THE GRUDGING CONSORT

two

Had their drawing-room always been so shabby? Owen supposed it must have been, but it was comfortably so, when filled only with his own family and their equally comfortable neighbors. With two such tall, worldly, and well-turned-out gentlemen standing in it, it seemed small and poky. Not the sort of setting someone like Miss Bowman would wish to greet her callers in, with old-fashioned china ornaments on the mantel and jars full of withered flowers resting on doilies occupying several small tables — though perhaps it would do for Owen and his freckles.

The doctor’s mandated week of rest having passed, his mother had allowed that Owen could meet and thank his rescuers, who had been dropping in singly or together every day since to ask after him. Owen had waited, heart pounding as he shifted from foot to foot, as they ran the gauntlet of the household’s one maid and her insistence on finding a place in the cramped hall for every hat and walking-stick before guests could be allowed to pass. But now both Drakes had entered the room, and were even now taking their turns to bow to the smiling Mrs. Honeyfield. She greeted them both with a pleasant effusiveness, making it seem that they did her a great honor by visiting, while being in no way obsequious.

Owen wished he had half her aplomb. Instead, he stood rather awkwardly just behind her, the space between settees not allowing both Owen, and his mother’s voluminous skirts, to occupy it side by side.

“The pleasure is entirely ours, ma’am,” said the taller of the two brothers, the one his mother had said was Arthur, the eldest. The low, serious tone sent a shiver down Owen’s spine, for no reason he could quite discern.

Arthur Drake’s appearance matched his voice: strongly masculine and somewhat forbidding. Deep, dark brown eyes, a long, straight nose, and a chiseled jaw gave his visage a harshness only slightly belied by fuller lips than one would expect in such a face, and by mahogany hair worn a little longer than was currently fashionable.

Owen had to admit to some disappointment in the elder Drake. If he only changed his cleanly tailored suit for a billowing shirt and breeches, he could have stepped straight out from that new romance Owen had borrowed from his cousin, Withering Sights, whose sneering, shaggy-maned hero had spent hundreds of pages gnashing his teeth and shouting at everyone. That would appeal to someone, Julia perhaps, but Owen had always longed for a more traditional hero: noble, smiling, charming and bright.

And here, like the answer to his prayers, was the other Mr. Drake, Thomas. He was all of that, and more, for he was quite real, and even now clasping Mrs. Honeyfield’s hand in both of his own, while gazing at her with as much apparently sincere admiration as if she were a princess. He had a marked resemblance to his brother, but his eyes were a brilliant blue, and his features, while similar in shape, were all softer and more refined. Even his hair, while also dark, had strands of golden brown interspersed, and had clearly been cut by an expert.

“Mrs. Honeyfield,” he said, his voice as light and smooth as the spring sunshine slanting through the window. “Thank you for inviting us. And for allowing us to finally meet your son properly.”

Owen bristled a little at that. He knew Mr. Drake was only being courteous, since Owen lived unmarried with his parents, but he was of age. And being goddess-touched might have destined him to be another man’s, to belong to him much as a bride would, but it did not make him some simpering fool to be kept on a shelf by those who had more knowledge of the world. Most young ladies didn’t even tolerate being treated like that, and neither would he, dammit.

He stepped forward, as much as he could around his mother’s gown, anyway. Good goddess, it was humiliating to encounter these gentlemen first unconscious on the dirt, and then quite literally behind his mother’s skirts.

“More to the point, the doctor did not allow me to meet you. Good afternoon, Mr. Drake,” Owen said. He nodded to the younger. “And to you also, Mr. Drake.”

Owen’s heart thudded away, and he sounded a little breathless, but at least he had spoken. Mr. Arthur Drake raised an eyebrow at him, and then he bowed, just deeply enough to be polite without appearing as if he were saluting a lady.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Honeyfield,” he said in that deep, slightly husky voice.

“Indeed it is!” put in Mr. Thomas Drake. “Although I hope you’ll allow us to call you Owen, since we’re neighbors and I hope will be great friends. And I must be Tom, because when I hear Mr. Drake, I expect Arthur to answer. You can be stuffy for the both of us, Artie,” he tossed over his shoulder with a grin, and then turned back to Owen with a wink.

Owen couldn’t help but smile in return; the mischief on Mr. Drake’s — Tom’s — face was too infectious. And really, Mr. Arthur Drake’s glare at Tom, presumably for the use of Artie, was rather comical, especially as it so well bore out his brother’s accusation of stuffiness.

“Of course you may, Tom,” Owen said. “I hope we will be great friends too. As long as you intend to stay in the neighborhood, of course?”

“Yes indeed,” Mrs. Honeyfield said. “Please do tell us you mean to make a permanent home here?”

“Tom prefers town life,” Mr. Drake said, a little pointedly, “but I intend to remain.”

