Arthur’s gaze, but barely; then his eyelids, reddened from weeping, dropped down to cover his eyes. “Your younger brother didn’t think me good enough to keep his promise. And I was hardly fit for him to begin with.” “You were too good for him,” Arthur said with feeling. That, at least, he believed without any taint of self-indulgence. Owen had clasped his hands in his lap, and he wrung them together. “I don’t want to be married out of pity,” he said, sounding a little stronger. “I won’t. Thank you. You’re generous,” and his voice broke a little. “But no.” Frustration welled up in Arthur’s chest; he wanted to seize Owen by the shoulders and shake him out of his misery. And then pull him into his arms. If he had been slightly less off-balance, he probably would have reconsidered his next words. “It’s not pity. It’s duty, and that’s a very different —” “No!” Owen stood abruptly, and Arthur found himself facing the placket of Owen’s trousers. Good gods. He scrambled to his feet with more haste than grace, tripping over the ottoman as he did. “I won’t be married out of duty any more than out of pity,” Owen spat. “This is hu—humiliating enough without forcing you to take Tom’s leavings —” His heart stuttered. Tom’s leavings? Was Owen referring simply to the fact that he was Tom’s former betrothed, or had Tom actually dared to seduce this innocent, this trusting country lad? He would kill him. He would go directly to the city and find him, and break his neck — but Owen looked as if he was about to cry again, his long eyelashes damp and fluttering, his plush lips pressed together. Seeing Owen weep once had been more than enough. More tears, Owen believing himself to be undesirable, less than he ought to be — intolerable. Arthur panicked. He grasped the nape of Owen’s neck, wrapped the other arm about his waist, and kissed him. Owen’s lips were swollen, almost unbearably soft, and they tasted of salt. Arthur pushed past that initial flavor of tears and teased his tongue into Owen’s mouth, finding the sweetness he knew would lie within. Owen made a muffled little moan, and Arthur drank it down like sacramental wine. Just a little more, one more moment of feeling that perfect mouth yield to his own — and then it dawned on him that Owen’s body was pliant, with no sign of answering passion. Even so, it took every bit of will he had to break the kiss; there wasn’t enough left to do more than that, and he held Owen close, inhaling the faint wildflower fragrance of his hair. Owen stood still in the circle of his arms, breathing in little, uneven gasps. “Marry me,” Arthur said again. It now seemed critical that Owen should say yes; this could not be the only taste he ever had of such a delight. He mustered all the arguments he could think of, other than the obvious. “Anyone who heard that Owen Honeyfield was to marry a Mr. Drake of Alton Hall will learn that Owen Honeyfield has wed a Mr. Drake of Alton Hall, and any discrepancies will be put down to an error of some kind. I have no other attachments. I would welcome the good fortune the goddess’s blessing would bring to my endeavors, since my investments have been middling of late. What is it?” Owen was shaking slightly, and Arthur pulled back, terrified. Had he distressed Owen into tears again, somehow? But Owen was laughing. Not heartily, perhaps, but chuckling enough that his red-rimmed eyes had lit with something like their usual sparkle. “Well?” he demanded, a little aggrieved. He still held Owen in his arms, he had kissed him with all the passion at his disposal, and he was quite in the act of begging him to be Arthur’s husband. And Owen had the temerity to laugh? “I’m sorry,” Owen said, sounding not sorry at all. “Don’t be angry with me. It’s only that — you, Arthur Drake, attempting to persuade me to marry you. It’s absurd.” Arthur’s heart lifted, both at the unexpectedly wonderful sound of his given name on Owen’s lips, and at the implication of his words. “Does that mean your answer is yes?” Owen bit his lip, his eyes going distant. Clearly one kiss hadn’t entirely removed his reservations; tempting, then, to repeat the experiment. But no. Arthur shouldn’t have taken even that much when Owen was in too much turmoil to be quite in control of himself, and he would not take more. With great reluctance, he let his arms fall from around Owen’s back. That seemed to bring Owen back from wherever he had gone. “What kind of marriage do you have in mind?” he asked quietly. They still stood very close; he could see the way Owen’s damp eyelashes clung together, and feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke. A smattering of delicious freckles stood out along Owen’s cheekbones, highlighting the delicacy of his skin. Arthur could hardly be expected to say anything sensible when he had such distractions before him, could he? “The normal sort,” he said, feeling rather foolish. “A — a marriage like any other, I suppose.” “I meant, if this is only a marriage in name.” Owen stopped abruptly and fixed his gaze on a point somewhere beyond Arthur’s shoulder. “Ah,” he said, understanding dawning. “No. This is not a marriage in name only. I intend to honor my vows to you, and I don’t particularly want to live in celibacy for the rest of my life. I can’t imagine that you would either.” Arthur realized he had been speaking as if their marriage were a decided thing, and chose not to correct himself. If possible, Owen’s blush deepened, spreading to his ears and down his neck, disappearing tantalizingly below his loosely knotted cravat. “No,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.” That was not at all what Arthur wanted to hear. “I won’t force myself on you,” he said, keeping his voice even, disappointment carefully hidden. “If you can’t bear the idea of having me as a husband, with all that entails, tell me so. And I’ll accept it, as a gentleman should.” Owen reached up and brushed his fingers down Arthur’s cheek and along the line of his jaw. Arthur’s heart lurched and then thudded back into life at a much greater pace. That soft touch affected him more, even, than the kiss had done, since it was Owen choosing to make contact. Choosing him, perhaps. “If you’re serious. If you truly mean it, mean to — to rescue me from this mess. I don’t think I could bear it if you changed your mind.” Arthur turned his head a fraction and pressed the chastest of kisses to Owen’s fingertips. Owen jerked his hand away as if burned, but then curled his fingers into his palm, almost as if he were holding the kiss for safekeeping. “Rescuing you, as you put it, is no hardship,” Arthur said gently. “Perhaps it’s not what your heart desires, but this is to our mutual advantage. I should have been reluctant to marry a woman in any case, since that’s not where my preferences lie.” Owen looked at Arthur long and hard, seeming to measure him and his intentions; finally, he nodded and squared his shoulders. “Then I accept your proposal, sir.” The enormity of what he had done only hit Arthur then, as the words left Owen’s lips. He had proposed marriage to his brother’s fiancé; he had been accepted. He would be married, presumably in — what was it? Only twelve days, good gods. He opened his mouth, to say what, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure: to express his pleasure, he must do that. But Owen startled before Arthur could even touch him, and he slipped away, bumping against the edge of the settee and barely righting himself in his haste. “What’s the matter?” Arthur asked. The question answered itself instantly; that bustle in the hall had to be Mrs. Honeyfield returning home. She had been out, thankfully, when he arrived — could it be only an hour before? Familiar as he was with the sounds of the house, Owen had been quicker than Arthur to notice her arrival. “Please — I don’t mean to be discourteous, but you must go,” Owen whispered. He had the desperate, hunted look of a mouse about to confront a tabby. “Before she comes in. Please.” Mrs. Honeyfield’s voice was audible now, a few words of her discourse to the housemaid on the success of her trip to the market carrying clearly. Still, Arthur hesitated. “Are you certain you don’t want me to remain? If it would distress you to tell her, I can—” “No!” Owen flapped his hands, herding Arthur toward the side door. “Forgive me. Thank you. But please go, and call tomorrow? In the morning. Or any time that suits you.” Perhaps it was cowardly, but Arthur had no great desire to stand before the Honeyfields and attempt the impossible task of explaining his brother’s behavior. He allowed himself to be shooed out the door, and he was on the other side of it listening to the latch click before he even had the opportunity to wish Owen goodbye. Bemused and wondering what on earth he had done, he went swiftly through the garden and away before he could be seen. He was halfway home, and nowhere near ordering his thoughts, when it struck him that Owen hadn’t contradicted his assertion that marrying Arthur wasn’t what he desired. The thoughts that followed that realization occupied him for long hours afterward.