The same couldn’t be said for his fellow footmen.
“The little duch, eh?” Garvey said. “Bet he’s a wild animal in bed.”
He was, but not the way Garvey was suggesting with his big, stupid leer.
The duch was the kind of wild you had to tame to your hand, be patient with, stroke right. Beckett grunted, hoping Garvey would leave it at that.
Since Garvey was a right tosspot, though, he didn’t. “Marl shoulda given us betas a pop at him, in my opinion.”
They were in one of the upper chambers, Beckett and Garvey heaving the furniture about while the maids danced around dusting and polishing every last inch of the room and its contents. Beckett dropped his end of the heavy chest they were carrying and straightened slowly, eyes locked on Garvey. “You what?”
“Not a one on the estate other than Marl or Vickers wouldn’t have given the duch what he needs. Fuck, even Magda woulda tossed her hat in the ring, I reckon. Couldn’t give him a knot, I s’pose, though you could put something else up there to keep him quiet, if you know what I mean. And you shoulda heard Dunn at breakfast. Moaning about how he didn’t even get a chance, and him an alpha with a knot right ready to go.”
Something in the air must have tipped Garvey off. He set his end of the chest down and looked up at Beckett warily.
The world fell away. “Say that again.” All Beckett saw was Garvey’s face, Garvey’s fists rising cautiously and feet shifting on the gleaming wooden floor as he braced himself into a fighting stance.
“Don’t think I will, actually,” Garvey said.
“That’s right. You won’t. I ever hear you talking nasty shit about my—” he bit his words off with a snap, “—about His Grace’s husband, and it’ll be the last time anyone understands a fuckin’ word you say. I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth down your noise hole and watch while you choke on ’em.”
“Beckett,” Garvey said, sounding shocked.
Beckett could understand why. They were friends. They’d been friends for years. Beckett gave his head a sharp shake and growled, but he couldn’t make himself stand down.
Garvey stayed very still even though he clearly wanted to back away. “Are you in rut?” he said, eyes wide.
“No,” Beckett said automatically, and then, “Fuck. Yes. Ah, fuck.”
He’d been telling himself that the twinges and flares of need twisting at the base of his spine, grinding in his gut, sending out tendrils of sensation into his groin and down his thighs, were the aftershocks of the night that he’d spent with the duch.
No. He’d tipped on over into a rut.
“All right, don’t worry about it,” Garvey said. “I’ll tell Marl. No one expected you to show your face today anyway.”
“I can do my job,” Beckett snarled.
“Yeah. Yeah. ‘Course you can.” Garvey lowered his fists and held his hands at his sides, palms open. “No argument here, mate.”
“Sorry,” Beckett managed to force out.
Garvey ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Why don’t you…?” He paused uncertainly. “Uh. Why don’t you go and find the duch to help you out? Assuming he’s still, uh. Receptive?”
Because while Beckett would be called upon to service the duch and prevent his mind or body breaking under the strain of an unattended heat, it didn’t go both ways. This was just a rut.
Beckett was just a servant.
Ruts were about want. Heats were about need.
It wasn’t the same.
No other alpha at Avendene, in other words Vickers or Dunn, would think for a second that the duch was an option if they were to go into rut. Vickers had his wife. Dunn would go into the village, or maybe sweet-talk one of the stable lads or maids. Or else they’d shut themselves up for a particularly nasty couple of days that would have them howling, but wouldn’t kill them.
Beckett had options, too. Any number of his fellow servants would be happy to help him out.
If it had to be an omega, then he could go into the village or the nearest town and find himself one.
No. Neither of those were an option. Not even for a moment. No other omega would do.
