Page 3 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

“ T his is a hunting lodge?”

Howard Barrowman, nicknamed Barrel by the rest of the Rotherham Rovers for his rotund build and ability to hold copious volumes of wine, slapped Archie on the back with enough force to send him stumbling forward. “If it has ale, I don’t care if we’re at a bloody palace.”

They’d barely stepped out of the hired hack before Archie’s jaw dropped at the sight of the structure hosting the traditional gathering of players. The late afternoon sun cast brindled streams of gold across the manicured lawns as it pushed through the ancient oaks bordering the pastures beyond. Leaded windows studded the three-story facade, twice as wide as it was tall. Warm electric light poured through the open French doors and from the torchieres placed at intervals along the flagstone path to the front door. Archie unrolled the sleeves of his linen shirt down his forearms, buttoning the cuffs before sliding his jacket over his tweed waistcoat. “Do they know we’re rugby players?”

Barrel licked his palm, then slicked the top of his ruddy hair into submission. “If not, they’re about to find out!”

Archie winced, rubbed the back of his neck as they approached the house. He’d been sore before the game started, having stayed up far too late the night before, bent over contracts for a business acquisition. Starting his own legal practice meant he took any work sent his way, even if he wasn’t an expert in that area of the law. Last week, he’d solved a dispute between two neighboring farmers over a turnip field before settling an estate argument over a potentially haunted grandfather clock. He would do anything, it seemed, if the money continued to fill his fledgling coffers.

“I’d love to stay longer, Barrel, but you know I’m an early riser.”

Barrel chuckled. “You’re not a farm boy anymore. The cows won’t miss you.” He guffawed at his joke—if one could call it that—then threw himself through the wide front doors and into the palatial building. Archie followed and stumbled at the sight.

The entryway alone could fit his family’s entire farmhouse, stretching two stories high with thick wooden beams supporting a balcony that wrapped entirely around the second floor. The walls were barely visible beneath a riotous display of taxidermied game animals alongside portraits of the long-deceased men who presumably sent said creatures to their demise. Servants in matching livery fluttered between the rooms on either side, one billowing smoke and the distinctive clatter of snooker balls colliding. The other room housed a kaleidoscope of society in the mantle of recreational rugby players—factory workers, tradesmen, professionals, and farmers—sitting at baize-covered tables and being dealt cards by footmen.

Archie let out a low whistle but broke off his assessment when Owen Morgan, a veteran of the Welsh national squad who enjoyed a rousing game of chess as much as pummeling opposing players, punched his arm and grunted in greeting. Archie was the team’s captain, but Owen served as the de facto manager, de facto in that he resisted the title but refused to hire or appoint anyone else for the task. He’d left Wales two decades prior after a disagreement—the story had long become the stuff of legends, and Archie doubted it would be unearthed until Owen was in his grave. Upon first seeing the Rotherham Rovers during a regular practice, Owen dubbed them hopeless and appointed himself as the Rovers’ leader.

“Evening, Owen,” Archie said with a grin, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder. Most men were smaller than Archie, but that fact irritated Owen to no end.

“Ah, go play wit’ yer granny,” Owen grumbled and stomped his cane on the floor, and Archie chuckled. “I need ye to meet the countess.”

Archie nearly choked on his tongue. “There’s a countess here?” Had he hit his head harder than he’d thought during the match?

Owen rolled his eyes in a movement so reminiscent of Archie’s younger sister that Archie almost laughed aloud. “It’s her place. Her husband’s a patron o’ the Hornets, so show yer manners. ”

For a man dependent on a cane, Owen propelled Archie with remarkable ease through the throng to the woman holding court by the entrance to the card room. “Milady,” Owen bellowed, sounding more like an Oxford don than a grizzled Welsh expat, “the captain of the Rotherham Rovers, Mr. Archie—hell, what’s yer last name again?”

Archie winced, but bowed his head. “A pleasure, milady. I appreciate your hospitality.”

