Page 13 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)
A rchie chewed the inside of his cheek as he watched the crowds leaving the theater. Marigold had gone in some time ago, long enough that his driver demanded more payment and Archie’s legs had been itching for movement.
When the doors burst open at last, scores of men spilled forth, setting out on foot or packing four to a hack before departing. Moments later, the wealthier gents, distinguishable by their fine clothing and the carriages lined up on the curb to spirit them to their destinations, began their departures.
But after a quarter hour, a dozen carriages still lingered, and none of the dancers—nor Marigold—had emerged from the stage door.
Unable to wait any longer, he jumped from the hack and handed off more coins, praying the driver would be patient. With his frame, there was no point in trying to be subtle and lurk, so he swung open the front doors of the theater and froze.
Dull lamplight from hanging gasoliers cast a yellow glow over the gentlemen carrying flowers and other gifts. Footmen in white coats circulated with glasses of champagne while the dancers, still in their costumes, giggled and preened under the men’s attention.
Archie’s gut lurched. Was the marquess among these men, seeking the favor of his mistress? Had Marigold seen him and run?
His gaze halted when he saw her, his lips parting in a silent gasp.
Marigold stood in a small cluster of men, a dancer at her side. She held a coy but uneasy smile, a warm blush on her cheeks—no, not a blush, but rouge , and her eyes had been kohled. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils as he approached, the rest of her coming into view. Her proportions alone would have made her stand out amongst the women. Despite the bodice’s low cut, her bosoms were hardly falling out, nor were her legs long enough to make the asymmetrical hem reveal anything more tantalizing than her trembling knees and slim calves.
The man next to her wore a fine bowler and suit, his cigar clamped between his lips as he leaned towards her. Archie’s jacket and trousers, more suited to work than an evening in the theater, may as well have been on fire for how they irritated him. Yet another reminder that he was unprepared to operate in this world of excess and sin.
As Archie watched, her smile emerged, blooming like a flower turning towards the rising sun, and he felt an echoing tug in his chest as heat grew, arousal and admiration and something akin to wonder. Her kohl-rimmed eyes found him, and she startled. Then her lips, stained with color, spread into a proud grin .
It was sinful how much he wanted her still, how he longed to elbow his way through the crowd, press her against the silk-covered wall and take her, pull those husky moans and whimpers from her throat as he thrust into her. He wanted to see those berry lips stretched around his cock, the color smeared over her mouth as her head fell back on a moan of bliss. The knowledge that he was the first to make her scream out in pleasure, primal as it was, made him hungrier for another taste of her. But fuck, it was impossible, unethical, profoundly stupid, even for him.
His legs moved of their own accord and, as though sensing the intensity thrumming in his veins, the men parted until he joined the circle around Marigold and her companion. The man at her side gave Archie a dismissive once-over and snorted before edging his shoulder forward. “I missed you on the stage, lovely,” he drawled, and Marigold’s eyes darted to Archie before she returned her attention to the dandy speaking.
“Oh, I’m st-still learning,” she demurred, and the man chuckled as he stepped closer, his gaze drifting over her cleavage. Archie saw red.
“You know, I’m an excellent teacher,” he purred, “and if you’re looking for a protector—”
“I’m not,” she interrupted. “I’m not looking for anything.”
Something burst open in his chest; for a moment, he wondered if his heart was actually popping like a bubble, but this felt more hungry and base. More than mere lust—he was proud of her, thrilled to catch a fleeting glimpse of the woman who’d stolen caramels and laughed at his jokes. He hadn’t imagined the magic of that night. She was still there, just hidden. He couldn’t have Marigold and never would, but hell, he could at least pretend.
“That’s right,” Archie boomed, and the bustle of the men fell silent. His eyes met Marigold’s and held as she sucked in a breath.
“She’s mine.”
She’s mine.
She’s mine.
She’s mine.
The words bounced around Marigold’s skull. Something inside her snapped into place upon hearing them delivered in his growl, a connection that had laid dormant since that night at the party sizzling back to electric life. The collective outrage at her claiming from the men admiring her had been fuel added to the fire, and energy, power , thrummed beneath her skin, the air in her chest so buoyant she wondered if she might lift off the ground.
“Bollocks,” Agnes hissed at her side. “Murray’s comin’!” She stepped into the charged space between her and Archie, and the moment evaporated. “She’ll find you later,” she said to Archie before grabbing Marigold’s shoulders and pushing her down a narrow corridor towards backstage.
“Who is Murray?” The adrenaline was sifting into anxiety once more as they raced along .
“Our stage manager,” Agnes replied as she pushed Marigold into her dressing room and slammed the door behind her. “Change! Before he catches us!”
