Page 25 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

A rchie rapped three times on the front door of the townhouse on St. Helen’s Square, waited less than a minute for a response, then rapped again.

How could anyone expect him to wait when he had such exciting news?

The door cracked open and a blond boy stuck his head out. “Who are you?”

His heart stopped. “I—are you… hello!”

The boy raised a skeptical brow.

Archie tried again. “I’m a friend of your mother’s. Arch—Mr. Grant. Is she in?”

He scanned Archie from head to toe and back, and, based on his expression, found him lacking. “I’m Mr. Matthew Torcross, sir.”

Something inside him shifted, rearranging several organs to make room for this new feeling. Marigold’s son, one of them. The reason she had instigated the divorce .

Archie extended his hand, and it engulfed the child’s. “Mr. Archibald Grant. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Torcross.”

Matthew remained skeptical. Smart lad.

“Do you make my mama happy?”

Archie tilted his head. “I beg your par—”

“Matthew, who are you speaking to?”

“Whom,” piped up another boy’s voice from inside. “ To makes it an object, so you’d say Whom are you speaking to , or better yet, to whom are you speaking .”

A pause, then he heard Marigold speak again, much closer to the door. “Thank you, Reggie, I—”

She pulled the door open wide and caught her gasp.

Archie waved dumbly. “Hello. I met Matthew.”

Her cheeks were pale, and she glanced down at her youngest son. His eyes were pinging between them like he was watching a lawn tennis match. “Yes, this is Matthew. D-darling,” this directed to the boy, much to Archie’s chagrin. “Why don’t you go back to your book?”

He huffed. “Because I’m bored with it. I wanted to go to the park, but Nanny has a headache.”

“P-probably because you insisted on t-teaching her cricket in the library.”

Archie straightened. “You play cricket? I’d love to learn. I’m a rugby player myself.”

Matthew beamed, suddenly approving of Archie’s presence. “Rugby! I’ve always wanted to play. Mummy thinks I’ll get hurt.”

Marigold’s lips flattened. “You will. ”

“You won’t,” Archie said at the same time, and flushed. He cleared his throat. “Master Torcross, may I have a word with your mother?”

He looked thoughtful for a long moment before nodding and stepping aside. Marigold, for her part, seemed less than eager to welcome him, but motioned for him to enter and pointed him towards the parlor. A young man sat at a chess table in the corner, looking at Archie expectantly.

Reggie. “Lord Torcross, I presume.”

He hesitated, then stood and glanced at his mother for introductions. “Reggie,” Marigold said, “this is Mr. Archibald Grant. He is the b-barrister helping with my case. Mr. Grant, Lord Reginald T-torcross, Viscount Torcross.”

Archie bowed. “My lord, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” he mumbled, fixing his gaze at the knot of Archie’s necktie.

“Did you really play rugby?”

Archie jumped as Matthew came into his vision from the side, his eyes bright and seeking.

“I still do,” Archie said, throwing a glance at Marigold. Her features remained tense as she chewed her lower lip. “Would you ever—”

“Mr. Grant,” Marigold burst in. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I—” He shot his gaze to the boys, who were still contemplating him like one would a wild animal in a menagerie. The comparison was rather apt. “Yes, may I have a word in private? ”

Her jaw ticked as she nodded, pulled at her nail, and motioned towards an adjacent room. “Reggie, Matthew, we’ll b-be just a moment.”

Reggie had already gone back to the chess game, but Matthew watched Archie with stars in his eyes.

Marigold left the door slightly open behind them, and Archie’s breath caught at the sight of the room. A small office, the walls robins’ egg blue with white trim, and neat bookshelves above bracketing a desk. A third wall boasted a tall mullioned window overlooking the mews. Her desk could not have been more different from his: a slight, delicate piece of turned cherry with intricate engravings and inlaid mahogany accents, a small stack of correspondence in one corner, a finger vase with a single yellow rose.

Archie’s desk looked as though a mail cart had exploded.

She turned to him, her lips pinched. “Why are you here?”

Why was he there? Oh, right. “I had news about the case.”

“Then send a messenger and I’ll g-go to your office,” she hissed. “Not here, not with…” She gestured towards the other room where her boys were presumably distracting themselves. He’d bet Matthew was eavesdropping at the door.

“I didn’t know they’d be here. When did they arrive?”

“Yesterday.” She bit her bottom lip, and he wanted to reach out and rescue the abused flesh.

