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

“ … bombus lapidarius , and b-bombus locurum. ” Marigold sat back in her chair as a satisfied smile pulled at her lips. “All the species of b-bees living in the United Kingdom.”

Archie’s features had morphed from admiration to disbelief, then awe to absolute befuddlement over the past dozen or so minutes, but he hadn’t broken eye contact once, and she’d finally stopped expecting he would scold her for being a bore. “I have no way of verifying if you’re correct, so I’m going to take your word for it.”

She took a long sip of her claret to soothe her throat. She didn’t remember the last time she’d spoken so much in a single go. “You could check the library.”

He scoffed. “If you think I’m leaving to go look up such a simple thing as bees, you are mistaken. ”

Marigold rolled her lips between her teeth, pleasure pooling up from deep in her belly. “B-bees are not simple.”

“As you’ve just shown me. But you’re missing the point. I’m not leaving your side.”

Her cheeks burned, but not from embarrassment, but pride. She was certain no one had ever said something so profoundly romantic to her, although, judging by the nonchalance with which he said it, Archie did not mean it with the profundity of significance that she heard.

Most of the guests had abandoned the card room in favor of the action at the billiards tables, leaving them in relative privacy as darkness descended over the pastures beyond the French doors, so no one bore witness to the pink staining her cheeks at his attention.

He leaned forward and almost put his elbow on his plate of anchovies on toast, but Marigold darted her hand out and pulled the plate away just in time.

“So you tell them apart by the color of their bottoms?”

His knees bumped hers beneath the table, and awareness sizzled through her veins, spreading to her fingertips and toes as he held her gaze, hung on every word. She’d been talking about her hives for the last half hour, but his attention had only strayed for long enough to fetch her another plate of potted cheese and a glass of wine before he’d asked another litany of questions.

“Yes, among other features.”

His brows furrowed. “Who are the scientists walking around looking at bee’s bottoms? Seems awfully rude to me. Why can’t we describe the color of their hair or their sparkling conversational ability?”

A giggle escaped—she was giggling ?—and his eyes danced like she’d given him a momentous gift.

Marigold had never met a man like Archie. He seemed to be friends with everyone present, exchanging quick pleasantries, handshakes and grins as though they were lifelong acquaintances. And when he looked at her, she felt his adoration like a physical touch, like she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever encountered.

With each conversation congratulating him on a spectacular game, questioning him on his tactics and plans for the rest of the season, he gracefully exited and came back to her, always back to her, as though she were a gravitational force he had no desire to escape.

As though she were special.

But she must be, somehow, because in the nearly two hours since she rescued the bee from his glass, he’d hardly left her side. Their conversation had skipped the typical social pleasantries that always left her feeling awkward and self-conscious. Instead, they lept into the nuances of the game of rugby and the intricacies of beekeeping.

He leaned back in his chair, his casual strength sending a bolt of unexpected desire darting between her thighs. “Alright, enough talk of bee bottoms. Your turn.”

Marigold bit her lower lip. Somehow they’d come to the unspoken agreement that they would discuss nothing of consequence, or perhaps only things of the utmost consequence. She’d learned that his parish school teacher had put him in rugby because he constantly was tackling the other altar boys before services, and he’d learned that she didn’t stutter as much when talking about her bees because she had to calm herself in their presence.

But the pesky details of their daily lives—such as their surnames or, say, that she had a husband —simply hadn’t come up.

Her stomach gave a twist, but she pushed the guilt away. What harm was there in flirtation, in allowing herself to feel appreciated, beautiful for one evening?

As though Lily heard her thoughts, her sister appeared in the doorway and winked as she collected a fresh bottle of whiskey from the bar before continuing on her way.

“On your farm,” she breathed, and Archie nodded. “D-did you ever grow anything you hated?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and the levity drained from his expression. He hummed, a growl low in his throat as he swirled the dregs of whisky in his glass and threw it back. “Sugar beets,” he finally spat, the words delivered with such hatred that Marigold blinked.

“Sugar b-beets?” she echoed, and Archie shook his head.

“Apologies, I said that like it was an ancient curse. Mummies and poltergeists might climb out of the upholstery.” He released his breath in a rough exhale. “There’s a story that goes with it, an unpleasant one, as you must have guessed. It involves my father.”