The countess—Archie didn’t think he’d met a real countess before—was not what he’d expected. For one, she was far from a stalwart society dame, but perhaps a decade his senior with chestnut hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, dressed in a shirtwaist, riding breeches, and boots. She grinned at him and extended her hand. “Call me Lily, and I’m thrilled you could be here. Less thrilled with how the game turned out, particularly your contributions on the pitch. Three tries, if I recall?”

The tension drained from his spine like a plug had been pulled from a tub. “And a penalty, milady.”

“Damn,” the countess said with an exaggerated grimace. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten.”

He grinned. The Rovers considered him their most reputable member, in that his profession as a barrister required him to interact with some of the higher echelons of society while arguing in court, as well as the dregs of it. He knew how to adapt, to change himself to be what the other expected, to charm and leave those surrounding him comfortable. Consequently, he often was called upon to be the spokesperson, the exemplar of a Rover off the field. He’d chased that feeling most of his life, the knowledge that he was setting an example to be proud of, not someone spoken of in hushed tones, a person to be avoided.

A person like his father.

And he’d pleased their hostess, thus fulfilling his obligation to the team. Between his performance on the pitch and at the party, the Rovers might keep him on another season and forgive his divided attention and increasingly poor attendance. “I apologize, milady—Lily. When we welcome you to Rotherham next, I’ll do my best to be more hospitable and score less,” he said with his most charming smile.

“Archie’s great at bein’ hospitable,” Barrel interjected with a lecherous chuckle, but Archie shot him a silencing glare.

Archie enjoyed flirting, and while the countess was beautiful, nothing would pass between them. The lady was married, and adultery was a line he would never cross. Besides, and he loathed to admit it, he hadn’t experienced more than a passing attraction to anyone in months, not since he’d started his own practice and thrown himself into the numbing existence of keeping it afloat. Bedding a woman he hardly knew felt like yet another chore, something else to fit into the fleeting hours of the day.

“Come along,” the countess said, pulling Archie from his thoughts with a tilt of her chin towards the card room. “A celebratory drink is in order.”

Moments later, Archie clutched a crystal flute that was far too delicate for his massive hand, drinking champagne far too fine for his pedestrian taste .

“To the Rovers!” the countess bellowed, and both sides called out in response. Pewter tankards and glass collided in a cacophony of inebriated celebration. Archie tossed back his champagne and rubbed his nose as the bubbles tickled.

Another round followed, and when the countess bade her farewell to attend to other guests, he set his glass down on the bar and nodded to his teammates. “Enjoy your evening, gents.”

Owen shot his cane out to block his path. “Like hell, ye’re leavin’. The sun isn’t even down.”

Archie glanced out the French doors, their gossamer curtains billowing in the breeze. Indeed, the sun’s curve was straining over the horizon, painting the rolling hills in shades of lavender and gold. “I have to get up early.”

“Is Archie whinging about gettin’ up early again?”

Archie threw his gaze to Barrel as the man approached. “I’m not whinging. I have work to do.”

“I’m onto you.” Owen pointed a crooked finger at his teammate, then grimaced as he waved an insect away from his face. “You’re trying to get out of here to avoid having fun. You’re getting dull in your old age.”

“Old age? I’m barely twenty-six.”

“You complained about your knees the whole way here.”

“And,” Barrel cut in, “you talk about the weather constantly.”

Archie balked. “I grew up on a farm. What do you expect?”

“Old. Man.” Owen enunciated each word by pounding his cane on the floor. He put his empty glass on the bar and motioned for the footman to refill it. The insect he’d waved away earlier, a bee, continued to circle him, apparently detecting something sweet about the bitter old codger. “Slow reflexes. Soon you’ll be doddering along the sidelines, waxing poetic about the good ol’ days.”

