Page 16 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

A rchie learned a lot about Jasper’s mood by how he knocked on the office door. The knock on Thursday mid-morning, a full week since he’d seen—and kissed—Marigold at the theater, was laced with enthusiasm, a rapping series of taps that had barely reached his ears before his assistant pushed his door open.

“Mrs. McAuley is here to see you,” he said, then his voice dropped in register. “And she brought pie.”

Archie’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “What kind of pie?”

“A strawberry tart.”

His favorite. Shite. “Let her in.”

If it were a simple fruit pie, or even a pasty, Archie wouldn’t be concerned. But if his oldest sister was on his doorstep with a tart in her hands, he was in serious trouble .

“Florence,” he gushed when she walked into the room, wrapping her in a tight hug after she passed the tart off to a covetous Jasper.

“I’m angry with you,” she replied, her face pressed somewhere between his pectorals. How someone of his size had six diminutive sisters was beyond him, but he was wise enough not to let their stature deceive him.

The Grant girls were nothing but trouble.

“Why are you angry?” he asked as he released her, gesturing towards the open chair. “And why you give Jasper my pie?”

She raised her pert nose in the air as she sat, dropping bags of purchases around her feet. “Who says the pie is for you? Mum specifically said it was for Jasper, not you.”

Oh, lord. He was in serious shite if his mother intended for her pie to bypass him altogether. “You didn’t answer. What have I done now?”

“You haven’t been to dinner in ages . Months, Archie. Mum wonders if you’re upset with her, and Billy doesn’t even remember your face.”

Archie scowled. “Billy is not even a year yet,” he said, referring to his newest nephew. “He can’t distinguish between me and a sheep. And it’s been five weeks—”

“Six!” she interjected.

“Which is hardly months.”

“It’s more than one month, and that doesn’t change that Mum is devastated . ”

Archie sighed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Florence always had a flair for the dramatic, particularly when it involved their family. Desperate to escape the house, she married when she was sixteen to a saddler’s apprentice only a few years older. To their pleasant surprise, Patrick had a talent for leatherwork and, in the intervening decade, had made a name for himself in southern Yorkshire.

“Mum isn’t devastated,” he said, wondering if he was saying the truth. “She’d tell me.”

“I’m telling you, she is.” She affected her voice with a high pitch and pressed the back of her hand to her brow. “ Where’s my baby Archie? Oh, what have I done to hurt him? ”

“I’m not her baby, and she has done nothing. I have a new business, remember? And you wouldn’t bring a tart unless there was something else going on. What is it?”

She had the decency to blush. “Fine, Mum isn’t angry with you.”

“I knew it.” He didn’t know it.

“But I’m worried about her.”

Any relief he felt at knowing his mother wasn’t actually angry with him was washed away on a wave of fear. “What’s wrong?”

Florence bobbed her head from side to side. “She’s getting older, Arch. She can’t get around as easily. The chores are harder. Her hands hurt.”

He’d noticed the rheumatism knotting his mother’s knuckles the last time he’d been at the farm. Which had been… Christ, it had been too long. “Are the girls helping? ”

Two of his sisters still lived at home, the oldest at seventeen and the youngest eleven. “Yes, but they have school. Some fences were damaged in the storm last week, and the girls weren’t strong enough to repair them. Patrick is too busy to get away, and I can’t help with the baby at home.”

“Do I need to go to the farm, Flo?” he interrupted, sure he would suffocate under much more of the guilt she layered on him.

She recoiled. “No! You could help, but you don’t have to.”

“You promised you’d tell me if I needed to go home.” He couldn’t fight the panic lacing into his voice. His four older sisters lived in the village nearest the farm, and they’d sworn they would let him know the moment their mother couldn’t manage the modest property alone anymore. He had prayed the practice would be taking in enough income by that point to hire some workers to help his mother, maybe even enough to rent a townhouse in Rotherham, where the younger girls didn’t have to wake before dawn to attend school. Where Samantha could be courted by someone decent and Eloise could read every book in the library and—

“And it’s not time for that. But Arch, what if she falls, or…” Florence trailed off, and his mind supplied the memory of last year, when she’d gotten dizzy carrying the laundry in. He’d come home to repair a hole in the barn’s ceiling and found her in a puddle of her own blood.

