THE GRUDGING CONSORT

nineteen

Caroline settled back into the corner of the drawing-room sofa with a half-sigh, half-sob and laid her hands protectively over her midsection, rubbing in gentle circles. Owen abandoned any attempt at propriety, pulled off her shoes, and boosted her feet onto the other end of the sofa. For a moment he considered rubbing her feet as he had seen his father do for his mother in the evenings, but — no. He might have mentally reclassified her as a sister, but she had yet to express her own feelings on the subject, her fit of tears in his arms notwithstanding. Barnard had already waylaid him in the hall, and with Arthur’s instructions given, tea ordered, and Kitty sent for, all he had to do was perch on an ottoman by Caroline’s side and wait. He dropped his head into his hands. What if Arthur sent him away, horrified by Owen’s unwanted feelings? Or perhaps he would prefer Caroline’s company to his. He could help her divorce Tom and then marry her himself — and after all, Owen reflected grimly, it wouldn’t be without precedent. Would not Arthur have said something, anything, in reply if he could have given an answer Owen would wish to hear? He could have pressed Owen’s hand, or touched his shoulder. One word, one gesture, would have been enough to let Owen hope for the best, rather than huddle there miserably fearing the worst. The crunch and hiss of carriage wheels on smooth gravel sounded faintly from the front of the house; a few thumps and the clack of boot heels on parquet echoed in the hall as the footmen presumably took Tom’s trunk outside. Tom would be leaving in a moment. Arthur would come in the house, and Owen would need to face him. The door opened, and like fresh reinforcements coming upon a beleaguered battle, Kitty swept in, followed closely by William bearing a heavily laden tea-tray. Owen rose and yielded his seat to Kitty, who immediately pulled it closer to her mistress and took her hand. Owen gazed longingly at the teapot. He would rip off his own right arm for a cup, but Arthur could walk in at any moment. “How does Mrs. Drake take her tea?” he asked Kitty, very quietly. “With milk but no sugar, I thank you very much, sir. Do you think Dr. Fellowes ought to return this afternoon?” He poured out a cup for Caroline and handed it to Kitty, who took it with a bob of her head. Caroline had yet to open her eyes. Her color was good, though, neither too pale nor too brilliant; Owen thought she, like himself, simply wished to retreat into her own thoughts for a time. “I’ll have one of the grooms ride over and ask him to stop in before dinner,” he said. “Do you need anything else at present?” He waited only for her polite denial before he slipped out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him, and sped upstairs. If he could only reach his own bedchamber before Arthur returned inside, he could lock the door and pretend to be napping. So long as he could put off the meeting, Arthur couldn’t tell him that his feelings were not returned and could never be. Owen turned the knob and dashed in, locking it firmly and leaning back against the wall beside it with his eyes shut in relief. He allowed himself to let out an endlessly long exhale, his whole body sagging with the release of tension. And then his eyes popped open again, and every muscle went rigid, as Arthur cleared his throat and rose from the armchair by the fireplace. Owen gasped and pressed himself back against the wall as Arthur stood. Clearly he’d been expecting to hide away alone; Arthur had expected it too. After ridding himself of Tom as efficiently as possible, he had come straight here in order to forestall him when he did. Back and palms flat against the wall, Owen regarded him as a mouse might a bird of prey, trembling and wide-eyed. Arthur prowled toward him, stalking him with focused intent. The image of Owen clasped in Tom’s arms wouldn’t leave his mind, and it must be erased. Owen was his, his to hold, to kiss, to cherish and ravage and keep. He didn’t stop until his chest brushed Owen’s, the latter rising and falling in a rapid rush beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Owen hadn’t troubled with a cravat that morning, and the tender skin of his throat all but begged to be marked by Arthur’s mouth. And he would, in a moment. Arthur placed his hands very deliberately on either side of Owen’s head and leaned in and down until their faces were only an inch apart. “Arthur,” Owen began, sounding pitifully faint. “You know I didn’t want — he was saying such nonsense, about you, and about me, and then h-he kissed me, and it was awful —” Of course he knew Owen hadn’t wanted that kiss. If he had, it would have broken Arthur’s heart, but he might not have exploded with quite the same anger as he did when he saw him struggling, frightened and distressed. He brushed his lips over Owen’s, and the words died away in a soft whimper. He knew it; of course he knew it. He trusted his husband completely. But his blood still surged with possessive fury, and with a constant, thrumming fear: what if Owen had spoken only to break him out of his fugue of violence? Preventing a fratricide, and good gods, how close he had come to committing one, might justify anything. “Say it again,” he growled in Owen’s ear. “Arthur, I don’t know —” He pushed closer, crowding Owen against the wall with the force of his heavier body, his fingers digging into the oak paneling with knuckle-whitening force. “Say it. Again.” A pause, and a flutter of Owen’s long eyelashes; then, at last, a whisper: “I love you.” What was left of Arthur’s composure shattered like crystal struck with a hammer. His mouth came down on Owen’s with passionate, overwhelming strength; he plundered Owen’s mouth, stole every breath from his lungs, kissed him and kissed him until their lips were bruised and Owen shook against him. He needed to have him, now, but there was no time for preparation and no patience for delay. Later he would lay Owen down and tease and stroke and adore him until he begged Arthur to claim him, but for now he needed to see him come apart, flushed and moaning. Arthur wrapped his hands around the backs of Owen’s thighs and boosted him up against the wall, tugging until those slender legs wrapped around his hips. Leaning in to keep him there, he tore at the fastenings of their trousers, buttons flying and clicking to the floor. One arm around Owen’s back, and then the other hand was free to grasp them both together, the feeling of Owen’s smooth prick against his nearly overwhelming in its perfection. Stroking, and twisting slightly on the upstroke as he knew