Something about the way he said the words made Marigold shiver, and Archie glanced over towards the still-open doors overlooking the gardens. “C’mon, the fire’s warm. ”

His hand brushed the base of her spine as they weaved through the tables with the few lingering men lost to their intense card games. A gentle touch, as though his instincts told him to protect her. As though she was deserving of his care.

He stopped before the fireplace and held out his hands over the low flames as though warming them, then turned to face her, dropping his palm from her back. Mere inches separated their bodies, and yet they didn’t touch. Marigold needed the space, the knowledge she could still protect herself, but she had started to forget why she required such safeguarding when the moment of contact had been so reassuring. But despite the nearly constant need to guard her safety over the last decade, something about this man allowed her to lower her defenses. “T-tell me about the b-b-beets,” she whispered, and his exhale shuddered, bringing his chest in tight proximity to hers.

“My father couldn’t wait to get the farm from my grandda, Mum’s father,” he said. “Always boasted he would run it better, easier. Make more money.” His chuckle lacked humor. “It won’t surprise you to know most men don’t go into farming to become wealthy. But my father refused to let his dream of riches die in the fields and tried everything to make a quick quid.”

Marigold sensed the space between them growing smaller, her need to comfort him intensifying. Her fingertips ached with it, and she balled them into fists at her side.

Comforting her boys had always been an exercise in restraint. Reggie never welcomed her touch, words and gestures of affection disappearing into him like sand tossed into the sea, never to be returned. Matthew crashed into her arms, a wave of love that knocked the wind from her lungs before rushing away again, leaving her staggering.

But Archie was different, her attention and kind words returned a hundredfold, and she could see herself drowning in him.

“My sisters and Mum started taking in sewing and laundry to fund his schemes, not to mention their chores around the farm. He hated having only one son, let alone one too damned honest to lie for him.”

“Archie…” she whispered. Crimson splotches had bloomed on his cheeks, and she moved closer still before she tugged the glove from her right hand and lifted her palm, let it fall to his chest over his heart. Her pulse thundered, waiting for him to push her away, to reject her care and concern.

He put his hand over hers.

His head lowered until the coarse hair of his beard brushed her temple, his warm, whisky-scented breath disturbing the fine hairs along her forehead. “Right, the sugar beets.” Another humorless chuckle. “He’d heard from a farmer in the midlands about how they were the next cash crop in the Mediterranean, would soon replace sugar cane. He thought he would be the first to grow it in northern England.” Archie leaned closer and inhaled, as though he needed her comfort as sustenance, her strength as his.

“The climate was far too damp and cold, and the damn things sucked all the nutrients out of the soil. We had all those blasted wee little beets that tasted like shite, couldn’t grow anything else for over a year, so we had to eat them to survive. So yes, I hated those bloody beets.”

Her other hand snaked between them until both palms pressed to his firm chest, his brow against hers, their breath mingling. She shouldn’t be touching this man, a near-stranger, but nothing would make her neglect him when he needed her comfort. A raw, broken laugh fell from his lips as he pulled away from her, ran one hand through his golden curls, and groaned. “Lord, what an arse I’ve been. I never meant to take our conversation this way—”

“Neither d-did I,” she interrupted, for what she was certain was the first time in her life. “I only wondered if you hated sp-spinach or cabbage.”

He laughed openly then, cupping her cheek and tracing his thumb over her cheekbone. She liked that touch very much, wanted to savor and explore it, discover the texture of his skin against hers, the whorls of his fingertips, the bumps of his knuckles, the dips of his palm and wrist. “I like spinach, but I despise cabbage.”

“I hate cabbage as well. And your father.”

Archie brought his forehead back to hers, and she was certain he would kiss her. Instead, he held her gaze, the intensity of his blue eyes mesmerizing, intoxicating. “So do I. If he hadn’t disappeared a decade ago, we could tell him together.”

He pulled away from her so quickly she almost stumbled, but his hand was at her waist, keeping her stable. A part of her cried out in alarm; how easily she’d accepted his protection, had put her trust in a man she hardly knew. Her instincts around men had been so horribly wrong before.

“Are you ready for your next question?”

Marigold blinked several times in rapid succession. “What d-did you say?”

He cuffed the back of his neck, his cheeks blooming pink once more. “We’ve established that we’re horrid at conversing like normal people, yeah? I don’t even know your last name—” her stomach plummeted, “—but you know about my trimmer of a father, and I can recall… perhaps a dozen types of bees.” She giggled, and he grinned. “And I rather like that. Don’t tell me I’ve ruined things by whinging about my father when I should have been whinging about vegetables.”