“I still want to move her into town, closer to you,” he said, and Florence gave him a soft smile. The oldest siblings had concocted their plan after their mother’s fall. With families of their own, none of his older sisters could support their mother, so the responsibility fell to him. Not that he resented the burden, but he saw it as an opportunity to make amends for his failures in the past. Archie would buy the finest townhouse he could afford, the perfect place for his mother and sisters, maybe even with staff, a housemaid and a cook. He’d live in his tiny flat above the office for as long as necessary. “But I don’t have the funds yet.”

She grabbed his hand over the desk. “I didn’t expect you to. We’re all trying, putting aside whatever we can. The responsibility isn’t entirely yours.”

But who else would the responsibility belong to? He’d carried the load for so long he had no idea how to put it down. “I have a great case now, and it might make the difference I need.”

Her brows rose. “Really? What is it?”

“A divorce.”

She wrinkled her nose and sat back. “A divorce! Arch, is that what you want to spend your days doing?” She lowered her voice, as though their shared childhood was a dirty secret Jasper didn’t already know about. “Will you be alright doing that sort of work?”

“If it pays, I have to be.” He ignored her scoff. “And this case is… special.”

“Special how?”

Despite being adults, he still had the unreasonable need to impress his oldest sister, the one who escaped their miserable household when he’d lacked the intestinal fortitude to do so. “She’s an aristo. ”

Florence’s eyes popped. “ She ? Your client is a woman ? You won’t win.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And I might. I’m putting together a good case.”

“Who is the lady?” Florence beamed. “I won’t know her, of course, but I’ll feel clever when the gossip rags get the story after I have it. Is she dreadful?”

“No, not at all! She’s lovely.”

Archie realized his mistake immediately. Florence’s lips spread into a wicked smile.

“Oh, my dear Archie. You have feelings for the scorned woman!”

He pushed to his feet. “I do not . Marigold is my client, and—” Dammit!

“Marigold!” Florence echoed, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “Is she beautiful? I’d bet she is with the way you’re blushing. Does she know how you feel?”

“You’re worse than Samantha, wanting everyone to be in love,” he grumbled, referring to a sister who still lived on the farm. “And of course not. It would be highly inappropriate.”

“But you need someone in your life, Arch. Patrick and I have talked about it—”

He gaped. “You and Patrick talk about my romantic life?”

She ignored his interjection and barreled on. “And we both agree that you need to find someone and settle down. Mum and the girls think so too. Then you could take the farm.”

His insides froze up. “I don’t want the farm. I want my practice, my life here.”

“You could live on the moon, for all I care, as long as you’re happy.” She winced. “Although I’d miss you. A little.”

He pressed his palm to his chest. “Oh, Florence, how sweet,” he drawled.

“Hush,” she said, standing and gathering her bags. “You’ll come to the farm this weekend.”

“I’m busy this weekend.”

Her lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Aah, I should have known. You’ll be chasing your divorcée’s skirts, won’t you?”

“I will not! For Christ’s sake, will you give it a rest? She’s—we’re—it’s not like that!”

She pointed at his face. “You’re blushing! You want it to be like that , don’t you? You’re pining for her!”

He raked both hands through his hair. “Florence, stop.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. McAuley, Mr. Grant, but…” Jasper stood by the open door, looking chagrined. “You have a visitor.”

The Grants were not quiet people. Anyone standing outside would have heard every word—

Oh. No. “Who is here?”

Jasper cringed. “Lady Croydon.”

Florence swung her gaze to Archie and grinned like a cat who found a mouse sleeping in its bed. “ Lady Croydon ? Is that the lovely divorcée?”

Archie already had his hands on his sister’s shoulders and was steering her out the door. “Thank you, Jasper. I’m going to see my sister out.”

“Lady Croydon,” Florence cried when she saw Marigold standing in the parlor, and Marigold’s eyes widened. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Christ, the sight of Marigold, even flustered in the frenzy that was his sister, pushed the air from his lungs. She stared at Florence, aghast, and Archie noticed several things at once.

She was at his office, unprompted, early in the morning. Her lips were chapped, like she’d been chewing on them, and the tips of the fingers of her gloves stretched out. Her mouth worked as though she couldn’t even get words out.

Marigold was overwhelmed, petrified.

Something moved in Archie’s chest, bellowing fix it fix it fix it, and he rushed forward, pulling Florence out of a curtsey so exaggerated her knees were nearly on the floor. “Lady Croydon, this is my eldest—”

“And wisest!” she cut in.

“—sister,” Archie finished through clenched teeth, “Mrs. Florence McAuley. Florence, Lady Marigold Torcross, Marchioness of Croydon.”

