Chapter 23
ARDEN
Leaving Avendene was the right thing to do. It was.
Arden had lived a sheltered life. He was grateful for it.
He’d never had any drive to take his place in society.
To build connections, to throw himself into an endless whirl of engagements and house parties and whatever other nonsense people did to pass the time when they weren’t content to stay at home and appreciate what they had around them.
A friend or two would have been nice, but otherwise Arden didn’t have any reason to feel sorry for himself.
Even someone as sheltered as Arden, however, had only needed to take one look at Jack and Beckett in a room together to know that they were meant for each other.
The energy that he’d felt standing between them that day in the study, just hours before it had all gone so horribly wrong, was a tangible thing.
It had throbbed low in his belly, like a second heartbeat.
It had prickled and danced over his skin the same way the sultry summer air did, right before a storm.
Arden swore the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck had lifted.
It was a force of nature, and Arden wasn’t about to get in the way of that.
He might have the title of duch and wear Jack’s ring on his finger, but as far as he was concerned, Beckett was the one meant for Jack, and Arden…Arden would take what he could get.
He’d be grateful. Truly grateful.
He loved Jack. He always had. Nothing would change there.
And…
And Beckett.
He was so young. Ugh. Arden didn’t know for sure, but if he had to guess he’d say Beckett was somewhere around his mid-twenties, meaning that Arden had at least five but more like six or seven years on him.
It was awful and he hated it.
He hated even more how he could not, for the life of him, stop thinking of the man.
Of the scent of his skin, the movement of his hot, hard body over Arden, the relentless flex of his hips as he’d entered Arden over and over again.
Of the low, satisfied growls that had mixed in with his harsh breathing, encouraging Arden to do more of whatever was pleasing him so much.
Of the way his intense, dark-honey eyes had stared directly down—
No. Arden didn’t like thinking of the way Beckett had looked at him. Not that second time, when he’d been cruel.
And why not? He was angry. Arden had almost killed Jack with his horrible omega need, a need which had at first frightened Arden, then cautiously excited him, and then, finally, devastated him.
Arden was angry with himself. He and Beckett were in perfect agreement there.
He was confident that he and Beckett would also be in agreement that Arden had done the right thing in leaving Avendene.
He’d removed himself politely and efficiently from the picture, and now Jack and Beckett could continue happily on as they had been, before Jack had nobly sacrificed himself on the altar of matrimony.
Jack had said that all he wanted was for Arden to be safe. Arden was safe now at Greylag.
He was more than safe. It was everything Arden had ever dreamed of.
He couldn’t be happier.
Greylag was a small, grey stone house perched atop a headland, with spectacular views across to the sea from one side of the library, and across the moors from the other.
A farmhouse with ideas above its station, the housekeeper cheerfully informed him when she bustled down the front steps to welcome him to his new home.
Arden spent his days there roaming about and exploring the countryside at his leisure. He thought of his father often, and mourned him. He didn’t think of Lassit at all.
He made sure he didn’t.
A few locals popped in to make his acquaintance and ask after his husband the duke, but on the whole, the only people he saw were the friendly, competent servants.
Just as he’d always wanted.
It was wonderful.
Apart from the fact he yearned to be back at Avendene with Jack and Beckett.
Jack wrote to him almost every day. Arden adored it, even though sometimes, it was little more than a line or two on lovely, thick cream paper, to say good morning, and that he was thinking of Arden.
Arden liked to run his fingertips over the paper, imagining Jack touching it with his large, powerful hands; pretending that the warmth of his husband’s touch lingered, and was transferred to Arden.
He hadn’t had anyone to correspond with before, other than his journal, and his journal never wrote back.
Every day, Arden waited eagerly for the post to arrive. He tucked Jack’s letter into the little satchel he took with him on his daily walks, along with a flask of tea, his sketchbooks, and his own writing case, and set out.
He had a favourite rock where he’d sit and pen a reply, including a sketch of some small thing if he had time.
