“Mrs. Honeyfield,” he said, bowing low. “Mr. Honeyfield.” He exchanged a guarded nod with the older man. Arthur finally allowed himself to look at his intended. Owen kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and Arthur wished passionately for a moment alone with him to ask if this was really what he wanted. It would soon be too late. Divorce was easy enough; the gods, through their mortal priests, were lenient when it came to dissolving unions that proved unhappy. But that didn’t mean that society would be so understanding, particularly when the wedding was itself meant to cover a scandal.
Owen gave no sign. Arthur held out his hand, and Owen, with only a fractional hesitation, laid his in it. They stepped to the altar, and the priestesses began their chant.
Chapter Nine
Owen wrapped his arms around his waist and shivered, though the fire burned bright in the hearth of his new bedchamber at Alton Hall, and the night was far from cold to begin with. He had hesitated before undressing and donning his best nightshirt, but wasn’t it traditional to put off the wedding clothes and await one’s new husband in something more intimate? Owen wasn’t sure what was expected of him. He thought that brides might have a maid to provide advice, or at least moral support, but he lacked a valet and couldn’t imagine asking a servant for his opinion on how to conduct a seduction one didn’t want to conduct in the first place.
It was some time since the tall clock in the hall had struck nine, the sound of the bells carrying all the way to Owen’s bedchamber in the silent house, and he began to hope that perhaps Drake would choose not to come to him that night. He could not even think of blowing out the candles and going to bed until after ten, though. They had only finished their supper at half past eight.
It had been a nearly silent meal, punctuated only by Drake’s quiet offers of more wine, or a different dish to tempt his appetite, and Owen’s brief refusals. Owen knew he ought to have made more of an effort. It wasn’t as though Drake had forced him into this; Owen had far more to gain from their marriage than Drake did. Wealth, a large and comfortable home, respectability, and protection from anything the world could throw at him, including the scandal of his broken engagement to Tom: as Drake’s husband, he possessed all of that. Drake, in his turn, now had the goddess’s blessing by proxy, which he hardly needed, since he was already prosperous and healthy; he had avoided a second-hand scandal, which he needn’t have minded so much in any case; and he had Owen.
Owen, who was at that moment desperately hoping the clock would move a little bit faster, so he could avoid offering his new husband the only really tangible benefit the man might expect from their marriage.
Not that Drake was unappealing. His broad-shouldered, well-muscled frame and harshly handsome face hardly inspired revulsion, but they were threatening in a way Tom’s boyishly handsome face and lean body hadn’t been. Drake was in every sense all man, a man much more physically imposing than Owen was. He could do anything he wanted.
That thought brought with it a shameful twinge of arousal, deep down in Owen’s belly, and lower. It was worse than pure fear would have been.
Worse, because he knew that when confronted with all that strength, when Drake unleashed the passion Owen knew he held in check just beneath his proper surface, he would yield. Quite willingly, even enthusiastically. His parents were wrong about Drake’s character; the man who had comforted him after Tom’s abandonment, who had brought him tea with his own hands and thought ahead to the challenges Owen would face because of it when Owen was too shocked to do so himself, would never humiliate or abandon him. He wouldn’t plan to, anyway.
But Drake was a man of experience, and he’d shown no inclination toward marriage before stepping in to clean up the wreckage Tom had left in his wake. Once the novelty of Owen’s virginity had worn off, what would hold him? His interest would wane, his desires wander. Yes, he said he intended to honor his vows. But Owen had believed the promises of one Drake; clearly his ability to discern truth from convenient lies was not the best. His parents were far better judges of character. He had tried to shake off the doubts they implanted in his mind, but they hand taken root and grown ever since.
Owen would give himself, and Drake would take what he offered — he had been clear enough that he wanted Owen, at least for now. Goddess, if he would only change his mind, and leave Owen untouched. Then he could at least never know what kind of marriage he could have had with Tom, if only, if only. Was it infidelity on his part to even consider wanting what Drake could give him? Did it show a weakness of character to be capable of desiring another man, when he had so recently promised to be faithful to another?