He lowered his voice. “You told them about the divorce?” When she nodded, he stepped closer, aching to wrap her in his arms .

But she stepped back. “Yes. They know.” She swallowed, looked around as though seeking something to put between them. “What news d-do you have?”

“Pearl’s letters arrived this morning, dozens of them. All in the marquess’s hand.” Impossibly, she paled further. “I haven’t read them yet, but I hoped you could help me go through them.”

Please say yes. I’ve missed you.

Her nostrils flared. “Yes. I can.”

“Mr. Grant?”

Their attention whipped to the door, where Matthew had cracked it open further. “Matthew,” Marigold chided. “You’re not t-to interrupt adults.”

“I know, but…” He shifted on his feet. “The sun is out, and I was hoping Mr. Grant would show me how to play rugby.” His grin spread wider, and Archie glimpsed his resemblance to his mother. The wide, boundless smile that rarely appeared on her seemed a fixture on her son. “Please, sir?”

Archie glanced at Marigold, who hesitated for a long, pregnant moment, then nodded once. “Of course. But you’d best change your clothes. You’re going to get messy.”

Do not lust over his forearms . You’re irritated with him.

Sadly, Marigold’s eyes weren’t listening to her mind’s most urgent plea .

She lifted her hand to shield her gaze from the bright sunlight streaming down through the open lancet and arched tracery windows of the ruins of the medieval abbey at the center of the botanical gardens. Even the ruins were neat, the crumbled stone having been gleaned years ago to build the winding trails throughout the parkland. The shadows cast by columns that once held an awe-inspiring cathedral roof now formed the outlines of their makeshift rugby pitch.

Archie had shed his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, hence the indecent display of forearms that seemed determined to shake her out of her pulsing anxiety. Her boys had followed suit and disposed of their coats, and now the three stood in a loose huddle, Matthew clutching an oblong leather ball that Archie had charmed off some young men who’d just finished their own game.

“To review,” he said, “how do we move the ball?”

“Running, kicking, or passing,” Matthew cried.

“But never forward,” Reggie added, gravity in his tone.

Archie beamed, and Reggie puffed up his chest a bit. “Excellent. Now, you two are on your own team, and I’m a defender…”

Soon the boys were lined up with Archie several meters down the field, crouching.

Those. Thighs.

They strained against the fabric of his trousers, testing the strength of the seams. She remembered how she’d bounced on them with his hand beneath her skirt, imagined how he’d use that strength if she were to take him to bed —

Marigold removed her hat and used it to fan herself. It was a rather hot day, after all.

If only she could keep her thoughts of Archie confined to sheer lust. But watching him with her boys, playing and gifting them with attention their father never had, allowed more pernicious considerations to sneak in.

During the long walk from St. Helen’s Square to the Yorkshire Museum Gardens, she’d had time to scrutinize her reaction to his unexpected appearance at the townhouse. It wasn’t the first time he’d stopped by without warning, but this visit upset her more because she hadn’t planned what she’d say to her sons about him, his role in her life.

He was more to her than a barrister or lover.

Was lover even an appropriate moniker? Aside from the day she’d been suffering through her courses, he had not touched her, had hardly spoken to her in the bustle of preparing for her trial.

And she wanted him to touch her again, to do all the things he’d promised that night at the farmhouse. To strip her bare and taste her, then stretch his long body over hers—

“Oy, focus!” Archie called, and Marigold startled from her thoughts. Had he somehow known what she was thinking?

Oh. Matthew was chasing a red squirrel across the lawn.

When he’d gathered the boys again, Archie backed up several paces. “You run and try to get past me,” he shouted, “and I’ll try to tackle you.”

“No!” Marigold was on her feet and marching over the grass before she realized what she was doing. “No, it’s not safe. ”

Archie turned, wiped perspiration from his brow, and squinted at her. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“I’ve seen your games.” She was close enough now to see how his hair had darkened at the roots. A rogue curl stuck to his temple. “They’re smaller than you, and—”

He lowered his voice and cupped his upper arm with his wide palm. “I won’t hit them like I do in a game. I wouldn’t hurt them, Marigold. You know that.”

“They can still b-b-be hurt, and I—I—” She cut off with a full-body tremble, and Archie stepped further into her space, flooding her senses with his musky scent, the size of his body. Protect me , her instincts screamed, and she wanted to fall against his chest and let him surround her, alleviate any fear over the safety of her children.

Protect us.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the strength of that desire, fisted her hands at her side to avoid reaching for him, pulling him in.