A fat bee swinging on clover blossom, pale pink clematis tangling over the hedgerow, an interesting cloud, or the large hare who liked to sun himself in the sandy grass at the edge of the beach.
He made sure to return home in time to send it that same day.
Jack didn’t mention Beckett.
Arden didn’t know how he felt about that. He didn’t quite have the nerve to ask after him, either.
A handful of weeks passed, and then another. Jack’s notes took on a teasing tone.
He wrote things that made Arden blush and send shifty looks all around, although he was alone on the beach and there was no one to see him getting hot and bothered, other than the odd gull.
He read and re-read all of Jack’s letters.
Those ones, though, the teasing ones, he’d sometimes take to bed and read over again before he blew his candle out to sleep.
And then, after another handful of weeks, Jack wrote to say that he was coming to see Arden, if Arden would permit it?
If he’d suggested it earlier, when Arden’s body and heart were still echoing with the demands of his heat and all the ways it had gone wrong, he’d have been a coward and said no.
But as it happened, Jack had waited the perfect amount of time.
Arden’s response was a clear and eager yes.
Arden woke to rain on his window and, while he usually didn’t let poor weather stop him from taking his morning constitutional through the small park, onto the downs and all the way to the beach where he liked to stand and watch the waves, that morning he did.
He was feeling somewhat out of sorts, and not just because today was one of the days Jack hadn’t sent a letter.
He’d been dreaming again.
He’d been shocked the first time he’d woken up, hips thrusting lazily into the mattress, his breathing ragged and loud in the otherwise silent room, his heart thundering in his hot chest. He’d rolled over, sat up in astonishment, and realised that he’d orgasmed in his sleep.
He did it again.
More than once.
He was mortified about the state of his sheets, but he couldn’t seem to control it. The only thing to do, he concluded, was to see to matters before he slept.
He touched himself reluctantly, felt hollow and lost after it was done, but at least he stopped waking in the midst of a shuddering orgasm he didn’t want.
He stopped reading Jack’s letters so close to bedtime, and it had worked for a while. His body, however, refused to be outwitted.
Just last week, he’d started to do it again.
This morning’s dream had been particularly vivid. Beckett might as well have been there in person.
Arden had woken to the memory of Beckett’s solid weight, of his heavy body pinning Arden down. The hectic rush of blood in Arden’s ears had carried the echo of the demanding groans and growls Beckett had rumbled constantly as he drew close to his climax, and Arden released with a soft cry.
As always, it left him emptied out and restless.
Restless and yet disinclined for exercise. He opted to stay in the library with tea instead, and to doodle in his sketchbook as he sat by the fire. As he had the entire room to himself and no one to disapprove, he ignored the armchair and curled up on the rug.
It was Jack’s fault, he thought crossly.
Almost every note he sent now had Arden blushing and wide-eyed.
His sleep was disturbed, his mornings came with orgasms, and instead of concentrating on his usual nature studies, he’d taken to sketching scandalous things like a strong, flexed arm, a rounded buttock, the cruel curve of a smile on a shadowed face, and beautiful lips with a mocking twist.
He was so engrossed in shading in the cobbled ridges of a tight, flat torso that he never even noticed Jack arrive.
So engrossed that he never even noticed Jack come all the way into the room, and sit in the chair not three feet away from him.
In Arden’s defence, he’d shuffled close to the cheerful hearth and the chair was off to the side and a little behind him, but still.
“Arden,” Jack said softly.
Arden slammed the sketchbook shut and looked around guiltily to find Jack sitting in the chair, his chin resting in his hand as he watched Arden.
Jack grinned. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Oh.
Arden dropped his sketchbook and pencil. He scrambled quickly on his knees over the rug and in between Jack’s boots, reaching out to set shaking hands on Jack’s thighs.
Jack leaned forward, cupped Arden’s face, and lifted it for a kiss.
It was a light, dry press, there and gone. He rubbed his thumbs gently beneath Arden’s eyes.
Arden caught hold of his wrists. “You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
They stared at each other. Arden’s cheeks were already warm from the fire; at the look on Jack’s face, they warmed further.