His mind whirling, Owen nearly missed the sound of footsteps sounded in the corridor — heavy, quick footsteps, those of a man with somewhere he wished to be. They passed Owen’s door without a pause and went on to Drake’s, one room down. Owen stood frozen, his heart pounding, listening for some clue as to what came next. He heard nothing; the walls were too solidly constructed.
Finally, he heard what he dreaded most: a knock on the connecting door that opened from Drake’s dressing room to Owen’s bedchamber. He looked about him wildly. Should he turn down the bedcovers on the rather terrifyingly large four-poster bed? Put the dressing gown on? Leap out the window and run screaming across the moors? None of those options seemed quite right, though all had a certain appeal.
Drake knocked again, more impatiently this time, or at least so it sounded to Owen’s guilty conscience and racketing nerves.
“Come in,” he called out, his voice squeaking a little on the last syllable.
The door opened, and Drake stepped through, shutting it firmly behind him. He had taken off his coat and boots, but was otherwise fully dressed. Owen felt ridiculous in his long nightshirt; it was both too little and too much. Drake looked him up and down, his eyebrows going up just a touch.
“Were you not expecting me?” Drake’s voice held surprise, and — amusement. Definite amusement. Owen’s cheeks burned with humiliation.
He turned quickly away, fumbling for the dressing gown hanging beside the bureau. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I didn’t know what to do.” That last came out in a whisper; Owen hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
He had just caught up the dressing gown when a hand fell heavy on his shoulder. “Don’t,” Drake said. He pulled on Owen’s shoulder, gently but inexorably turning him to face him. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. And unkind, though I didn’t mean it that way.”
Owen gazed into those dark eyes, seeing true remorse there — and something else, something darker and wilder, something that made his blood flow hot and his lungs constrict. Drake took the dressing gown from his suddenly nerveless fingers and tossed it carelessly to the floor.
“I was hoping you could be persuaded to remove garments, rather than putting them on,” he said, voice a deep rasp.
“I’m only wearing one,” Owen faltered, and then watched in fascination as Drake’s pupils dilated wide. The hand on his shoulder slid down until Drake loosely clasped his wrist, and the other landed on Owen’s waist. Drake’s large hand all but burned him through the thin linen of his nightshirt. “And — it’s not the right thing, is it? You were laughing at me.”
“No. Well, perhaps a little. But I already apologized for that, and I’ll do it again and gladly.” The hand at Owen’s waist stroked up, just a little, and then down, just a little more, until it rested breathtakingly near the curve of his arse. “Did you think I wasn’t coming to your bed tonight?”
Owen didn’t want to answer the question, didn’t want to talk at all; he didn’t know what he wanted. His body was warming with proximity to Drake’s heat. The faint scent of soap, of Drake’s skin, of the brandy he’d clearly had before coming upstairs, blended into a heady mixture that had Owen’s head swimming.
But the silence had gone on too long, and it said everything Owen ought to have denied. Drake’s hands fell away, and he stepped back. “You were hoping I wasn’t,”
Drake said flatly.
“It’s not that!” Owen cried, even though of course it was. “We agreed we wouldn’t marry only in name, and I’m — willing, I am, to do whatever is expected of me —”
The words died on his lips as Drake’s face settled into a blank mask, all expression wiped away. Panic rose up in him, a fluttering in his chest and a buzzing in his ears. He could only faintly hear his own voice as he tried again, desperately. “I don’t know what you want. I’d thought my wedding night would be with —” He caught himself just in time, horrified at what he had almost blurted out, and tried, “— different. I don’t know what to do.”
He knew he was only making it worse, and he put his hands over his face; they felt icy against his burning cheeks.
“You thought you’d spend your wedding night with Tom, I know,” Drake said, sounding very cold and very far away, although his voice shook slightly as he said his brother’s name. Owen bit his lip, his breaths coming fast. Too fast. “But here you are with me. Here we both are.” Drake paused. “Will you look at me?”
