Chapter 7
BECKETT
Beckett was the first to wake the next morning. He never needed to be called from the dormitory like some of the others. He prided himself on being up and out well before Marl had sent someone banging up the stairs to the servants’ quarters to turf out any stragglers.
He felt fantastic.
Sore, aching, and fantastic.
He blinked his eyes open slowly, sighing, and looked straight into Jack’s handsome face.
He smiled. “Mhm,” he said, a soft sound of approval and welcome at the back of his throat.
Then he remembered.
This wasn’t any old morning. And while the bed was huge and soft beneath him and the ceiling soared high above, this wasn’t Jack’s bed.
Jack wasn’t the one he’d spent hours shagging until they passed out.
The surprised but happy expression that had settled on Jack’s face when Beckett smiled at him faded. “Good morning,” he said quietly.
Beckett was sprawled out on the bed and Jack was sprawled in a wingback chair brought over from the seating area by the enormous bay window.
The glass was still streaked with rain. Jack had his stockinged feet up on the edge of the mattress, ankles crossed, and was sipping coffee from a delicate cup.
A soft weight rested on Beckett’s chest, and he squinted down. A mop of gingery hair spilled over his skin and a small, long-fingered hand rested over his heart.
“Fuck.” Beckett glared at the vaulted ceiling.
“Indeed,” Jack said with wry amusement. “Here, have some water.” He held out a glass. It was only half full, and Beckett realised why when he accepted it and his hands shook, sloshing the water about.
Just as Beckett had been watching the duch and making him drink all night long, Jack had been doing the same for Beckett. Good job. Beckett had never come that much in one night in his entire life. If Jack hadn’t kept him hydrated, he’d have a hangover like you wouldn’t believe.
The duch gave a quiet grumble of complaint when Beckett tried to shuffle further up the mound of pillows.
Sliding a warning look at Jack that dared him to say anything about it, he stayed where he was and drank his water despite the awkward angle.
He passed the empty glass over to Jack and curled his arm around the duch’s narrow shoulders, nestling him closer.
“I think,” Jack said, “that I’m going to leave you two together for a while.”
“No,” Beckett snapped.
“Why not? I think it would be good for you and Arden to—”
“He’ll be scared if he wakes up and you’re not here.”
“He’ll be fine. The worst of the heat’s passed. He might have a second wave in a few hours, but it’s gone for now,” Jack told him. “Can’t you tell?”
“Yes. Ain’t that. Heat or no heat, he’s just plain scared of me.”
“Why? What did you do to him?” he asked mildly.
There was nothing accusatory in his voice, but the question still got Beckett’s hackles right up. “Not a damn thing,” he said. “The little mouse kept scurrying away every time he saw me. Managed to ask me to bring him tea the once, and that was it.”
“He’s shy,” Jack said. “He’s been very sheltered, and that certainly hasn’t helped build his confidence, but at heart, Arden is a gentle, shy man.”
When Beckett had brought the tray in and set the things out on the table, the duch had been hyperventilating over by the hearth.
That wasn’t shy, it was odd.
And a gentle, shy omega was not Beckett’s idea of a good time, anyway, not by a long shot.
Especially ones who were as short as the duch—he barely even reached Beckett’s chin, which had made fucking him an interesting experience—or who were as delicate as the duch.
Or who had big, beseeching grey eyes like the duch’s, that skittered away from making direct contact instead of meeting his gaze like a man.
Like someone in charge. Like someone Beckett was supposed to obey.
Only, to Beckett’s frustration, he had been interested in the duch.
At first, he’d told himself it was mere curiosity. After all, the man was here to stay, unless he got bored in the country and decided to flitter off to spend Jack’s money in town.
It hadn’t taken more than three days for Beckett to work out that the duch wasn’t the kind to flitter, spend money, or willingly subject himself to town nonsense.
Beckett caught himself gently smoothing the duch’s hair back. Aware of Jack watching him, and cross about it, he stared down at his omega.
Jack’s omega.
He was an odd one, yes. He was also a pretty thing. Nothing special, but yeah. Beckett could see the appeal, even though he himself was one for strong, masculine faces and bodies. He traced the duch’s delicate jaw, from the point of his sharp chin all the way along and up to his ear.
He was finely made. Like the porcelain cup Jack was back to sipping his coffee from, watching Beckett over the rim.
About as breakable as a porcelain cup, too, or so Beckett had thought before he’d spent an entire night rutting the man. He’d taken it. He’d taken it so well.