“Marchioness? Gracious , Archie,” Florence whispered, but since she was a Grant, she lacked the capacity to be quiet in awkward situations, and Marigold sucked in a breath.

“My apologies, my lady,” Archie said, his cheeks burning. “My sister was leaving.”

“Lady Croydon, I do hope you’ll enjoy a piece of the strawberry tart I brought Archie.”

Jasper’s brows shot up, and Archie swore he heard the man make a territorial growl.

Florence never took her attention from Marigold. “I’m sure you’d love it, even though we’ve just met. It’s delightful. My mum and I made it from ingredients from our farm. Did you know Archie has a farm?”

Mari swallowed. “I d-d-did.”

Oh Christ, end this now! “Thank you, Florence, but you really should go.”

Florence gasped, pressed her hand to her chest. “I’ve just had the most marvelous idea. Lady Croydon, you should visit the farm!”

“Florence,” Archie spat as he took her by the shoulders and walked her around Marigold, towards the exit. “Thank you for a delightful visit. It was over far too quickly, as usual.”

“You’d better be at the farm on Saturday,” she hissed under her breath as they reached the threshold. “Toodle-oo, Lady Croydon!” she called. “I look forward to meeting you again. Perhaps for tea?”

“A p-p-pleasure, Mrs. McAuley,” Mari said weakly from behind his back.

Archie gave her a strained smile, then glared at his sister. “Goodbye, dear sister. It’s been a delight, as always.”

He snapped the front door shut, trapping Florence on the street, then leaned against the surface to breathe. Marigold watched him, wide-eyed.

Then Jasper stabbed a fork into a slice of tart and ate.

Archie carded his fingers through his hair and exhaled in a rush. “Lady Croydon, may I speak with you in my office?”

She nodded and followed as he opened the door and gestured her through. By the time he was at his desk, he felt as though he’d run all the way to Rotherham and back.

“I’m so sorry for my sister,” he said, his words tumbling over each other. “She can be overwhelming—well, so can I, so I suppose it’s a family trait, but she only wants the best for me. She brought me pie, mostly to make me feel guilty, but also because I forget to eat.” Good lord, Archie, stop! “I’m so sorry. What’s happened? Is something amiss?”

She nodded as she clutched her hands, and tears formed along her lower lids.

Archie was by her side in a second, kneeling at her feet. The position felt oddly right, as though he were meant to worship her. But now he only wanted her comfort, to battle whatever had caused this strain.

And he had a feeling he knew exactly what it was. “Was it the marquess? Did he do something to you?”

She nodded again, the tip of her nose red, and he nearly burst through the wall to go wring the arse’s neck. “What did he do?” he growled.

“I went to Harrow Hall t-to see the b-b-bees,” she stammered, and he took her hand in his, squeezed it, even though he knew he had no right to do so. She pulled in a shuddering breath and released it. “The marquess was there. We argued and… I may have made a t-t-terrible mistake.”

His brows knit together. “What mistake? ”

“He said I refused him from my b-b-bed after Matthew. That I encouraged him t-to t-t-take a mistress. The letters are meaningless now. You’ll lose the case.”

“Mari, it’s our case, not mine or yours.” He took her other hand now. “And he said that?” When she nodded, he ground his back teeth until his jaw ached. “He’s lying. I’ll wager you weren’t well after Matthew was born.”

Her cheeks flushed as she shook her head. “No, I suffered melancholy for several months.”

His mind scrambled as he put the pieces together, then his stomach plummeted.“Christ, that man is despicable , Marigold. He’s trying to confuse you. You never would never knowingly send him into another woman’s arms.”

“Then why would he say that?” A tear raced down her cheek, and he reached up to catch it with his thumb.

The gesture was far too intimate for their circumstances, but he couldn’t help it. It was either catch the tear or ride to Harrow Hall and knock the marquess’ teeth out.

“He doesn’t want the divorce because he’ll look like a fool. If you doubt your account, perhaps you won’t pursue it.”

Her eyes fell shut. “He said he’d allow Reggie to stay home for schooling if we remain married.”

His brain turned to porridge again, but this time it terrified him. “He what?”

“If I end all this,” she said, “if I agree to remain married, Reggie won’t go to Felton. ”

His lips parted, words escaping him as this new information attempted to penetrate the veil of hurt clouding his thoughts.

Mari wouldn’t have to suffer the scandal of a divorce. She would keep her children safe.

But she’d lose her freedom.

And he would lose her.

