Owen set down his book, took the papers Arthur handed him, and paid attention. Two hours later, he looked up from the last page 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. Of course 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 having concealed 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.
Chapter Fifteen
Autumn had come at last, making up for one of the longest, driest summers in living memory with a crashing storm that knocked half the leaves from the trees all at once and whipped the sea into a frenzy. Wind howled around every corner and blew gusts down the chimney and through all the cracks at the edges of the windows, sending puffs of ash across the rug and setting the curtains fluttering. Torrents of rain washed down the windows and cast everything in wavering gray. The storm would have been more appropriate for late November. That it came so early in October was a sign of a harsh winter to come.
Even with the fire, it was chilly in the breakfast-parlor. For all it mattered to Arthur, it might as well have been midsummer; he was already cold in every limb, and it came from the letter he held in his hand, rather than the weather.
It had been some weeks since Arthur resumed corresponding with Tom. He had written in response to the announcement of Tom’s marriage, sending the briefest of insincere congratulations, rather more sincere well-wishes for Tom’s wife and unborn child, and a few words informing his brother that he had taken his place as Owen’s fiancé. After that, there had been a resounding silence on both sides. Arthur had expected recriminations, undeserved as they would have been; they had never come. It was possible Tom knew any letters he sent in those first months would have been thrown in the fire unopened.
Their mother had been busy, though, writing to Arthur (and to Tom, as she informed him often) with unrelenting regularity. She had at last worn Arthur down to the point where he had allowed Tom to write, and then to the point where he would reply, and now, finally, there was this.
There was movement in the room; Arthur vaguely registered it, and read the letter through for the third time.
“Goddess, but it’s dreadful out there!” Owen said, sitting down in h
is usual place on Arthur’s left. “Arthur?”
A sudden sharp pain in Arthur’s shin made him jump and look up at last. “Did you kick me?”
Owen frowned at him. “Did someone kick you? I’m surprised you noticed.”
Under other circumstances, he would have laughed from pure joy at that, despite the bruise forming on his leg. Arthur quickly folded up the letter and tucked it beside his plate. Owen’s gaze riveted on it; with a sinking inevitability, Arthur saw that in his haste to put it out of Owen’s view he had set it down with the direction face-up.
“That’s,” Owen swallowed hard. “That’s — Tom’s handwriting.” He looked up at Arthur, his eyes like chips of sea-glass. “When were you going to tell me you’d had a letter from him?”
Arthur looked down at his uneaten breakfast, quite unable to face that look of reproach. “It’s not the first,” he admitted. “My mother has been very insistent that we mend the breach.”
“Yes, I know that,” Owen said, with some impatience. Arthur had shown him some of her letters; they had even exchanged one or two courteous missives of their own, though without much warmth. She had wanted a wife for Arthur, and children. Arthur’s honest protestations that neither held much interest for him hadn’t changed her mind. “But I didn’t know you’d given in.”
“He is still my brother. Should I not have?” Arthur looked up, then, ready to be annoyed. Guilt had its claws in him, and the best defense against it would be to turn his edgy dismay against Owen, somehow. That ungenerous impulse died away when he saw Owen’s wide eyes, and his lips pressed together, as if he were trying very hard not to cry. He laid his hand over Owen’s, where it rested on the table. “I’m sorry. I believe I did have every right to resume some contact with him. But I ought to have told you. There simply wasn’t much to tell.”
That was true enough, as far as it went. Their letters so far had carefully skirted anything of importance — before this one, at least.
Owen pulled his hand out from under his and poured himself a cup of tea. It felt like a rejection, and it stung. “I wouldn’t want to know anyway, I suppose,” Owen said in a tone of careful, and clearly false, indifference.
That stung all the more. “He wants to visit,” Arthur said shortly. “And bring —” He stopped, but it was too late.
Tea sloshed over the tablecloth as the pot slipped from Owen’s fingers as he set it down. “He wants to bring his wife? Caroline.”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “He says that it will soon be unsafe for her to travel, and he’d like to come before then.”
The long, deadly silence that followed told Arthur he had made a grave misstep, and he frantically went over his words, trying to determine what. Owen knew Caroline was with child. The mention of it shouldn’t have prompted quite such a reaction.
“I thought — she ought to be too close already to travel so far.” Owen had gone white to his very lips, though twin spots of high color stood out on his cheekbones. “I thought she would be brought to bed by the winter solstice.”
Horrified understanding struck Arthur with a shock, like cold water to the face. He had thought Owen had guessed the truth; perhaps he had hoped Owen was past caring. Clearly he was wrong on both fronts.
“She will have the baby sometime in February, my mother writes.” He could not bring himself to say more; he could only watch, heart pounding, as Owen’s lips moved slowly, counting the months.
Owen stilled; he had reached the inevitable conclusion. He seemed to shrink in on himself, head bowed and shoulders curled in, as if he could protect himself now from a blow that had fallen the moment Tom left Trewebury for the first time after their engagement.
“It was after,” Owen whispered. “After he — after — oh goddess, I’m going to be sick —” Owen lurched out of his chair and stumbled toward the door. Arthur jumped up and followed, catching him before he reached it and pulling him into his arms.