Marigold yanked at the ribbons of her borrowed skirt as Agnes worked her bodice free. “What will happen if he d-does?”
“Call the constable, probably,” she said as she dragged the corseted top over Marigold’s head.
“The constable?” The fabric muffled her cry, but both women felt her urgency as Marigold pulled on her serviceable and drab aubergine day dress. Their fingers clashed as they tightened and buttoned.
Agness huffed. “Thinks he personally owns everything in this show. The man is always looking for thieves, heavens knows why.” When she was finally close enough to rights, Agnes grabbed Marigold’s shoulders. “I’ll send you the letters. I promise, I’ll do whatever I can to help get you the divorce.”
Marigold pulled her husband’s former mistress into a quick, tight embrace before Agnes threw open the door and stepped into the hall, pushing Marigold behind her. “Go!” she hissed over her shoulder.
She didn’t have to be asked twice.
“Mr. Murray!” Agnes called gleefully, but Marigold was already hurrying in the opposite direction.
“Who was the new girl in my dress , Pearl?” Murray rasped, his voice thick with an Irish brogue .
“New girl?” Agnes exclaimed as Marigold strode down the hallway, dodging dancers and stagehands, her vision focused on the stage door, her escape. “I have no idea!”
The dank, putrid summer air in the alley was the sweetest smell she’d ever known, and she filled her lungs with relish as she bustled towards the main street. If she could find the hack and Archie—
The door bounced open, and she heard Agnes calling. “I don’t know who she was, Murray!”
She was around the corner before she could hear the stage manager’s reply, her heart thundering so vigorously she saw spots in her vision. Panic gripped her throat as she searched the street for a hack, any sign of Archie.
“Marigold!”
There he was, striding from beneath the electric bulbs over the theater’s main entrance, his eyes blazing like a warrior coming to defend his village.
His hands circled her upper arms. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “I—Murray, he—” Her words stuck on her tongue, all of them, not just the stuttered ones, and frustration and fear tangled in her throat.
His nostrils flared. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No, b-b-but he’s trying to find me.” She swung her gaze to the alley in time to see Murray emerge, hands fisted, and she gasped.
Archie growled, balled his own hands, and made to move towards the stage manager, but Marigold stilled him with a hand to the chest. “Hide me,” she whispered .
He watched her for a beat before he nodded, crowded her until her back pressed against the theater wall, tucked partially into a shadowy alcove between two columns. The heat of his body scorched hers, her skin humming in the places he made contact.
His wide palm spanning her hip.
His fingers on the length of her neck, just below her jaw.
His sturdy thighs against hers.
She’d seen the way his gaze darkened, how he shifted on his feet when he saw her. His lust was a palpable thing, practically visible in the air between them, and now, with fear and adrenaline rushing through her, intoxicating her, she stopped thinking.
And kissed him.
Archie’s breath caught as her mouth pressed to his, the slickness of the rouge on her lips altering the taste of him only for an instant before the heady mix she recalled in her dreams rushed back, richer and sweeter than she’d remembered. He overwhelmed her senses, pushing out any lingering doubt or fear, anything that wasn’t him.
He hesitated only a moment before his tongue pushed past her lips, tangling with hers, and desire and power fueled her to meet him as an equal. The kiss was like being balanced on the head of a pin, the balance so fine and precipitous, the potential for harm inescapable but thrilling.
And she wanted to push them over into ruin.
She’s mine .
Lady Croydon would never kiss a lover in public, allow a man to claim her, but Marigold? She wore a dancer’s costume, rouged her cheeks and lips, let her tongue tangle with a man’s, rocked her hips against the steel of his erection, now pressed against her lower belly, and she wanted more.
“ Fuck, Marigold,” he groaned, pulling away and shaking his head before looking around. “He’s gone.”
Icy reality poured over her, making her shiver in the sticky night air. What Archie had done was merely to protect her. She was no more his than he could ever be hers. “I’m sorry,” she managed, her voice choking.
He didn’t meet her gaze, and she wished to collapse into herself, hide from him and everyone around them. What had she been thinking? What had she risked ? If anyone were to recognize her, had seen what they’d just done, the consequences would be unimaginable. Donning a costume wouldn’t disguise who she was, the scorned wife of an unfaithful aristocrat. The timid, pitiful woman destined to be forgotten and ignored.
“There’s the hack,” he said. She noted he hadn’t responded to her apology as they hurried across the sidewalk to the waiting carriage. “The train leaves in a quarter hour. If we hurry, we can make it.”
The train that would bring them back to Yorkshire, to her impending divorce and the uncertainty that plagued her.