“Marigold, please, love,” he whispered, lower than the boys could hear, his breath stirring the loose hair against her temple. “Trust me. I’ll take care of them.”

A vision filled her mind, of Archie playing with her children, making a home with her. A place where she was secure in herself, where she needn’t live in fear. That the security she felt at the party, which seemed like a lifetime ago, could be real. Forever.

She opened her eyes and stepped back, putting space between them. A daydream, perhaps, but a future with Archie was impossible. She was leaving England, and he’d never leave his family, the firm he had worked so hard to build. She would have to be strong enough for the three of them on her own.

“B-b-be careful, will you?” she stammered.

Was she imagining the disappointment on his face?

“I told you I would be.” He retreated, as though expecting her to object again, but she bit her cheek to restrain herself.

She remained in a state of agitation, even after the boys had run at Archie multiple times. Most attempts they passed or dodged him without incident. Once, Archie caught Matthew and swung him into the air with a performative growl.

Marigold’s heart nearly stopped, but Matthew’s unabashed laughter stilled her, and when Archie set him down at last, her child was red-faced and sweaty, putting on his best fearsome expression while trying not to giggle.

Before long, both boys were running straight at Archie, having abandoned the pretense of dodging him. He lifted Matthew up and spun him around, but was careful to follow Reggie’s lead, waiting until the boy initiated contact before catching him around the waist or below the arms, then coached him on a more effective maneuver. By the time the sun began to set, Matthew and Reggie were stumbling, exhausted, and at long last retreated to their mother’s side.

“Thank you, Mum,” Matthew said, his head lolling against her shoulder. He smelled like sunshine and grass, and her heart squeezed until she thought it may burst .

“Thank Mr. Grant for p-playing with you.” She glanced at Archie and immediately wished she hadn’t.

From this distance, she could see how perspiration made his shirt stick to his chest, the muscular lines of his shoulders and arms distinct beneath the thin fabric. His cheeks carried a high color, his eyes bright as he grinned down at the boys with pride.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, and something about the way he said the last word sent electricity sparking in her core.

She shifted on her feet to relieve the ache.

Reggie panted by her side, a flush up his neck and cheeks. “Thank you, Mum,” he echoed. “I love you.”

“Me too,” Matthew echoed, his words slurred as his head lolled. Archie put a steadying hand on the boy’s back.

Her throat burned, and a tear snuck free as she glanced at Archie. His eyes were similarly damp as he glanced between Reggie and her.

I love you , he’d said. Matthew parroted the statement whenever Marigold said it, but Reggie? He held the words close to his chest, sharing his affection sparingly and without discernible reason. But this?

Archie must have recognized the importance of such a declaration, because he studied her, anticipating her response.

“I love you b-both, so much,” she managed after a long moment of calming the throbbing in her throat.

The both had been a careful addition. Because if she was being honest, she’d have to admit that she might love all three of them.

Archie splurged on a hack to carry them from the gardens to the Croydon townhouse, and Matthew fell asleep against his mother’s side before they’d passed the guildhall. Reggie remained seated beside Archie, his gaze darting up on occasion. Once, the boy had almost smiled, the same reluctant tug of the lips that his mother showed so often.

Not now, though. She stared into the middle distance as she stroked her younger son’s hair, smoothing the unruly locks again and again.

He wanted to know what she was thinking with a desperation that felt like a rope tugging behind his sternum. Something had shifted in her, some final piece that kept her from trusting him falling away, and clearly she was rattled by it. Would she let her guard down now? Could he see all of her—not in a physical sense, of course, but in the way he’d seen her the first night they met? He craved that woman, the one who was free and bold, who rescued bees and stole caramels like she stole kisses.

The flirtatious housekeeper was waiting when they arrived, and Archie leaped down from the carriage to assist Marigold with her descent, then together they helped a near-catatonic Matthew and much more alert Reggie enter the house.

“He’s exhausted,” the housekeeper said of Matthew.

“And filthy,” Marigold added, but there was fondness in her tone. “Mrs. Addington, would you help me with a b-bath for him? ”

The housekeeper assented and rushed off, and Marigold turned to Archie, lowered her voice. “I know we still need to t-talk about the letters.”

“They can wait.” He glanced into the parlor to see Reggie sitting at the chess board. “Do you think he’ll want to play a game with me?”

She pursed her lips, as though unsure how she should respond. “I think so.” She held his gaze for a long moment, then blinked, looked at her feet. “I should help Matthew—” she gestured to where the boy had curled up into a circle on the settee, “—and ask Mrs. Addington to clean the furniture.”

