The Replacement Husband

by Eliot Grayson

  Owen went from pink to a fiery red Arthur had not known skin so naturally fair could be. Arthur had to strain to hear his reply: it was simply, “Yes.”

  Arthur looked wildly about him; there was no cover other than a few scraggly trees to one side of the path. Anyone could walk by at any moment, and besides, Owen deserved rather better than to be tumbled in a field, no matter how much Arthur thought it would suit him admirably.

  “Come on then,” he said, and tucked Owen’s hand through his arm. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.” And side by side, they walked swiftly toward home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Owen stretched luxuriously, smiling even as his muscles ached and certain very well-used parts of his body made their protests known. The bedding had twisted every which way, and Owen thought the sheet now lay over him sideways. One pillow had gone as far as the hearth, though luckily it was warm enough during the afternoons that no fire was lit.

  The door to Arthur’s dressing room opened without warning, and Owen scrambled to cover his chest — but it was only Arthur, clad in nothing but his half-fastened buckskins and an untucked shirt. Owen knew there was nothing else beneath; Arthur’s drawers were on the floor near the lost pillow.

  He bore a plate of sandwiches, and he grinned as he shut the door behind him. “We’re lucky we’re newlyweds,” he said. “I don’t think Barnard would have overlooked the state of me, otherwise. I don’t think he approves of eating in bed.”

  Barnard, Arthur’s very proper butler — and Owen’s too, now, he supposed — approved of nothing, so far as Owen could tell. Certainly not of him. But he had brought the sandwiches when Arthur rang for them, after going to his own chamber to spare Owen the inconvenience of dressing. Owen suspected him of other motives for keeping him unclothed, but he didn’t know yet how Arthur would respond to teasing. He had a temper, that was certain. Owen didn’t think he would use him as the target of it for something so petty, but he preferred not to test that so soon.

  Arthur dropped down on the edge of the bed and held out the plate. “I didn’t know what you liked. I think there’s ham, and maybe some cucumber.”

  In reply, Owen simply seized one of each and took an enormous bite out of the closest. Arthur laughed and took a ham sandwich for himself. “I see you approve of eating in bed.” In a tone of great suggestiveness, he added, “So do I, as you already know.”

  Owen almost choked on the sandwich before he managed to finish chewing and swallow, his eyes watering. “How can you say such things?” he demanded. “In — in broad daylight.”

  Arthur licked the crumbs from his fingers, not helping matters in the least. After setting the plate down on the table by the bed, he straddled Owen, crawling up and caging him in with his arms to either side of Owen’s head.

  “How can you object to what I say in daylight?” He nipped at Owen’s lips, just barely tasting between them before pulling back. “After everything you’ve just done, and before luncheon, at that.” Arthur stole another kiss, this one lingering enough that Owen began to melt into the mattress, his arms wrapping around Arthur’s broad back seemingly of their own accord. Pulling back a little, Arthur smiled down at him. “Gods, but I love the way you blush.”

  Owen’s pleasant lassitude vanished as all his muscles tensed at once. The way he blushed? The physical sign, in short, of his innocence and ignorance, his inability to speak as freely of such things as a more sophisticated lover might.

  “What’s the matter?” Of course it would have been too much to hope that Arthur wouldn’t notice the change in him. Arthur lifted his body, taking his weight off of Owen’s and propping himself on his fists, rather than his elbows. “I didn’t intend to ravish you again, not that I wouldn’t want to. But I think you might need a rest first. And anyway, you should know you can simply say no to me, rather than waiting for me to see your discomfort for myself.”

  The hint of reproach in Arthur’s words finally tumbled Owen from his usual state of agreeableness and into real anger. Although he hadn’t possessed the fortitude to resist Arthur’s plea, or to resist Arthur, with his flashing dark eyes and strong arms and skillful mouth, their quarrel had not ended, precisely. It had only been postponed. Though perhaps Owen could have found a wiser way to do that than by running headlong for his bedchamber and allowing Arthur to have him again, this time on his back with his legs wrapped around Arthur’s waist. He could hardly claim to have been a passive participant, this time.

  And perhaps it was time that Arthur understood that, that Owen was not an object for his lusts but a man with his own desires. “It’s not ravishing,” he snapped. “Not when I was hardly resisting you!”