“I can’t,” Owen whispered. “I think I —” His legs wobbled and he felt rather sick, his head still too light. “I think I need to sit down.” There were no chairs within reach, though, and instead he stumbled two steps to the bureau and leaned against it heavily.
The floor creaked as Drake approached. Looking down past the heels of his hands, Owen could see his stockinged feet, toes almost touching Owen’s.
Drake sighed. There was a long, pregnant pause. A large ember dropped from the fire and made a soft thump as it hit the hearth; Owen’s heart began to slow, and the echoing ring in his ears faded away.
He expected anger, or recriminations, or perhaps mockery. He did not expect the soft, “I’m sorry, Owen,” with which Drake finally broke the silence. “You never laid with him, did you.”
Owen could only shake his head.
“Or with anyone?” Drake asked, tentatively. He had never asked Owen any questions like this before, nor had he requested the purity ritual often conducted by the priests or priestesses officiating marriages. A drop of blood in a sacred flame would reveal whether the one tested had ever known another; Owen had been relieved beyond measure when Drake never mentioned it. He had always thought it rather degrading for everyone, and was glad indeed that Drake wasn’t the sort of man to demand such a proof. Now it struck him, forcefully and painfully, that Drake might not have asked for it because he’d assumed Owen wouldn’t pass the test.
He had to know one way or the other, and he dropped his hands at last, still wishing he could hide, but wanting to see Drake’s face when he answered. “Why didn’t you ask the priestesses to test me? If it mattered to you.”
Drake grimaced with disgust. “Do you really think I’d ask another man to go through a ritual I wouldn’t pass myself? I’m not such a hypocrite.” He stopped, opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said, “And I did think you must have had some experience. With — with someone. If I hadn’t, I would have approached this night very, very differently.”
Owen drew in a deep breath, all the way down to the bottom of his lungs. A little tendril of hope unfurled in him. Perhaps Drake desired something more in Owen than just his innocence, if he had assumed it was already gone. “I haven’t,” he admitted. “Not with him.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Tom’s name. “Nor anyone else. I’m sorry I’m so inexperienced and —” Drake laid a finger across his lips, the touch startling and startlingly intimate.
“Don’t apologize for that,” Drake said, very low, looking into Owen’s eyes with an intensity that pinned him in place. “I know it’s positively retrograde of me, and it is the rankest hypocrisy. But I’m glad of it.”
Owen’s hope died away as quickly as it had flourished. His virginity was Drake’s desire, then, even if he would have been willing to take Owen without it. Owen tried to open his mouth to reply, and succeeded only in brushing his lips over Drake’s finger, rough skin dragging just a little against the softness of his lips. Agonizingly slowly, Drake ran his finger over Owen’s mouth, teasing at his lower lip before he took his hand away. It hovered there a moment, as though Drake wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
Abruptly, Owen tired of his doubts. He had promised Drake this. He couldn’t change his mind now. “You can touch me. If you want to, that is,” Owen said, his voice hoarse.
“If I want to?” Drake leaned in, gripping the edge of the bureau’s top on either side of Owen, caging him in. He was so close now that Owen could see nothing but his eyes, glittering like jet in the light from the candelabrum set on the table by the bed. “If I want to? Do you think me immune to your beauty?” He sounded almost tortured. “I want to do much more than touch you. I want to possess you. I want —” He broke off, chest heaving with his rapid breaths, his every muscle visibly tense, as if he were keeping himself from seizing Owen in his arms through sheer force of will.
A swooping thrill passed through Owen’s body, a wave of fear and desire, like the dizzy temptation of standing at the top of a cliff and wanting to jump. He had never felt this, not even with Tom: this heady, bone-deep knowledge of his own power.
“Tell me to go to my own room, to leave you alone, and I will,” Drake gritted out. “But say it quickly.”
Owen’s tongue was thick in his mouth. He felt drugged, though he had not had more than a sip of wine with dinner. His voice shook betrayingly as he said, “No. I want you to stay.”