Owen sagged against his chest and hid his face there. Arthur’s surge of joy at Owen’s unthinking acceptance of the comfort he offered had a bitter edge. Every day, every week with no mention of Tom and no signs of unhappiness from Owen had pushed Arthur closer to real hope: that Tom was forgotten, that Arthur could someday earn the love Tom had thrown away. That hope felt hollow, now.
Still, he stroked Owen’s hair, and whispered what comfort he could into his ear. Owen stopped shaking after a little while, and he stepped back, wiping at his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, quite subdued. “I don’t know why that should take me by surprise, after everything. I feel so stupid. I am so stupid. He must have laughed at me. I wouldn’t blame you for laughing at me.”
“The last thing I’m inclined to do is laugh,” Arthur said, with feeling. “Have some tea and think no more about it.”
Owen allowed himself to be led back to the table, and he obediently sipped at the fresh cup Arthur fixed for him. He stared abstractedly at the table. Whatever he saw, it obviously wasn’t the teapot.
“You ought to invite them,” he said suddenly. He set his cup down with a click and squared his shoulders. “We ought to invite them.”
Pride rose up in him for Owen and his unbending sense of what was right. His chest ached a little with the strength of it. Good gods, but he loved the lad. And Owen’s use of the plural, encompassing him and Arthur in one entity, thawed a little of the chill misery that had settled as they sat in silence.
“I certainly won’t insist on it.” He laid his hand down palm-up, and the thaw turned to a full-on melt as Owen laid his hand on top without hesitation, squeezing Arthur’s fingers gently. “If you had rather not, we’ll not mention it again.” In point of fact, Arthur hadn’t decided yet, when Owen came in the room, if he meant to mention it at all. He wisely kept that to himself.
“I had much rather not. But this baby will be your heir, won’t he? If he’s a he, that is.”
“He could be. But my sister’s boy is just as much my blood.” He hesitated, but he had to be honest in this. “I will want to know the child, though. He will be my nephew, or she will be my niece. I don’t need to see Tom and Caroline now. But I will eventually, even if you’d prefer not to accompany me.”
“Lydia’s son isn’t a Drake, though.” Damn the way Owen could see right through him. “It’s important to you, isn’t it? To have an heir who bears your name.”
Owen’s tone was free of reproach, but Arthur pressed his hand and hastened to reassure him all the same. “You know I didn’t want a wife. You know that. Your blessing will ensure that anyone who inherits will have a long life, good health, and good fortune, and that’s worth more than a name.”
The tremulous smile that earned him was worth more than the long life, good health, and good fortune, too. It was everything Arthur wanted in the world, and he leaned over to kiss the upturned corner of Owen’s mouth.
“You do want them to visit, don’t you?” Owen asked. “Honestly. You want to see them.”
He did, and if it had been only himself at home, he would have invited them already. Tom’s behavior might have set him permanently far lower in Arthur’s esteem, but he would overlook it in order to get to know the new members of his family. With Owen here…that complicated matters. The thought of Tom and Owen in the same house made his flesh crawl with anger and jealousy and fear. But it was almost inevitable, sooner or later. Tom accompanied by his pregnant wife was least likely to stir Owen’s tender feelings; this would be for the best — so long as it didn’t make Owen unhappy. Jealous and selfish he might be, but not thoughtless.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “Only if you don’t mind, though. Truly.”
There was the briefest of pauses before Owen said, “Write and invite them, then. And let me know when to expect them.”
Arthur rose, bent to press a quick kiss to Owen’s lips, and went to the study to write to Tom.
Chapter Sixteen
Tom alighted from the c
oach first, jumping down with his usual grace. Owen’s heart lurched — or perhaps he oughtn’t to have eaten that second muffin at breakfast. He had expected a first pang of loss, but now he wasn’t quite certain why he’d thought it so inevitable, or why what he felt now more closely resembled discomfort than genuine pain. Tom was as handsome as ever, even as he reached into the coach and handed down a lady in a blue pelisse carefully tailored to conceal the roundness of her abdomen. Owen ought to have felt the same as he had months ago, seeing him now.
And yet, Tom didn’t have the same luster as before. He was gilt and paste, glittering but ultimately not of the same worth as something real and enduring.
Owen glanced up at Arthur, standing beside him on the front steps with his face set in grim, impassive lines. He edged just a little closer, welcoming the heat of Arthur’s body in the cold; he reveled in the knowledge of that strength just beside him. Arthur was quite real.
Tom stepped forward with his wife on his arm, and Owen had his first good look at her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had pretty, full lips and soft hazel eyes, and a calm warmth about her that would dispose most people to like her at once. She looked up at Owen from under the glossy dark curls that fell around her forehead beneath her smart silk bonnet, and he felt an unwilling burst of kinship. They had both of them rushed into their marriages under imperfect circumstances.
He had spent many hours, in the ten days since Arthur’s wrote to invite them, considering whether she had known about Tom’s engagement when she shared his bed. He concluded she could not have. The engagement notice had gone in the papers weeks later, and Tom surely wouldn’t have advertised his betrothal to one he intended to seduce.
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