  The look of shock and bewilderment on Arthur’s face was almost amusing. Owen might have laughed if it were not so much more enraging. “What?”

  “You didn’t ravish me. I’m not some — some terrified virgin too proper to want to go to bed.”

  “To fuck, you mean,” Arthur said, red staining his tanned cheeks. The vulgarity of it turned Owen’s stomach, even as a contradictory jolt of arousal struck him too, mingling uncomfortably with his annoyance. Arthur scrambled off of Owen and off the bed, and then stood there, glaring down at him. “Euphemisms don’t particularly make your point for you. And,” he went on, cutting off Owen’s protest, “forgive me, but you were a virgin less than twenty-four hours ago. A terrified one, too, unless I miss my mark.”

  “I was not terrified!” Owen bolted upright, pulling the sheet around his waist and wishing he could do the same with his tattered dignity.

  “Hah!” said Arthur. “Not terrified. Not desperate to put on a dressing gown and hide. Not actually covering your face and nearly fainting from nerves. Or have you suffered a convenient loss of memory?”

  “Oh!” Owen cried, spluttering with fury. How could anyone be so provoking? So unkind, too, reminding him of how pathetic he must have appeared the night before. “Oh, you —” And lacking any other outlet for his temper, he seized the nearest pillow in reach and lobbed it at Arthur’s head.

  The pillow, stuffed with a quantity of the finest goose feathers, had heft, and Owen’s aim was true. It smacked Arthur right in his scowling face and then slid to the floor with a thump. Owen froze, shocked out of his rage by his own folly. How would a dignified man of consequence like Arthur react — how could he react, but by chastising Owen like the child his behavior showed him to be? Arthur could never learn to respect him after this. He would turn cold, perhaps never speak to Owen again…

  Arthur stared, blinked, and then burst out laughing, a loud, merry laugh that Owen had not even imagined he could produce. Still chuckling, he advanced on the bed, and on Owen, who pressed himself back against the headboard, putting as much space as he could between himself and the madman who was surely about to exact some horrid vengeance. A moment later, Arthur pounced, and his fingers dug into Owen’s ribs, tickling him mercilessly. Owen yelped, and flailed, and succeeded only in winding himself in the bedclothes as Arthur pinned his wrists above his head.

  The tickling ceased at last. Owen panted, trying to regain his breath; he tugged his arms, a useless gesture. Arthur had him entirely immobilized.

  “Don’t start a fight you can’t possibly win,” Arthur said, grinning down at him. “Advice to live by. I learned it when I was a scrawny lad at school, with more spirit than muscle.”

  Owen tried, but he couldn’t imagine it. “You were never scrawny,” he said breathlessly.

  “I was. Until I was fourteen, and then I was bigger than the other boys, and couldn’t start fights anymore. It wasn’t sporting.”

  Twisting his legs only rubbed his groin against Arthur’s, where he could feel a hard bulge in the front of his trousers. “Oh,” Owen moaned, helpless against that sign of desire. “This — you call this sporting?”

  Arthur slowly thrust his hips, dragging his erection over Owen’s cock. “I didn’t start it. Or was that me, who threw a pillow at an unarmed
man?”

  “It wasn’t an unprovoked pillow,” Owen muttered.

  “An unprovoked — oh gods, Owen,” and Arthur collapsed into laughter again, and buried his face in Owen’s neck. “My dear.” He kissed the curve of Owen’s throat and shook his head a little; his hair tickled Owen’s cheek. “You’re right, though,” he said, sounding more serious. “I deserved it. I’m just lucky you didn’t throw the sandwich plate. You have excellent aim.”

  “The pillow was nearer,” Owen said absently. He had too much whirling through his mind at once, all of it confused by the pressure of Arthur’s strong body holding him down. And that hand wrapped around his wrists, which should have irritated him, but instead — made him want more of that, though what that was he didn’t quite know. He could feel it in the rapid beat of his heart, and in his burgeoning arousal. “Arthur, I — really didn’t want to hurt you. But I was so very angry…” Owen swallowed, unable to find further words.

