“Tense? I’m not tense,” Beckett lied. “I don’t have any reason to be tense.”
“No, you don’t,” Noah said. He stretched in a way that had all Beckett’s nerves firing at once, letting out a satisfied groan as he did. Then he dipped down to peck Beckett’s lips and said, “Good morning. We have to get to work. It’s already nearly seven, if your clock is right. Did you remember to wind it last night?”
Noah rolled over, threw back the bedclothes, then bounded out of bed. Beckett would have smiled at the sight of Noah’s lithe, beautiful body and his pert ass—which had just enough red glowing in conspicuous places to remind Beckett of the way they’d spent their evening the night before. But the way Noah rushed to the mantel to check the clock, then set about straightening everything on the mantel, kept Beckett from being entirely at ease.
Noah had…fits. They weren’t wild tantrums full of screaming and thrashing that Beckett had always imagined madmen to have. They were more like bursts of energy that propelled Noah into obsessive action. He straightened everything on the mantel, then took a turn around the room, rearranging things on Beckett’s bureau, then making certain every painting hung on the walls was hanging straight.
“What are you lazing about in bed for?” he said, turning to look over his shoulder at Beckett as he grabbed Beckett’s robe from a hook inside his wardrobe. “It’s time to get up and conquer the world.”
“You’re right,” Beckett said, climbing out of bed himself and fetching a second robe from the wardrobe.
Noah was already in the hall, though. When he heard Noah call out, “Good morning, Gardener. How’s the weather?” he cringed. Although Gardener knew all about Beckett’s proclivities—the man even shared those proclivities, but in a discreet way—that didn’t mean Beckett was comfortable with Noah announcing to anyone within earshot that he’d started sharing Beckett’s bed.
Noah’s restlessness continued through their morning routine. Beckett caught up with him in the washroom and did his best to bathe and shave while Noah fluttered around him, brushing his teeth, combing his hair, then washing the bathroom mirror because a tiny spot of toothpaste had dotted one corner.
It was the same when they went down to breakfast. Noah had to help Miss Taylor lay out the breakfast dishes, then to serve Beckett’s food. He drove her to distraction to the point where the poor maid left the dining room in a huff.
“She’s a bit touchy this morning,” Noah commented once he finally sat down to eat, his leg continuing to bob under the table. “Isn’t there something about women becoming particularly agitated at a certain time of the month? Of course, I wouldn’t know about those things. Sarah was always agitated.”
Beckett was beginning to have a good idea of why Noah’s sister was always agitated. He was beginning to have an idea about how Noah could lose his job in London, and, unfortunately, about why Marcus had thrown him over. But instead of making him want to toss Noah out, like everyone else had done, the clear difficulty Noah had with life only made Beckett want to find some sort of solution or cure for his friend.
Not his friend. If he were honest with himself, he would admit Noah was his lover now. Whether Noah knew it or not.
“I hope we can go down to The Slope this evening,” Noah said as they were almost finished breakfast. Noah had wolfed his down so fast Beckett was afraid he’d be sick. “I haven’t seen Marcus in ages, and I feel as though I’m falling far behind in my wooing efforts.”
Beckett’s stomach clenched at the statement, and he put his coffee cup down without taking a sip.
“And you haven’t seen Ravenswood or your other friends for ages either,” Noah went on, sawing frantically at his sausage. “Unless you count Lawrence Cowper calling the other day. What did Lawrence want anyhow?”
Beckett swallowed and placed his napkin on the table, his appetite gone. “Nothing, really,” he lied. “He was just paying a social call.”
In fact, Lawrence had come to urge him to get rid of Noah. All of Beckett’s friends were anxious that he was spending so much time with Noah and that he hadn’t been to The Slope for a week. They feared for his health and his safety with a madman under his roof. Marcus had been telling stories about the things Noah had done when they were together, and now Lawrence and the others had it in their heads that Beckett was somehow in danger.
It was ridiculous, of course. Noah might have been high-strung, but he was not dangerous.
“We should go down to The Slope soon,” Noah repeated once they’d finished with breakfast and headed out the door to the glassworks. “How are we ever supposed to advance our romantic claims if we do not spend quality time with the objects of our affections?” Noah asked.
As he waited for his driver to bring the carriage around, Beckett glanced sideways at Noah. Did he really not understand what was going on between the two of them?
Noah seemed to hear that thought and inched closer to Beckett. “Of course, I haven’t minded our practice at all,” he said, brushing his fingertips over the back of Beckett’s hand with a lascivious look.
“Nor have I,” Beckett replied with a saucy look.
If Noah had been a woman, he would have leaned in and stolen a kiss. He might have risked it anyhow, but Mrs. Conners, the housekeeper from across the street, was in full view, receiving a delivery from the milkman, and Miss Irving, the Forsythe’s nanny, had just brought the children outside next door.
His carriage arrived, and as soon as he and Noah were safely ensconced inside, Noah slipped one arm around him and unbuttoned one of the buttons on Beckett’s jacket so he could slide his hand as close to Beckett’s chest as possible.
“It’s a shame we have to go to work at all,” he said in a low, humming voice, nuzzling Beckett’s neck. “I, for one, could do with a great deal more practice. I have to get things right for Marcus.”
Beckett’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. He had no idea whatsoever whether Noah was focused on him and the undeniable heat between them or whether he truly saw him as nothing more than practice for when he won the man he really loved. It felt as though the carriage were galloping toward a precipice and he didn’t know whether to leap off or take hold of the reins to slow it down.
Most problematic of all, he desperately enjoyed Noah’s amorous side.
“Practice makes perfect,” he said, brazenly pulling Noah into his arms for a kiss.
Noah tensed, as if Beckett had slapped him. “Do…do you want me to be perfect?” he asked as though the weight of the world hung on that question. Before Beckett could answer, Noah seemed to drop about ten years from his age as he went on with, “I’m trying to be perfect. You deserve perfect. I want to be perfect for you. No, that’s not right. I want to be perfect for Marcus. Fuck, I don’t know—”
Beckett clamped his arms around Noah, holding him still. “Shh,” he quietened him. “It’s alright. Just breathe for a moment.”