by Megan Mulry
“I know.” She looked thoughtfully toward the fire. “What do you suggest I do?”
Christopher narrowed his eyes. “I think Archie needs to be taken in hand once and for all.”
Selina shivered at the possibilities.
“Ah. I see you’ve discovered that for yourself, have you?”
“Only playfully.” She lowered her voice. “I feel a bit duplicitous conspiring against him in this way, but you make me want to plan something . . . extraordinary.”
“That’s the spirit.” He leaned forward and set his drink on the table, then rested his forearms on his lap. “He’s such a prisoner of convention; I think perhaps we should make our first skirmish in public. He is constitutionally incapable of misbehaving in front of a crowd of his peers.”
“You are the devil, Christopher Joseph.”
“You’re welcome.”
She closed the small distance between them and kissed him on the cheek. “He does love you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You heard all that?” She gestured with her chin toward the bedroom door.
Christopher thought for a few moments before he spoke. “Archie has never been able to own his feelings. Especially not feelings that go against every societal norm he has wanted to not only adhere to, but exemplify.”
“I know that. But that’s not who he is inside. He is openhearted and joyful. I know we can have this life I’ve dreamed of. The way he looked at me just now—he has so much love to give. We just need to make him see he is allowed to have it. All of it.”
Christopher rubbed his hands together. “This will be a pleasure.”
“You have a funny idea of pleasure.”
His grin was contagious, and she smiled in return.
“Very well. Perhaps we all have a funny idea of pleasure. What do you have in mind?”
Christopher looked toward the bedroom and lowered his voice. “He’s in no condition to do anything for a few more days, so we have some time to prepare.”
After being so preoccupied with Archie’s absence, on edge for many days, the bubbling up of happiness was unfamiliar. She reminded herself that Archie was safe and alive and, in time, all would be well. If she had to keep her relationship with Beatrix entirely separate, that was something she would have to reconcile, but she was not willing to give up her dream of a whole, integrated life just yet.
Christopher speculated aloud. “I’m thinking the opera . . . a private box . . . but partially visible . . . with the four of us? A new Colman farce is playing on Monday. Does Camburton still keep a box?”
“Yes, we went the first week we were here.” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid he will try to bolt from the city and return to the estate. Are you sure you can keep him in town until then?”
Christopher smiled again. “How hard do you want me to try, Lady Camburton?”
“You are very, very bad, Mr. Joseph.” Her cheeks heated at the prospect of Christopher restraining Archie. “As his wife, and with only his best interests at heart, mind you, I think you should use all the importunities at your disposal. I will send some of his clothes around. I’m certain he won’t want to return to Mayfair if I am still in residence. And Reynolds is having endless fits about the state of the marquess’s toilette in the absence of his valet.” She looked around. “Are there any other apartments available? Perhaps he should take up residence here for now.”
“Yes, I will see to it. That’s probably what Archie will want as well. Far more discreet than a hotel, yet still in town to keep tabs on you, which I will convince him is the least he can do if he’s going to fight to win your hand from the dastardly villainess, Miss Farnsworth.”
She smiled at first, carried away with Christopher’s charm and wit—how he turned all heartache into farce—then her face fell. “Oh, Christopher. Please tell me again we are doing right by Archie.”
Christopher nearly growled. “He is the luckiest sot on the planet, and it’s just a matter of knocking him around a bit until he realizes it.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek again quickly, then stood up. When she turned to go, Archie was standing—wobbling really—in the partially opened doorway to the bedroom.
“Are you going to make love to Christopher now as well?” Archie asked with venom.
She tucked her hair back up and put on the hat, then rested her hands on her hips and stared directly at Archie. Her first instinct was to run to him and weep—he looked so exhausted, so devastated, and his words stung like nettles—but she now saw that Christopher and Beatrix were right. Archie was the only one holding them all back from a life of freedom and happiness.