“No.” She grabbed his hand—who was this brazen woman who touched a man? “You’ve ruined nothing.”

“Thank God.” He laced his bulky, sun-bronzed digits between her pale, slim ones, then screwed his expression into one of deep contemplation. “Are you ready for your question?”

Was it possible for her to never leave this night? Could she stay in this bubble of joy forever? “Yes, I am.”

With a mischievous grin, he turned and tugged her to the wall adjacent to the dining room where an indecent buffet had been laid, a feast fit for not one, but two drunken rugby teams. Their backs against the wall, he leaned around her and pointed. His scent, a heady mix of leather and bergamot, bewitched her, left her dizzier than any ale or whisky could.

“If you were forced to eat an entire tray of one thing on that table, what would you it be?”

“The caramels. ”

“You don’t need to think about it?”

“Not at all.” She smirked. At least, she thought it was a smirk. Marigold wasn’t certain she’d effectively smirked before. “I’d eat that t-t-tray without an incentive.”

“You contain multitudes.”

“Thank you.” She bobbed a curtsy.

“What’s stopping you?”

She gaped. “St-stopping me?”

A bitter dread crawled up her back, the insidious voice of her husband scolding her when she took pudding after dinners, snide remarks about needing new dresses to accommodate the width of her hips. Despite not sharing a meal with the man for years, he’d successfully implanted his own judgment in her mind, transmitting the subtle criticism in his absence.

His curls flopped over his brow as he nodded, but his grin faded as he searched her expression. “Have I said something wrong?”

When had she started chewing her pinky nail? The nagging fear inside her was spinning again, the same one that whispered of horrible consequences if she were to step out of line, a beast she could never ignore. The monster had been in hiding since she first spoke to Archie, but now, would he press her beyond what she could handle?

Her voice shimmered, not quite a full shake but just shy, when she protested. “Archie, I can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” He leaned close, not caging her in but protecting her, buffeting her on all sides. “I don’t know what I said. Will you tell me what I did wrong? ”

She realized she was trembling, not from fear but relief. He’d not only read her reaction, but adjusted, accommodated her. Wanted to put her at ease without her even asking. He lifted his hand and pushed a loose curl behind her ear, his fingertips brushing her skin.

Something inside her eased at his care and concern, and she nearly wept for the alleviation of it. “I’m not accustomed to t-taking what I want.”

His breath was warm against her cheek when he spoke. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But I can be a right arse sometimes—a lot of times, especially when I’m trying to impress someone. And I’m trying quite hard to impress you, but I’m making a hash of it.” He took one hand and dragged two knuckles down the length of her throat, and every nerve ending came alive, attuned itself to those few inches of contact, reached for him like a flower seeking the sun.

“I don’t care whether you eat those candies,” he said in a low rumble she felt in her bones. “If you want them, I’ll take the tray myself, sit in front of the fire with you on my lap and feed you each one until they’re all gone.”

“Can we do that instead?”

He chuckled and her cheeks burned. She hadn’t intended to say that part out loud.

“If you’d like. We have many options, my dear. My point is, I’m certain you could do anything you wanted, my Keeper of Bees, Hater of Cabbage, Lover of Caramels. And I want you to be certain, as well.”

A different sort of confidence flooded her, not one born of protecting her children or fleeing her husband, but one entirely for herself, in seeking the joy she wanted, that she deserved. Yes, a tray of caramels was not a spiritual epiphany (they were bloody good candies, but she was realistic), but a symbolic gesture, a first step towards being independent.

“D-do I have to share them?”

A dimple appeared in his cheek as he grinned. “Not if you don’t want to.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You can convince me.”

Archie beamed and bent in, pressing a quick, lopsided kiss to her lips before pulling away. He froze, and his expression morphed into one of abject horror. “That was our first kiss, and it was awful.”

Her lungs seized and mouth worked, her body too rattled with sensation to respond.

But he had moved in once more, cupping her cheeks with roughened hands, his eyes searching hers. “I can’t believe I wasted my first chance at kissing you with that shoddy effort.” He paused, brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, and her knees softened at the tenderness in the gesture. “May I try again?”

When she nodded, he exhaled his relief, and his lips met hers, reverent but firm as they moved without urgency, as though determined to extract every ounce of pleasure from this simple action.