Owen loved, he brought them both to climax within minutes, Owen’s hands digging bruises into his shoulders. They spent together, slicking Arthur’s fist and spattering their shirts. Arthur leaned his forehead against Owen’s shoulder, catching his breath and slowly, slowly finding his equilibrium. Owen shifted, just a little. His legs were doubtless feeling the strain. Arthur’s ought to have been, but his euphoria hadn’t faded enough for that. Owen loved him. Loved him, Arthur, respectable, practical Arthur who had never in his life before meeting Owen imagined such happiness. As he carefully helped Owen lower his feet to the floor, it struck him that he hadn’t said the words himself. A laugh burst out of him at that; it had been the constant refrain in his mind and heart for so long, and had been the impetus for every one of his actions — so much so that he felt he had said them a hundred times. But as Owen looked up at him, with such painful uncertainty in his sea-green eyes, Arthur’s laughter died away. Gently cupping Owen’s jaw in his not-as-sticky hand, he allowed himself to relieve the pressure of months of hopeless yearning. “I love you,” he said, with all the force of his feelings behind those three words. “I adore you. I have for months.” His voice cracked at the last. Owen’s smile of pure, sweet delight warmed Arthur from his pounding heart down to his toes. “Oh, Arthur,” Owen sighed, and nestled into his arms. “I love you.” He could have buried his face in the silky golden hair that brushed so softly against his chin, and stood there forever, but they were messy, and tired, and uncomfortably half-clothed, and that wouldn’t do for Owen. Arthur guided them to the bed, undressing them both along the way, reveling in the joy of finally, finally being permitted to murmur all the endearments he had held inside for so long. Owen clung to him, sweet and pliant and trusting, allowing himself to be caressed and kissed and tucked beneath the sheets, where he lay gazing up at Arthur in a way that made him feel like a conquering hero. He pulled himself away long enough to heroically find a flannel, wet it, and clean them both off, and then he lay down and held Owen close, pressed against his heart where he belonged. Time passed, and Arthur drifted in a state of pure contentment. The clock in the hall chimed twelve times; was it only midday? The events of the morning could have filled a week and it would still have seemed a busy one. Owen stirred, roused by the sound. “Is it only noon?” he asked sleepily, his face still pressed to Arthur’s shoulder. “It is, if you can believe it.” Arthur gave Owen’s pert backside a quick squeeze, now that he needn’t fear waking him; Owen laughed and wriggled a little closer. “You know, I had the strangest dream.” When Owen showed no signs of continuing, Arthur let out an encouraging “Mmm?” “I was walking on the moor, just as I was the day we met — or rather, the day you saw me, for I don’t suppose that really counts as meeting. Only when I fell, it wasn’t a sound that startled me, but a — a vision.” Arthur frowned at that. His husband might have the mark of a goddess on his upper arm, but that didn’t mean Arthur had any truck with such things as visions. “Really?” He knew he sounded skeptical. Owen swatted his abdomen in retaliation. “Yes, really,” Owen said, annoyance and laughter mingled in his voice. He sounded rather more awake now, and a little breathless. That might have had something to do with the position of Arthur’s hand, which had drifted even lower to slip between Owen’s legs. “I saw Mirreith. She appeared just in front of me, standing, well, hovering I suppose, since she was standing on air, just past the edge of the hill. She smiled at me, like my mother used to when she tucked me in at night, and I was so surprised that I lost my footing and tumbled down. Then all at once you were carrying me home, and — this will sound so foolish.” “Nothing you do could ever seem foolish to me, love,” Arthur said. He hated Owen’s hesitance, that hint that he thought Arthur might laugh at him. A few more years of Arthur’s abject worship ought to do away with it, he supposed. Owen kissed his shoulder. “If you say so. But it does sound foolish, even to me. I felt safe, safer than I ever had. I always feel that way when you have your arms around me. I think the dream must have come from the way you held me up against the wall.” Arthur could feel the heat of Owen’s blush against his skin. He moved his fingers with a little more intent, and Owen made a soft sound of approval. “Or perhaps you do remember some of what happened after you fell. Sometimes the mind records events and you don’t recall them until much later.” Owen’s head popped up, his mouth open in pure astonishment. “Remember — but you didn’t carry me home!” Arthur blinked at him. “Yes, I most certainly did. A full mile. Both the longest and the shortest mile I’ve ever traversed. I was conscious the whole time, I assure you.” “But — but — oh, damn Tom anyway,” Owen groaned, thumping his forehead against Arthur’s chest, and then lifting his head and thumping it down again for good measure. If every scrap of temper hadn’t already been quite drained out of him already, Arthur might have popped out of bed, run out of the house stark naked, and chased Tom down in order to strangle him again. “He told you it was him.” He didn’t need to ask; it was plain enough in Owen’s dismay. “Yes. He did. The bastard!” Owen hissed. “That — oh goddess, I’ll never forgive myself for being such an idiot.” Arthur hastened to reassure him. “The only mistake you made was assuming everyone behaves as honestly as you do. And frankly, my darling, it’s hard not to love you all the more for it.” He might have felt differently, had Owen and Tom married — dreadful, unthinkable as that would have been, in hindsight — but now, luxuriously certain of Owen’s love, he could afford to honor Owen for his open, generous nature, rather than wishing bitterly he had been a little more discerning. Owen crossed his arms over Arthur’s chest and propped his chin on them. He had never looked at Arthur quite the way he did at that moment: searchingly, and without any shyness whatsoever. “You really do love me,” he said wonderingly. “Me. Just as I am.” “How could I do anything else? Since you’ve so unaccountably chosen to do the same for me.” Owen’s eyes brightened, and his laugh filled every corner of Arthur’s heart. He rolled them over, kissing Owen until he moaned and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck and his legs around his waist. When the clock struck one, neither of them noticed.