“You, my dear husband, are insane. I suggest you go back to bed until you are well.”
Then she turned to Christopher and bowed her exit. Without looking back, she crossed to the front door and showed herself out. As soon as she released the knob, she heard the two men begin what she hoped would be a long and productive argument. She kept her head dipped down when two men passed by and bade her a gruff good-night, man to man. She grunted her reply.
One of Archie’s more modest carriages was waiting for her in the forecourt, with Beatrix unseen within the dim compartment.
“Is he safe?” Bea asked as soon as the door was shut behind Selina.
“He is physically on the mend, but he is still a wreck in every other way. Christopher and I are hoping to wear him down.”
On the ride home, she explained how they planned to go about it.
“How dare you conspire with my wife?” Archie accused, his voice sounding too loud in his ears. It still felt awkward to be indoors after so many nights living rough—the dark-green brocade walls seemed to muffle his entire existence. “I need to get out of here.”
Christopher stood up and refilled his glass. “Care for a drink?”
“No, I don’t care for a drink, damn it. Answer me. Who do you think you are to meddle with Selina?”
Finishing with his preparations, Christopher set down the bottle and glass, then turned to face him. “You don’t even know what you want, you fool.” Christopher crossed the room slowly, with a predatory smile. “You say you want a little wife. A little country estate. A little science.” By that point, Christopher was standing inches in front of him. “You are selling yourself short, Cambury.” Before Archie could stop him, Christopher had his hand in Archie’s disheveled hair and was tugging violently. “Do you hear me, man?”
He hissed in response.
Christopher’s other hand slid down to Archie’s cock, already hard and betraying every filthy desire that crossed his mind. “You want to be fucked by a man. By me, you dolt.”
“No—” He tried to deny it, but his body thrust against Christopher’s knowing hand.
“Yes!” Christopher leaned in and attacked his neck, not with a gentle nibble, but a hard, possessive bite. He soothed the red mark with the flat of his tongue and massaged Archie’s cock. “Yes, damn it. Yes. You must learn to say yes. For yourself. I know when you say no, you so often mean yes, but it is time for you to say it, to own it.”
“No,” he whispered, as if the word itself could make it true, but he was beginning to weep; he wanted Christopher desperately. He’d missed him these past few months, but had set aside his desire, trying to convince himself it was a residue of his past, something that would fade over time.
“Say yes, Archie . . . to all of it. Say yes to Selina, who loves you with a profound, knowing passion . . .” Christopher worked his firm fingers around Archie’s cock and teased his balls. He was physically weak and the nightshirt only came to his thighs so it was easy enough for Christopher to have full access to whatever part of his anatomy he wished.
But Archie fought him as best he could. “It’s not right. In fact, it’s terribly wrong!” He tried to shove Christopher’s hands away, but he was feeble. “Not everything can be solved with an orgasm!” He withdrew from Christopher’s reach and turned back toward the bedroom, but he was uns
teady on his feet and his vision was blurry. At least this time it was from tears and not another fainting spell. He scraped the back of his hand across his eyes with rough impatience. When the bedroom door closed behind him, he hoped that meant he was alone. When Christopher’s gentle touch landed on his shoulder, he stiffened. “I beg of you. Leave me be. If you care for me at all, you will not seduce me right now.”
“I am not seducing you. I’m loving you.” Christopher kissed the back of his neck, and a shiver shot down his spine.
“What does that even mean?” He gave up wiping the tears from his eyes, because they were flowing so freely. He leaned his forehead against the bedpost, where he was holding on for balance.
“Come to me.” Christopher turned him gently into his arms and pulled his body into a firm, all-encompassing embrace. “You are not alone, you fool. That’s all it means. We love you.” Archie trembled and tried to tell himself it was the aftereffects of his illness of the past few days. Then Christopher cupped his cheek and stared into his eyes. “I love you, you idiot. Selina loves you.” Slowly, with Christopher never taking his eyes from Archie’s, he kissed him on the lips.
