Perhaps it was the stress of being a newlywed all alone on this big estate, barely having exchanged a word with Jack since standing at the altar with him. Or the stress of losing his virginity to a stranger. Or the stress of losing his virginity at all. Because it wasn’t technicallyfunny, what Beckett just said, but the idea of Arden throwing him out was so ridiculous, that Arden giggled.
Beckett’s face lit up at the sound, and the tension in the big arms locked around Arden’s waist eased.
Arden blushed and looked away before glancing back up. “I don’t think I could manage that,” he said. “Even if I wanted to.”
Beckett’s small smile remained, and a thick dark brow lifted. “And you don’t?”
“No,” Arden said.
Beckett made another of those little sounds at the back of his throat. It was considering, and a little disbelieving.
Arden glanced away again. “Anyway, I apologise for intruding, and if you’d be so kind as to let me go, I shall leave you to your rest.”
“Not a kind man, me,” Beckett said. “And you’re the one who’s supposed to be resting.” He slipped a hand down Arden’s back and shaped it over a buttock.
Arden sucked in a breath.
Beckett squeezed. “Unless you’re here for a shag, Your Grace?”
Arden had been slowly, unconsciously, relaxing against the enormous footman. As if it wasn’t scandalous for the pair of them to be lolling around together, naked, in Jack’s bedchamber.
At the insolent tone, however, the crude invitation and the heavy-lidded, sexual look that Arden now realised he’d seen before on other men—he’d always thought they were tired, or drunk—Arden went cold.
“No,” he whispered, trying to keep a grip on his composure. It was a valiant effort. It was unsuccessful. The panic rose. “No.”Not without Jack. He flailed, pushing and shoving to get free.
Beckett didn’t fight him.
He slapped and writhed his way out of Beckett’s arms, out of Jack’s bed, and bolted.
CHAPTER 9
ARDEN
Arden slammed the door of his bedchamber shut and leaned against it, legs trembling.
Good gods. What a time he was having of it. Married not quite two weeks ago. And then, all at once, his first heat, first kiss, first f?—
No. He wasn’t going to call it a fuck, even though that’s what it was to Beckett. Even though seeing to Arden had been just another tiresome part of his job. Slightly more effortful than handing someone down from a carriage, carrying luggage, or waiting woodenly at the back of the room during dinner ready to attend to a guest, but in the end, no more meaningful.
Arden was a romantic soul, however.
First timemaking love, he told himself fiercely. That’s what it was.
He could call it what he liked.
He straightened, wincing at the twinge in his inner thighs and the dull, grinding ache at the base of his spine.
Vigorouslove.
He tottered over to his bed and stood staring at it. The covers were in disarray. At this time of day, a maid would normally have been in long since to straighten them, to light the fire, to bringhim a ewer of warm water if he cared to wash, or to call the footmen with their buckets for a bath if he cared to soak.
He groaned at the thought of it.
Yes. Yes, he wanted to soak.
He reached out a hand and touched the bed tentatively, as if it might turn on him, and bite. Or as if the covers could wind around him like vines and draw him in, draw him down, hold him captive while Beckett did things to him.
Exciting, delicious things.