Perhaps he had been dull recently, although he couldn’t entirely blame it on work. The transformation from a farmer’s son to a stodgy man of the law had happened so gradually, he didn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed an evening with his friends, the thrill of flirting with and pursuing a woman. His unfinished tasks flooded his thoughts, poisoned his dreams. But he was a stubborn bastard, and the good-natured ribbing from his friends only stoked the fire in his belly, the desire to prove everyone wrong.

The bee landed next to Owen’s now empty glass, and Archie shot his hand out, tipped the glass over, and trapped the bee inside. “Slow reflexes, eh?”

Barrel and Owen leaned back with approving looks, and Archie gave a smug nod. “I may be dull, but I’ll have a better time tonight than the lot of you—”

“Excuse me.”

Archie turned toward the muted voice, one he likely wouldn’t have heard had he been a mere inch further away. He hadn’t noticed the woman herself when she’d approached, a realization that irritated him for some unidentifiable reason. But if he was being kind to himself, nothing about her was particularly noticeable. A severe knot of light-brown hair clung to her nape above the starched collar of her shirtwaist. Her brows, dark slashes on her pale face, furrowed together over wide amber-green eyes with thick chestnut lashes, framed by fine lines at the creases. A long, straight nose over parted lips, a pointed chin. Individual components that were entirely forgettable, but undeniably captivating as a whole.

Her attention darted between Archie and the captive bee. Although she was of average height, everything about her carriage seemed small, as though she was not only trying to occupy as little space as possible, but that she didn’t know how to make herself larger. And yet, she’d approached a stranger.

“Hello,” he managed as he twisted to face her, ignoring Barrel and Owen’s low chuckles behind him.

Her eyes narrowed further as she nodded towards the upturned glass. “Were you going t-t-to kill it?”

“Of course not.” He’d absolutely planned to kill it. But suddenly that plan of action seemed untenable.

Her features softened, though she fluttered her fingers at her waist. Despite the heat building in the room, she wore cream leather gloves. “Then may I t-take it off your hands?” When he tilted his head quizzically, a flush bloomed high on her cheeks. “It’s an ashy mining b-bee, and I’m unsure why it came inside.”

“Maybe it wanted a drink?” Archie cut in with a wink. He wondered about her stammer, if she always spoke with it, or if there was something unsettling about Archie’s presence.

She paused with her lips parted, stared at him for a long moment.

Perhaps she wasn’t the joking type.

“May I t-t-take it outside?” she finished, already looking put out with him.

Lord, he was out of practice as a flirt. While in their brief interaction she had spoken more words than he, Archie was certain to overtake her when given the chance.

If she gave him the chance, something he inexplicably wanted her to do. “Of course, yes. What do you need?”

Barrel leaned in. “I know what Archie needs—” Archie bolted his elbow back and caught Barrel in the gut, cutting off his remark. Owen barely swallowed his laugh.

“D-do you have any p-paper?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the bee.

He flattened his hands against his pockets—a broken pencil, a length of twine, an interesting rock he wanted to give his sister—and finally found a scrap of stationary where he’d jotted down a list of repairs his mother’s farmhouse needed before the winter. “Will this work?”

The woman nodded as she took the slip of paper between her fingertips and lifted the edge of the crystal glass a hairsbreadth. Even Barrel and Owen leaned in, enraptured by her delicate, patient movements. Soft words, indistinguishable in the room’s din, fell from her lips as she advanced the paper, nudging the stout, furry bee onto its surface. Once it had settled, she slid the glass, along with the paper and bee, forward onto her palm, her gloved hand.

She gave him a brief nod. “Thank you.”

Before he could form words, she’d maneuvered past them, rushing for the French doors that led to the terrace .

He stumbled around Owen’s outstretched cane, ignored the calls of his friends, and chased after her. Her slim figure moved with impossible ease, while Archie fumbled and finally resorted to elbowing his way after her like he was advancing down the pitch. When he burst out onto the terrace, he saw her past an enclosure of hedgerows separating the gardens from the pastures beyond.