The thing was, while Beckett refused to be interested in the duch, the duch had been very interested in Beckett. He’d thought he was being subtle about it. He really wasn’t.
Beckett’s intense awareness of the duch should have warned him of what was coming, shouldn’t it? The duch, who peeked at him through the crack of the morning parlour’s door, watching Beckett stride past.
Who lingered at the farthest sweep of the curving staircase to snatch a look at Beckett down below in the Great Hall.
Who sneaked into one of the back rooms to stare out of a window when Beckett was taking his break in the kitchen garden outside, and ducked in a flurry of movement when Beckett cut his gaze up to make it clear that he knew he was being watched.
He shouldn’t have been able to hear it from where he was, but one time, he was almost certain the duch had squeaked out loud in alarm.
The duch might well be a shy man and an odd one to boot. He was definitely afraid of Beckett.
“He knows about us, don’t he?” Beckett said to Jack, even while he ran his thumb back and forth below the duch’s plump, sore-looking mouth. He had stubble burn around his lips. Beckett ruthlessly crushed the warm burst of possessiveness that flared up at the sight.
“He does.”
The duch’s nose twitched as he scrunched his face up in his sleep. Beckett noticed with irritation that he had an adorable, asymmetrical sprinkling of freckles on his left cheekbone and up into his hairline. The duch wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue and sighed, softening against Beckett.
“Did you tell him?” Beckett asked.
It could have been one of the other servants.
The thing between him and Jack wasn’t a secret. While they hadn’t exactly gone at each other in the Great Hall, they hadn’t tiptoed around, either. Didn’t pretend not to notice each other. People were free to draw their own conclusions.
Whatever conclusions people did draw, they kept to themselves. Not one of Beckett’s fellow footmen or the stable lads or gardeners he drank with, played cards with, swapped stories with, ever mentioned His Grace. The only one who’d dared bring it up to Beckett’s face was Mrs Foley.
She’d called him into the housekeeper’s parlour not long after he and Jack had started up, sat him down and given him cake, and asked outright if he was intimate with His Grace.
When he’d said yes, she’d asked if it was what he wanted, because she’d have a word with the duke if it wasn’t, or if Beckett felt obliged.
She’d have done it, too. The little woman sat across from him, in her sixties and all of five feet tall on a good day, would have marched herself up to Jack and given him a right scolding.
Then again, from what Jack had said about his childhood, she’d had a hand in raising him, and had plenty of practice in scolding.
Mrs Foley wouldn’t have told the duch about them, Beckett was certain of that. Neither would Marl.
One of the other footmen or the maids might have slyly let something drop, although no one would come out and say it.
“Of course I told him,” Jack said. “I told him before I married him. He came into this with his eyes open. I’m not giving you up, Beckett, which I’ve told you.”
“D’you reckon that’s why he’s afraid of me? Because you and me are lovers?”
“No. He’s afraid of alphas. With good reason.”
“Well,” Beckett said blankly. “He’s out of luck, then, isn’t he?” He gestured between them.
“He was. Not anymore. We’ll keep him safe.”
Beckett scowled and tightened his arm. This was far from the first time someone had mentioned the duch’s safety. He didn’t like it. “Was he not safe before?”
“No. He very much was not.”
Beckett wanted more information on that at once but the duch chose that moment to wake up. He slid a soft hand over Beckett’s chest as he slowly tipped his head back and smiled.
The smile didn’t last long. He was still clearly half-asleep.
The instant he realised where he was, he did his very best to launch himself off the bed and almost succeeded, except Beckett got up on his knees, hooked an arm around the duch’s narrow waist, and scooped him back beneath Beckett, where he belonged.
He didn’t fight. He froze. Beckett didn’t think he was even breathing.
At least this time he didn’t all but tear himself off Beckett’s knot.
“Jack,” Beckett growled demandingly, and glared at Jack as if to say, Fix it.
“Arden,” Jack said, setting down his coffee cup and sliding quickly onto the bed beside them.
Yes. Better. Beckett rolled off his omega and shoved him towards Jack before scooting up behind the duch and slinging a leg over his warm, naked thighs.
Jack was holding the duch’s pretty little face between his hands, whispering to him.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re all right. You’re safe. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
The duch was still shaking, which Beckett wouldn’t stand for. He tightened the protective arm he had around the duch’s waist and tugged him closer. The duch softened and a tentative hand landed on Beckett’s thigh. He gave an encouraging hum.