Archie chuckled. “I’m sorry to have caused a mess. I’m good at that. Should have warned you.”

“I already knew.” That sweet, reluctant smile emerged. “And thank you, again.”

Christ , but he wanted to kiss her. To remind her he would make her happy, would make sure her boys were safe.

But that was not a privilege he’d have.

Once she shuffled a whining Matthew up the stairs, Archie entered the parlor and sat across from Reggie. “Fancy a game?”

Not meeting Archie’s gaze, he started rearranging pieces. “I always play black,” he said without further explanation, so Archie merely nodded, sat, and moved his pawn to king four.

Reggie matched the move.

They each moved three more times before Reggie spoke. “You’re helping my mother divorce my father.”

Archie lifted his knight and placed it on king five. “I am. ”

Reggie lifted a black pawn, put it on queen bishop three. “Is she doing this because of me?”

Archie held his queen, let the subtle grooves of the carved ivory play over his rough fingers. “In the way a good mother does, yes. She wants to protect you and your brother.” He put the pawn down, closer to the black king.

Reggie moved his knight. “I should be protecting her. I’m the man of the house now.”

Archie’s insides shifted as his heart bottomed out. He moved his own knight with trembling fingers. “You’re still young, my lord. You’ll have plenty of time to protect her.”

Reggie’s bishop took Archie’s pawn. “I’m not a boy. I can be of use. Mum doesn’t think that, though.”

They made the next several moves in silence while Archie contemplated Reggie’s words, neither claiming a piece from the other. How often had he wished he’d stepped up when he was a lad, protected his mother and sisters from their father’s abuse? Would their lives have been different if he’d taken action?

Should he have urged his mother for a divorce? Would he have testified in a hearing if given the chance?

Reggie claimed another pawn while Archie was distracted.

“Did you ever hear your father be cruel to your mother?” Archie asked, his heart pounding.

Reggie nodded, moved his castle queenside.

“And…” Archie swallowed as he slid his knight into place, “would you ever speak to a judge about it? Check. ”

Reggie nodded and moved the king out of danger. “I would. I need to protect her.”

Archie lifted his queen, placed her down again, into the center of the fray. “Checkmate.”

Reggie blinked several times, examining the board as though Archie had made an error. Then he smiled, a slow, creeping thing that made his cheeks bloom. He extended his arm over the board and was in the middle of shaking Archie’s hand when Marigold entered the room again.

Soft curls of hair haloed around her temples and her cheeks were flushed. “You’re still here?” she asked, but there was no condemnation in the question.

“Mr. Grant beat me,” Reggie said as he stood and started out of the room.

“You did?” She gave him an incredulous look.

“He did,” Reggie called from the threshold. “Should I bathe as well?”

“Yes,” Marigold said over her shoulder without looking away from Archie. “You b-beat him?” she asked as soon as Reggie was out of earshot.

He gave his best cocky smirk. “You needn’t sound so dubious. I’m a good chess player.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You’re p-proud of b-beating a child?”

“Marigold, he’s not a child. He’s a young man and perfectly capable of playing a competitive game of chess. Do you always let him win?”

She hesitated. “I d-don’t want to cause him additional strain. ”

“But you’re not giving him a chance to show you what he can do.”

Marigold exhaled on a huff. “It’s my responsibility t-to keep him safe.”

Archie stepped closer, until he could see the shadows left by her lashes on her cheeks. He wanted to smooth the hair from her brow before blanketing it in kisses. “He can’t grow if he’s kept in a cage.”

Her breath caught and her lips flattened. “You wanted to see me? About the letters?”

Right. The case. Always the damnable case. “Yes, I have the letters in my office.”

She gave a brisk nod. “I’ll come by tonight after the children are asleep. Would that b-be alright?”

Marigold in his office after dark? His pulse ratcheted up to another level, until he wondered if he might levitate out the window of the St. Helen’s Square townhouse. “Yes, that would—yes, of course.”

She bit her bottom lip and he almost expired on the spot. “Until t-tonight, then.”

What might happen tonight? Every instinct he had screamed for him to take advantage of the privacy and kiss her, caress her, bring her pleasure like she deserved, make her scream his name so loudly all of York came running—

But he’d just spent the afternoon with her children, and the specter of losing them felt so much darker, so much heavier, that he couldn’t take the risk. Not without her initiating it.

He swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Until tonight.”