Archie had imagined this so many times, and then thrown away the image. Discarded it because it was impossible. A physical rout between them was somehow acceptable to his contorted sense of propriety. But loving Christopher? Kissing Christopher? Impossible.
But propriety evaporated in that moment. He needed this man’s kiss; he’d never known how badly he needed it. He reached for Christopher’s hair and grabbed hold.
“That’s it. Hold on to me. I won’t let you fall.” Christopher was so tender, so thorough. His mouth was at moments gentle and then almost scolding, showing him what he’d been depriving himself of during all their years together.
It was utterly different from their previous couplings. He reached for Christopher’s shirt and removed it with near reverence. He leaned down and kissed Christopher’s nipple, toying with him, loving him. He’d never let himself—
“Oh God, I am awful—” He choked on emotion. “How have you stayed my friend? Why?”
Christopher caressed his cheek and smiled. “You’re very easy on the eyes.”
He laughed through his tears. “I suppose there is that to redeem me.”
Taking off Archie’s nightshirt—Christopher’s nightshirt that Archie wore—Christopher murmured, “You are the kindest, gentlest, most honest person I have ever known.” Christopher dropped the nightshirt on the floor and pressed their bodies together. “I would take any friendship you had to offer. But I think you are beginning to see you have far more to offer than you ever believed.”
Archie looked into his friend’s eyes, his lover’s eyes. “I do love you. You know that? You’ve always known that, haven’t you?”
Pressing his lips against Archie’s, Christopher kissed him senseless for many minutes. Their tongues tangled and teased, the newness of this seemingly innocent act making them both giddy. “I want to kiss you for years,” Archie whispered, touching Christopher’s moist lips.
“And so you shall,” Christopher agreed easily.
Archie’s face fell, and he let his forehead rest on Christopher’s solid shoulder. “What have I done? Should I not have married Selina?” He looked up again and tried to see an answer in Christopher’s brilliant eyes. He saw only love, and that hint of humor that always shimmered through the man.
Christopher trailed his hands up and down Archie’s back. “Do you love her any less now that you have declared yourself to me?”
He felt the accusation like a punch in his gut. “No. What is wrong with me?”
When Christopher laughed outright, his body shook against Archie’s. He hugged Christopher close and kissed his neck, then, tentatively, initiated the next kiss. Archie simply held on, wanting that love and joy to somehow permeate his being as well. He wanted to show Christopher how much he loved and admired him, how much he had held back all these years. He turned them around and nudged Christopher onto the bed.
“Lie back . . .” Archie said softly.
Christopher obliged, and Archie finished undressing him, then crawled up the length of his naked body, covering him with his own. As their bodies warmed, from tip to toe, he reveled in every detail, every nuance of pleasure he’d always resolved to reduce or distill to some physical grunt. The feel of Christopher’s chest against his, thigh against thigh, straining cock against cock. He rubbed and nestled himself against Christopher’s lean, long body.
“I love you,” he whispered again as he began to kiss his way down Christopher’s ridged stomach. He licked along the edge of one particularly defined muscle that curved around Christopher’s hip, and then continued, until he was resting between Christopher’s spread legs.
He slid his cheek against the silky skin of Christopher’s straining cock. “I can’t believe I’ve never done this for you . . . with you . . .”
“Archie—” Christopher began to speak, then moaned in pleasure when Archie’s mouth took him deep. He adored the feel of Christopher’s fingers clenched in his hair, the taut pull of pressure and relief he sensed in that hold. Overcome with sensation, he was lost in the moment—found, perhaps. Free-floating joy overwhelmed him as he finally expressed himself wholly—physically and emotionally—with this man. This person. He’d adored him for so many years, but only let it show in some shabby approximation of love.
“Wait, I’m going to come—” Christopher pulled desperately at Archie’s scalp, but Archie refused to relent. He wanted every ounce, every mysterious moment of what this meant to flow into his body. To accept Christopher into his body, willingly, openly.