“I preferred town life. But now I begin to think the country has charms I never imagined.” Tom looked Owen directly in the eyes as he said it, and Owen, blushing, began to think he liked the country rather more than he had before as well.

Mr. Drake frowned at them both, and he gave Tom a look Owen couldn’t quite decipher. He did know that it was disapproving, although of what, precisely, was unclear. Of Owen, most likely. Well. Mr. Drake could take his disapproval of Owen’s barely genteel station in life, his freckles, and anything else, and shove it.

“Tom,” Owen said, rather more warmly than he would have a moment before, “if you want to see a bit more of what the country has to offer, perhaps I could show you our orchard? It’s not expansive, but it’s all starting to blossom. I doubt there’s much of that in town.”

Tom’s smile held slightly too much smugness, but it charmed Owen all the same. How could it not? Tom was the model of a perfect, handsome gentleman, made to dazzle a country lad without much experience of the world. Owen knew it, but he was still incapable of resistance.

“There’s nothing I would like better,” Tom said.

Mrs. Honeyfield moved to the side a little to let Owen pass. “Then I’ll order tea, and you can have a cup when you come in the house. Mr. Drake, perhaps you’ll allow me to answer any questions you have about Trewebury and its environs, while the lads see the orchard?”

Mr. Drake could hardly do anything but agree, but Owen had to stifle a laugh at the ruddy color that rose into his tanned cheeks. The elder Drake couldn’t be more than thirty, surely — hardly old enough to be happy to discuss dry local history with the older generation while his not-much-younger brother waltzed off to the gardens to enjoy a light flirtation. At least, Owen hoped that was what they were going to do, and his whole body fizzed with excitement at the thought.

Tom held out his arm, Owen took it, and they escaped out the side door from the drawing-room. As soon as they were decently out of earshot — probably — Tom burst out into a full-bodied laugh.

“Gods above and below,” he said on a last chuckle, “poor Artie! His expression! I’ve hardly ever seen him so put in his place by anyone, and to have it done quite by accident by a lady who’s not—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and went on with: “By a lady who’s not someone he can just dismiss with one of his cutting remarks.”

Owen knew that wasn’t what Tom had been going to say, and his chest squeezed, a pang of loyalty and love for his unsophisticated but most wonderful mother nearly spoiling his enjoyment of the moment. Someone as bright and merry as Tom Drake couldn’t think cruelly of his hospitable and kindly mother. After all, Tom had not said what he had meant to say. Surely his better nature had easily asserted itself over whatever witty and harmless impertinence had first been on the tip of his tongue.

And anyway, the sun shone clear and brilliant out of a nearly cloudless sky, as blue as Tom’s eyes; a light breeze from the sea felt like a blessing from Owen’s patron goddess. No one could entertain doubts when he had a small garden, fragrant with early daffodils, spread out before him, and beyond that and a quaint garden gate, an orchard full of blossoming trees and lush spring grass to lose himself in along with the handsomest man he’d ever met.

Owen allowed himself to laugh too, though it came out sounding shaky and nervous. He surreptitiously wiped his free hand on the side of his trousers, and hoped the damp palm resting on Tom’s fine gray coat-sleeve wouldn’t leave a mark.

“He did look very severe,” Owen ventured. “But my mother meant only to show him every courtesy. She and my father are so very much obliged to you both for bringing me home last week.”

“And you?” Tom said. Owen glanced up through his lashes to find Tom’s gaze fixed on him intently. “Do you feel yourself much obliged?”

His teasing tone and the laughing glint in his eyes almost masked the indelicacy of the question, and Owen’s whole body drew as taut as a harp string ready to be plucked. Tom’s heat along his flank and thigh left the other side of his body, bathed in sunshine as it was, feeling cold by comparison. Those gleaming eyes drew him in, and his smile held the promise of every sweet fantasy Owen had ever spun, alone at night in his bed.

“Of course I am. You almost certainly saved my life,” Owen said.

Tom pressed Owen’s arm against his side, leaning in just a little more. “I won’t presume on it, I give you my word. But it does please me to know that you have no choice but to be kindly disposed toward me. Can you blame me for it?” His voice had dropped to a softness that had Owen nearly mesmerized.

“I—I don’t think I could blame you for anything.” Owen’s voice had gone rather high, and he flicked his tongue over his lower lip to moisten it. Tom’s gaze caught on Owen’s mouth, and his eyes went heavy and dark. “Although I don’t know why you would care what opinion I might have of you.”

“Don’t you?” Tom’s voice, weighted down with so much implied meaning, made Owen’s breath catch in his throat. Tom’s smile grew wider. “Well. Let’s see that orchard you promised me, and perhaps I’ll expand on the subject.”

Feeling as if he walked on the air, rather than on anything as mundane as dirt, Owen allowed himself to be led off to the orchard.