Jack made an interested noise and leaned down to kiss Arden again.
Arden swayed eagerly towards him, and Jack huffed a laugh against his mouth. He pecked another disappointingly quick kiss on Arden’s lips, then scooped him up and onto his lap, arranging him with ease despite Arden’s ungainly flailing and light, breathless scolding.
When he was done arranging Arden to his liking, he said, “Happy to see me?”
“Yes.”
Jack gave him a knowing look. “Have you been bored?”
“No. I missed you.”
“I missed you.” Jack slid a hand around to massage the back of Arden’s neck.
Arden sagged at once. He had a knee either side of Jack’s thighs, and he slumped and tucked his face in Jack’s throat, inhaling his scent greedily: frost, stone, and warm, crackling fire. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today?” he mumbled against Jack’s skin.
“I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
“It was. It is.”
“And also,” Jack heaved a dramatic sigh, “I was worried that you’d changed your mind, and wouldn’t let me visit after all.”
Arden pushed back to sit upright, and braced his hands on Jack’s chest. “Let you visit? This is your house, Jack, you hardly need my permission. Besides—”
“In actual fact,” Jack said, sinking lower in the chair and curling his hands around Arden’s hips, “it’s your house.”
“Yes, because we are married, but—”
“No.” He leaned up and kissed the tip of Arden’s nose. “I have settled it upon you.”
“I don’t…?”
“I had the house and its land transferred to you. You own it.”
Arden stared at him, aghast. Jack burst out laughing.
“This is not at all the reaction I expected.” He jostled Arden lightly in his lap. “Why so horrified? It was supposed to be a nice surprise. I thought you liked Greylag.”
“You are a nice surprise,” Arden said. “Giving me an estate is not a nice surprise.”
“No?”
“I don’t know how to run an estate. I don’t know the first thing about it, or about owning property. Owning anything, really, other than books and clothes, and Lassit always told me that even those were—”
Jack leaned in and growled against his mouth. “No talk of Lassit or any of his stupid fucking ideas about you, and what you deserve.” He nipped Arden’s lip and drew back.
“All right,” Arden said.
Jack rested his head against the back of the chair and smiled.
Arden tried not to quail under the heavy look in his eyes. He knew what that look meant, now. He’d seen it on Beckett. He liked to see it on Jack, but…it was a bit unnerving. “Can I…?” He played absently with the soft fabric of Jack’s shirt front, smoothing it over and over.
At the glint in Jack’s dark eyes, he realised that he wasn’t playing with the shirt so much as stroking Jack’s solid chest. He froze for an instant, staring at his own hands with wide eyes, wondering at his daring.
Then he shyly continued.
Jack sighed and settled deeper into the chair. “Can you…?” he prompted.
“Can I send for refreshments? A pot of tea and some sandwiches?”
“That sounds nice.”
Arden dropped his hands to his lap and lifted a brow.
“What?” Jack said on a laugh.
“Do you actually want tea and sandwiches, or are you being agreeable because you think it’s what I want?”
“Me?” Jack said, tickling his sides and making him jump. “Agreeable?”
Arden smacked his hands away and scrambled off his lap.
“You’re the most agreeable man I’ve ever met,” he said.
“And I’m ringing for a pint of stout and some bread and cheese.
Or a pie. You’ve no doubt been in the saddle for hours and somehow I don’t think you’re craving a cucumber sandwich and a light blend of lavender and chamomile. ”
“I am not,” Jack said.
Pleased with himself, Arden nodded and marched for the bell pull.
Grillon, the first footman, appeared and took Arden’s instruction before withdrawing and closing the door behind him as quietly as he’d opened it.
Arden drifted back to the hearth, his burst of boldness fading. Jack was such a large, compelling man.
When he had Arden in his arms, or within arm’s length, Arden softened to his presence. When Arden stood beyond his reach, a quiet voice whispered, Wait. Be careful.
Arden was used to being careful. To keeping his distance.
He slowed his steps and came to a halt outside Jack’s reach.
Jack tilted his head. “What is it?”