By the time he reached her, she had kneeled and was nudging the insect off the paper and onto the dirt piling around a fence post. “Mining bees are solitary,” she said, her voice soft as velvet. “They nest in mineral soil and leave behind these tunnels.” She pointed towards a raised tube, smaller than her finger, emerging from the dirt.

“I’ve seen those before on my farm.” He kept his voice low, matching the reverence in her tone.

She shook her head, watching as the bee crawled into a passage. “You’re fortunate, then. They’re excellent pollinators.” She uncurled her body to stand and handed him the glass and paper.

Her stutter had disappeared. Why was that?

Archie took the glass and paper from her. “I’m Archie.”

The woman kept her gaze trained on him with a wary expression.

“Short for Archibald, but you could have guessed that,” he continued, even as his mind screamed at his tongue to stop for God’s sake . “But that’s a mouthful, so you can imagine that I’d prefer Archie.” He swallowed, mentally shaking his head as the verbal onslaught he’d forced her to endure. “And you are?”

“I’m Mary,” she said, her soft lips curling into a cautious smile .

Mary. A common name for an uncommon woman. He wondered at the furrow between her brows, the parenthetical ridges at the corners of her mouth. Did she have reason to frown or worry often? She stuttered, spoke with caution, but approached a rowdy group of strangers to rescue a bee.

Mary.

Oh, lord. He’d been staring , and the furrow he was pondering had deepened.

And the repetition of her name? Not in his head. “I’m sorry, Mary. I have to repeat names or I’ll forget them. And I get lost in my thoughts sometimes. Not sometimes, a lot. I tend to start saying my thoughts before I’ve fully formed them, which can be messy for anyone listening. Mary.”

She raised one brow. “You also t-talk a lot. Archie.”

He chuckled without mirth and ran his hand through his unruly curls. Far too much time had passed since he’d had any interaction with a woman who wasn’t suing her neighbor over the color of their window boxes, and he had thoroughly bungled his first impression. His shoulders slumped with disappointment. “You’re right, and I’m sorry to bother you. Have a lovely evening, Mary.”

Archie bobbed his head in farewell, intending to save what remained of his pride by retreating, but he felt a small hand grab his elbow.

“You’re not b-b-bothering me.” She bit her lip as she released him, as though she wanted to call back her words.

Archie, the eager dolt that he was, stepped closer. “I’m not? ”

She shook her head. “I’m t-t—awful at t-talking to p-p-people, and you…”

“Overwhelmed you? I do that sometimes. A lot, if I’m being honest. Which I am.”

She shrugged and leaned the barest amount closer. He warmed to the tips of his toes. “It’s nice t-to have someone else d-do the sp-speaking.”

“Cheers to that!” He lifted the empty glass as though to toast her, but like all his attempts so far with this woman, the movement was too bold, too quick, and she flinched. “Christ, I’m sorry.”

She exhaled through pursed teeth. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“Why not?” When had he gotten so close to her? “Do you not deserve apologies?”

Her cheeks pinkened. “You st-startled me, but I’m fine.”

“Then I should apologize. You did me a favor and I alarmed you. Besides, it’s not often I’m rescued from a bee by a beautiful woman.”

Her lips parted and head tilted, as though his words confused her.

What was he doing? He must have forgotten how to flirt in the last few months. One final attempt to engage her, then he’d abandon the cause as lost. “Could I get you a drink?”

The crease between her brows returned, and his stomach dropped. She would refuse him, as she had every reason to. But for the first time in months, something intrigued him, challenged him, and he wanted to work for this woman’s attention for no purpose other than to bring her joy. If she walked away, he would bear it, but—

She raised her chin to look over his shoulder, and he turned to see the countess standing in the doorway, framed by the billowing curtains, her hands on her hips. Before he could move to acknowledge her, Mary spoke.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

His entire body lit up in fireworks as he spun to face her.

She motioned to his hand as her lip pulled up in a hesitant smile. “B-but I insist you get a fresh glass.”