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, hehadbeen 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’somega.
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 wasintimatewith 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?”