“Mari,” he whispered, “what about you?”

Her brows furrowed. “What about me?”

He stood, pulled her with him. “You want to stay married to him?”

“No!” Her hands fluttered at her waist. “B-b-but I want my children to be safe.”

“So do I, but how long will it be before he makes another ridiculous demand? Or belittles you and questions your intelligence?”

She recoiled as though he’d struck her, but panic was boiling over his skin. His rational side argued that losing this case would mean the end of his financial security, losing the farm, a continued existence in legal obscurity.

But his heart screamed louder. If I lose this case, I’ll lose her .

“Your children are worth fighting for, but so are you.” His voice trembled on the last part, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. He’d throw himself on the floor and beg if he had to, anything to keep her from walking away from him. “I’ll fight for you, Marigold. I’ll do anything within my power to keep you and your children safe from that man, but if you accept this offer, I can’t do anything. You’ll be back under his control again.”

She shook her head. “What if we lose? ”

We . That question haunted his nightmares, but that one word, we , gave him hope. He wasn’t fighting alone, and neither was she. “I won’t lose, I swear it.”

She sniffed. “You can’t p-promise that.”

“No, I can’t.” He squeezed her hands, even though he had no right to touch her like this. No right to crave her presence so desperately he’d ask her to take this chance on him, to trust him when he couldn’t control the outcome. “But I can promise I’ll stop at nothing to win. That I will fight until my last breath leaves my body.”

Her lips parted, and he wondered when he’d stopped talking about the case, when he’d let his mind slip into thinking of her, of the woman he’d met at the party, the woman he dreamed of sharing a life with.

She bit her lower lip, then took her hands away. “I t-t-told him I’d think on it.”

“Good.” He had more time, another chance to convince her to trust him. Though, lord, was he the man who should be responsible for her entire future, the safety of her children?

He could hardly remember to eat a sandwich. He focused on a raised red welt on her throat. “What’s that?”

Her fingertips grazed the mark as she stood. “Oh, I was stung yesterday.”

“Your bees did this?” He pushed her hair away to examine the wound swelling where her jaw met her neck. “It must have hurt like the devil. ”

She stiffened and recoiled, and he withdrew his hand. Met her gaze.

“Marigold…” he breathed. “I won’t hurt you.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked away. “I’m fine. I’ve b-been st-st-stung before.”

His fingers twitched at his side. “But you still need to be cared for.”

“I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Archie took the risk and moved closer, lifted one hand tentatively. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

She swallowed, her throat working for a moment before she met his gaze. Her nod was barely perceptible, but his ribcage loosened all the same.

He hastened to his desk and dug through the top drawer. “I burned my finger last month on a candle—don’t ask. Jasper got me—aha!” He palmed the small jar of salve and hurried back to her side. “May I?”

He uncapped the salve and swept some of the rose-scented balm onto his fingertips, which looked wildly oversized to be caring for such a delicate woman.

But she wasn’t delicate, was she? She only believed herself to be.

Her eyes were hooded as he leaned forward, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch. He wanted to curl his hand around her neck, hold her close and let her fall apart. But she held herself so tight, so contained and protected behind her walls. How had he gotten past them that first night? “How are your bees? ”

She shuddered, and her pulse slowed under his fingers. The wound was well and truly covered in salve now, but he would not release her, not yet.

“Well. I harvested several liters of honey.” Her voice was breathy, and she licked her lips as though she could taste the sweet nectar.

Damnation, but he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wrap her in blankets and feed her, kiss every inch of her skin until she trembled with pleasure. Then he’d make her repeat, again and again, that she was strong and brave, capable and incredible until she believed it. Because he already did.

He spoke without thinking. “Come to the farm with me.”

She blinked as she stepped back. “Your farm? Why?”

“You can think there about what the marquess offered,” he said, hoping he wasn’t on the precipice of making a tremendous mistake. “It’s peaceful.” A lie. Between the herd of sheep, a petulant rooster, and his pestering sisters, there was no peace to be had at the Grant farmstead.

But he needed to see her there, to know how she might fit into his life, even if it was an impossibility.

She seemed to wait an excruciatingly long time before nodding, a small bob of her head as her lashes flashed over her hazel eyes. “I’ll go.”

Archie grinned as a shaky laugh escaped. “Really? Wonderful! You’ll have to meet my mother and more sisters, though.”

Her smile was slow, unfurling like a flower in the first light of a long-awaited dawn. “I’d like that.”