“Archie . . .” It was almost a whisper, and then Christopher’s hot seed hit the back of Archie’s throat. The sensation was overwhelming and profound. He couldn’t get enough, and he was almost desperate as he lapped at him and sucked and licked him clean.
“Come here,” Christopher whispered, smoothing his fingers through Archie’s hair and bringing him up to cradle in his arms. “Oh, my sweet man.”
Archie clung to him, and felt comforted in a way he never could have been before.
“What have I done?” he asked later, when they were both in the bed under the light coverlet, still holding each other. The candles in the bedroom were guttering, but the fireplace was crackling and casting a warm glow. “Will she ever forgive me? I’ve been such a hypocrite. So lost.”
Christopher squeezed him tighter. “You are magnificent. She loves you. Don’t you see? Don’t you feel how you can love her . . . and me? How she can love you . . . and Beatrix?”
He dipped his chin, embarrassed. “It seems quite obvious now, the possibilities I mean.”
Christopher’s laughter rumbled through his chest and into his palm, into his soul. “Limitless, eh?”
“Quite,” he breathed contentedly, loving the feel of their bodies stretched long and languid up against one another, with no shame or denial. “So, what sort of trickery were you and Selina plotting before she left? I know that look of mischief in your eye. And hers.” He kissed Christopher again because he could. Because he could, at last. “Tell me how and when I am to be reunited with my wife.”
By Monday afternoon, Selina wasn’t feeling quite so jovial and sure of herself. Christopher had sent word that he and Archie would be at the theater at the appointed time, but Archie had made no effort to contact her himself, and his absence was far more difficult to bear than she could have anticipated. She hadn’t seen him in over a week, except for their brief skirmish at Christopher’s; she missed him terribly.
Bea had tried to console her, first with words and then with tender caresses, and for the first time in their life together, Selina had asked her to stop. To stop being kind. To stop consoling. To stop touching her. She wanted Archie. Quite desperately. She still loved Beatrix, of course she did, and that would never change. But now that she had known the intensity of Archibald Cambury—the weight of him in her life—she
felt off-kilter and deeply unhappy without him by her side. She was too light: not effervescent and joyful, but unmoored.
She’d gone to meet with her publisher the previous week, and he’d just written back that he was thrilled in every way with the new manuscript. Looking up from his letter that morning, she had turned out of habit to tell Archie. He was not there. The smallest things that crossed her path—a lonely thrush in the barren tree in the back garden, a little boy with a funny upturned nose—all of these she would have shared with him. In his absence, the little things seemed to be backing up inside her. She was worried she would forget a detail he would’ve enjoyed.
Archie was a physical creature, far more than a verbal one—he had never written her a line of poetry or even a brief note of affection—so she wasn’t overly surprised not to have heard from him in writing. But God, how she longed for him, for the anchoring physicality of him, for the knowing look he would have given her when she described that lone bird crying out into the thin winter air. For the sweet, promising smile he would have shared when she described the features of that eager, ruddy-faced delivery boy—because the two of them would have a ruddy boy one day. Their boy.
That’s what she wanted most of all: she wanted to tell him she was carrying his child. She hadn’t had her courses since before their wedding; she now knew she was most definitely increasing. Not that she had planned on sharing such momentous news in a crowded box at the new Covent Garden Theatre, but she couldn’t imagine spending even a moment with him without telling him the news. She was bursting in every way imaginable.
She’d been too frustrated and full of consternation when she’d seen him at Christopher’s to speak of anything but how impossibly stubborn he was. Plus, any mention of a child would’ve only served to make him that much more possessive and intransigent about his godly demands.
That evening, she and Bea prepared for the theater with meticulous care. She wanted to be both modest and alluring. Archie adored her in any dress—or undress for that matter—but she wanted him to see her at her best, to be proud of her. To be glad he had married her.