  Arthur kissed his ear. “I know. I was an arse, and I’m sorry. But will you tell me what I did to infuriate you so? One moment we were making love, and the next, you — I shouldn’t have spoken so, about last night. It drives me mad that you don’t trust me, but it’s no excuse. But you were angry before that.”

  “I can’t discuss this rationally when you’re holding me like this,” Owen said. “Please?”

  Arthur released his arms and rolled off of Owen until he lay on his side. “Like this, then.” He stroked a lock of hair off of Owen’s forehead with breathtaking tenderness.

  Owen gazed into those dark eyes, filled now with nothing but the patient desire for understanding. “You said you — you love the way I blush.”

  It sounded foolish, put like that, and the puzzled raise of Arthur’s eyebrows suggested that he agreed. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  He took a moment to put his thoughts in sufficient order to marshal them aloud, and then gathered all his courage to go on. “A man with more experience wouldn’t blush the way I do. And I’ll become a man of experience, and then I won’t blush anymore, and if that’s all you want from me — those responses, do you see? You’ll tire of me. I’ll bore you.” Putting it into words made it seem far more likely, and far more real, and Owen had to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

  “Bore me? Sweetheart, I doubt very much you’ll ever cease blushing, and if you do I’ll just find more ways to make you, for you look so very pretty when you do. And see there? I’ve already made a start.” Owen turned his face away, mortified. He could feel how pink he was in the heat that had spread all the way from his hairline to his throat. “I told you last night why I hadn’t asked you to submit to that horrid ritual, didn’t I?”

  Owen nodded, not trusting his voice. “Because I flatter myself that hypocrisy doesn’t number among my many faults,” Arthur went on. “The same applies here. Someday I may have taught you all I know about how to bed another man. When that day comes, I won’t want you any less.” In a lighter tone, teasing again, he said, “And I truly don’t think you’ll ever stop blushing. It’s not your innocence, it’s just your complexion. You can’t help it. Much like the freckles.”

  “You did not — you did not just mention my freckles!” Owen cried, turning his head sharply back to gape at Arthur in utter betrayal.

  “I did. And they’re as lovely as the rest of you.” Arthur sounded entirely sincere. That shouldn’t have put any of Owen’s apprehensions to rest, but really, a man who could not just overlook his freckles, but like them? What defense could he possibly have against that?

  And with that, Owen capitulated. Every instinct he had told him that Arthur could be trusted. He had learned, to his detriment, that his instincts were not necessarily infallible, but Arthur was cut from a different cloth than Tom. He knew it, much as he knew that his mother loved him and that the sun would rise in the east. He had thought to protect himself from disappointment by believing the worst of Arthur, and by thus preparing himself for anything. All he had achieved was a series of quarrels, though Arthur bore the blame for that too, of course. Still. Arthur was trying so very hard to reach across the division between them, and Owen could do nothing but meet him halfway.

  “Are you quite sure you won’t grow tired of me?” He hated how weak he sounded, how needy, but at present, that was what he was.

  Arthur looked at him strangely, an expression Owen couldn’t begin to define settling over his features. “I am quite, quite sure,” he said. “Let me prove it to you. We’ll spend the next few months debauching you very thoroughly —”

  “This is for my benefit?” Owen asked, laughing despite himself.

  “Let us say it’s for our mutual benefit,” Arthur said in that deep, low tone that Owen already associated with impending ravishment. He had objected to the word, and he would never admit it, but it really did fit what Arthur had done to him earlier. And what Owen hoped he would do again, as soon as possible. “Three months. And if I’m as eager to share your bed then as I am now, you can set your doubts to rest and believe that I won’t change my mind.”

  That might or might not be reasonable; Owen was too aroused now to be capable of judging. But three months of focused, intentional debauching sounded worth the risk.

  “I agree.” He smiled at Arthur’s sudden, unconcealed delight.

  “Then we ought to begin at once, don’t you think?” Arthur’s hand drifted down until the back of it brushed over Owen’s cock, earning a gasp and a twitch of his hips. “I think I should suck you until you spend in my mouth, and then perhaps I’ll teach you how to do the same for me.”

  Owen knew he was blushing again, but this time he didn’t mind. And by the intent way Arthur swept the sheet from Owen’s body and ducked his head to begin the lesson, he could tell very clearly that Arthur didn’t either.

  Chapter 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…”