Page 31 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)
A rchie had a love bite on his neck.
Of all the things to focus on as she waited for the hearing to begin—the row of bored-looking gossip reporters sitting at the back, the murmurs of various spectators lined up behind the benches, Archie’s nervous shuffling of papers at her side—all she could see was the love mark she’d left during their night together, peeking above the collar of his judicial robes.
Of course, to notice the mark, one would have to overlook the purple and green bruise blooming around the dark red slash across his temple. He’d refused to wear the full bandage because he worried it would be distracting, but now he looked like a back-alley brawler in a white wig instead of a proper barrister.
Her stomach tightened, threatened to revolt. “You’re fidgeting,” she whispered as he reorganized his papers for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Is something wrong? ”
“A bit nervous.” He gave her a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My first divorce hearing, remember?”
She attempted to chuckle, but it sounded more like a croak. “Mine, too.”
He sighed, leaned closer. “I wish I could hold your hand right now.”
A flush heated her cheeks and neck. “So d-do I.”
After their passion-fueled evening, Mari had returned to her townhouse to pace a divot into the floor while Archie traveled to London with Jasper to finalize his preparations for the hearing. She and the boys had waited until yesterday to travel to the hotel on the Strand where they’d reside until the case was resolved. Restless was far too placid a word for her state, and she’d spent the previous night tossing and turning until dawn.
The morning light had brought a revelation—surely her husband would want to end their marriage after the publicity of a hearing. It may take time, but eventually she would no longer be married, and she and Archie could have a life together. The marquess would be a part of her past, as long as she could be patient.
“How much longer until we st-start?” she hissed.
Another sigh. “Soon, we—”
The doors to the room blew open, and a stocky man in robes and a powdered wig entered, trailed by her husband and another man in similar garb. Her body wound tight, like a top was spinning at the base of her spine and curling her vertebrae around it. Archie stood straighter as the men sat at the other table in front of the judge’s bench, and she was grateful that Archie and the marquess’ barristers remained between herself and her odious spouse.
The marquess seemed smaller than he had been weeks ago, his hair thinner and face more lined. As though she’d created a more intimidating creature in her mind than existed in reality.
“Vernon Stansbury,” Archie growled in a low voice, nodding toward the stocky man. “A complete arse, but a damn fine barrister.”
Her spine tightened further, and she knitted her fingers together to keep from chewing her nails. Before their opponents had taken their seats, an older gentleman in robes took to the bench and sat, scratching at his wig for a moment before settling his spectacles on the tip of his pointed nose and nodding at her husband. “Lord Croydon, and Mr. Stansbury. A pleasure to see you again.” He checked the papers in front of him. “And Mr. Grant… Have I heard a case from you before?”
Archie stiffened. “Yes, my lord. A matter involving… um, the turnip fields.” Marigold thought she heard a chuckle from the marquess’ table. “With all due respect, my lord,” Archie continued, “I thought the Master of Divorce would hear our case.”
The judge scowled. “This is the matter of a divorce initiated against a highly regarded peer of the realm, and will be treated with all the seriousness it deserves, Mr. Grant. If you are displeased, you’re welcome to withdraw your petition.”
“No, my lord, not displeased at all,” he interrupted, sitting in a rush. A line of perspiration dotted his brow.
“What’s going on?” Marigold whispered .
Archie gave his head a shake. “Lord Huntington is presiding. He’s a higher justice of the courts. More traditional.”
And therefore less sympathetic to a woman. He didn’t need to say the words, but she understood.
“Lord Croydon, as the respondent, I assume you are similarly inclined to divorce, but wish to argue against the claims of your wife.”
Her husband stood, clasping his hands at his waist. “No, my lord. I do not wish to divorce the marchioness. I still care for her a great deal and hope we can continue our marriage.”
A murmur rose from the reporters in the back of the room, and Marigold’s lungs seized. Cared for her? What on earth—
“Then we’ll begin with opening statements. Mr. Grant?”
Archie rose, smoothed his robe as he gave Marigold a quick glance. His normally expressive mien was blank, and her pulse picked up speed. “Your lordship, we contend Lady Croydon has suffered from her husband’s infidelity and cruelty, and the only acceptable remedy is a dissolution of their marriage with cause.”
Despite the fear coursing through her veins, Marigold couldn’t help but be impressed by Archie as he spoke. She’d heard his words dozens of times now, but as he calmed and regained confidence, he’d come alive. He was born to do this , she thought, hints of pride swelling in her breast alongside a reluctant hope. Perhaps they could win this after all.
“For the cause of infidelity, I will share these letters passed between the Marquess of Croydon and Miss Agnes Edwards of London, including receipts for jewelry— ”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Stansbury interrupted as he rose to his feet, “but the marquess concedes he was keeping a mistress during his marriage.”
Archie froze, his mouth gaping. The reporters’ pencils scratched furiously from the back of the room.
Judge Huntington’s brows furrowed. “He does?”
“Yes,” Stansbury continued. “He had no choice, as her ladyship refused the marquess access to the marital bed, and has done so since the birth of their second child.”
The judge swung his attention to Marigold and it struck her like a blow to the chest. “Lady Croydon, how long has it been since you allowed your husband his marital privileges?”
Her mouth worked for a beat before she could formulate a response, her cheeks burning. Archie said nothing, simply stared at her. “T-t-ten years, my lord, b-b-but I never t-told him—he never wanted t-t-to—”
Archie’s eyes had widened to the size of saucers, so she snapped her jaw shut.
“In that case,” the judge said, “there is no need to see the evidence. I will consider this cause in my deliberations. Please move on to your next argument.”
A sour heat rushed through Marigold, cloaked her like a wet blanket. All that work, all that time , and it was for naught. The confidence she’d felt shriveled and died, leaving a cold, hard lump in its place.
“We also contend the marquess acted with cruelty towards his wife and children.” Archie continued with a fraction of his initial spirit, and the solid foundation beneath her feet began to crumble. When he finished, he sat, letting his head droop forward.
She wanted to reach out, climb into his lap and kiss him, tell him how proud she was that he’d battled for her, even though she was terrified.
But she settled for a quick press of her fingertips to his forearm.
“Mr. Stansbury, what say you for the respondent?” Judge Huntington asked.
Stansbury did not stand. “We have no statement at this time, aside from concern over the state of Lady Croydon’s wellbeing.”
She recoiled. Archie’s brow furrowed. Judge Huntington looked at her once more, and her stomach flipped. “Are you well, my lady?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling.
The judge flattened his lips. “Very well. Mr. Grant, your first witness.”
Archie glanced at Marigold, and what she saw in his eyes—fear? Disappointment?—caused panic to bubble low in her belly, and her fingertips dug into her skirts. Had her stutter sunk them? Or had she done something else to hurt their case? If so, it was no wonder Archie had lost faith in her, and now he would have to make up for the damage she’d caused in only a handful of sentences.
Had they lost when they’d only just begun?