Chapter Ten
I want you to stay. The words echoed heavily in Owen’s ears. Drake sucked in a breath and leaned in until his mouth was only a whisper away from Owen’s.
“Don’t be afraid,” Drake said, and then he lowered his mouth that last fraction of an inch.
The kiss Drake had taken the day they agreed to wed was a blur in Owen’s mind; he had been too distressed, too overwhelmed, to take in more than a half-formed impression of heat and strength. This kiss — this he would never forget. Drake’s mouth moved over his with precise, controlled force, opening him and tasting him. Owen’s eyes dropped closed, and the rest of the world fell away. There was only the slick heat of Drake’s tongue exploring him in a way that sent shivers down his spine and made his limbs weak, the faint taste of brandy, and another, sharper flavor that could only be desire.
He swayed against Drake’s chest, needing something he couldn’t even begin to describe. Some port away from the storm raging in his breast; shelter from the white-hot arousal growing in the pit of his stomach, and the bright spark of pain flaring right beside it, as a memory of Tom’s kisses flashed into his mind. No, no, he couldn’t think of Tom, not now, not when he was about to betray the love he’d promised by laying with Tom’s own brother.
Owen pressed himself fully against Drake and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Drake’s body was all hard, muscled strength, almost too unyielding. He parted his lips and tentatively teased Drake’s tongue with his. He felt clumsy and out of his depth, but he had to feel, rather than think.
Drake groaned into his mouth, and then he went wild, devouring Owen with single-minded ferocity. He let go of the bureau and wrapped Owen in his arms, his hands roaming over Owen’s back, his flanks, the nape of his neck, and then down, to grip his arse and squeeze.
He had never been touched there, and Owen yelped and pulled back, blinking up at Drake in shock.
Drake swallowed hard, and his hands smoothed up, coming to rest around Owen’s waist, where they nearly spanned its circumference. Owen felt fragile, in his grasp; he hadn’t felt like that with Tom, had known they were more evenly matched in strength. Or perhaps it was something fundamental to Drake’s being, not just his body — a physical expression of the intensity of his nature.
Their eyes met and held. Drake’s were so dark, so unlike Tom’s bright, merry blue. Owen bit his lip against the sudden pain of that, the hopeless longing for the man he should have married, who should have been here to lovingly show hi
m how sweet the marriage bed could be. Owen didn’t know what part of his thoughts he showed in his own gaze, but it was clearly enough. Drake’s expression hardened, and his hands tightened convulsively.
“You won’t be thinking of him when I’m done with you,” he said roughly. He yanked Owen back into his arms and into another kiss. Drake moved, and Owen stumbled with him until the backs of his legs hit the bed, and they tumbled down together, Drake’s heavy weight landing on top of him.
Drake’s lips moved from Owen’s mouth to the angle of his jaw, sucking a mark there and making Owen cry out; he kissed his way down his throat and bit at his collarbone, while Owen writhed beneath him, too many new sensations assaulting him all at once. Drake had one arm wrapped about his middle, and the other hand tangled in Owen’s hair, tipping his head back to bare his neck for little nips and flickers of his tongue.
“Oh goddess,” Owen moaned. His whole body was aflame, his cock so hard it almost hurt, and his mind spun like a skiff caught in a whirlpool. “Drake — wait, please, I can’t…”
“Arthur,” was the reply, muttered fiercely against the sensitive skin just below Owen’s ear. “My name is Arthur.”
“Arthur, then,” Owen managed. He brought his hands up to brace himself, to gain a little breathing room, but instead he found himself clinging to Drake’s — Arthur’s — broad shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Arthur, please.”
He hardly knew what he was begging for, but Arthur paused, his breaths hot and fast against Owen’s neck. “What’s the matter?” He sounded as wrecked as Owen felt.
“It’s too much,” Owen gasped out. He turned his head just as Arthur lifted his, and their lips brushed, that slight touch enough to overwhelm him afresh. “Please,” he said again.
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