He was gone far too quickly, and her eyes fluttered open when he chuckled. “Ah, love?” He glanced down to where she gripped the front of his shirt in her fist.

She released it with a gasp, heat rushing to her cheeks, but he caught her hand, ran his fingers over hers, pausing for the barest second on the bare space on her left ring finger. “Better than our first, yeah?”

“Yes,” she agreed, nuzzling against the base of his throat.

His hum of approval vibrated against her nose. “Think of how good the third will be.”

“Oy, Archie!”

He exhaled on a groan and lifted his head, as though separating himself from her caused him physical pain. “Yes, Barrel?”

The rotund man bobbed his brows at Marigold, then turned his attention to Archie. “Come settle a bet for us. Whose fault was it we lost in the championships last year to Skipton?”

“Is this really so urgent?” His words were nearly a growl.

“I have five pounds on it!”

Archie let his head drop, shook it, then brought his gaze back to Mari. “Will you come with me? They’ll hound me all night if I don’t settle this argument.”

She rolled her lips to avoid grinning like a fool. Her marriage had isolated her so much she never had friends or confidantes beyond her sister, and she envied Archie for his easy connection with others.

But jumping into the middle of a debate between rugby players was too far, even on this magical night where her limits were blurred. “I’m afraid I must d-decline.”

He pouted, but his eyes sparkled. “I envy you.” He nodded his chin towards the buffet. “Take one caramel or stuff your pockets full. But I’ll return before you can eat a second. ”

Stepping away from her, he shook out his limbs and stretched like she’d seen the players do on the side of the pitch before the game earlier that day.

“What are you going to d-do?”

“Go settle an argument.” He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead before bounding away, and she wanted to press herself against his chest, tuck her head under his chin and demand more soft affection.

How had she developed such a fondness for a man she barely knew? “Whose fault was the loss?” she called, and he paused, looked over his shoulder with a chagrined smile.

“Mine entirely.”

Archie marched into the card room like he hadn’t a care in the world, and, remembering her mission, Marigold held in her laughter and turned toward the table, nearly colliding with her sister.

Lily’s mischievous grin spread wide. “Why hello, sis,” she drawled. “What are you doing?”

“Exactly what you told me to do.” She picked up the tray of candies with enough force to send a handful flying off the side, where they skittered across the carpet.

“I told you to steal food? I can have the cook make you more.”

“Have fun,” Marigold said in a rush. “You told me to have fun. And I am.”

“With him?”

The sisters looked towards the billiards room, where Archie was surrounded by his teammates and gesticulating wildly. Noticing he had an audience, he grinned at Marigold, then resumed his debate.

“He’s silly,” she said, her voice wavering with a chuckle, “but sweet. He makes me smile—”

Her words broke off when Lily yanked the tray from her hands, dropped it on the table, and pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Oh, Mari, darling,” she whispered into her ear, “this is exactly what I wanted for you, what you needed .” Her sister released her enough to hold her at arm’s length. “Someone to make you believe how wonderful you are. You’re not even stuttering!”

Marigold shook her head, old doubts creeping in. “He’s a flirt, nothing more.”

Lily snorted. “Were you not paying attention? He looked ready to devour you whole against the wall a moment ago.”

A pulse raced down her belly to settle at the apex of her thighs. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. I spend my entire day around men, and I promise all they think about sex and, in my case, horses.”

Is that all she wanted from Archie? Her heart ached for more, more of the comfort and ease he gave her, how he inexplicably made her feel at home in her own skin. But she couldn’t have more than a night, because the truth of her circumstances was too much for anyone to take on.

Lily pointed at the card room, where the argument seemed to have devolved into good-natured jibes. “I wouldn’t question that man’s interest in you.” She lowered her voice. “He’s a perfect candidate for an evening of passion. ”

A knot settled in her stomach, sending tendrils of fear and doubt clawing up her ribcage. “It would be adultery,” she whispered.

Lily’s eyes blazed. “That bastard you married has never worried about violating his marriage vows, and for all purposes, you are no longer wed.”

“The law says d-differently.”

“The law is slow and stupid.”

Marigold snorted with inappropriate laughter, and Lily joined her, holding her hands as though they could sustain the moment for longer, capture the fleeting joy before the realities of their lives—a looming divorce battle, an absent husband—pushed in.

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that since we were girls,” Lily said, handing the tray of caramels back to Marigold. “If that man makes you happy, I say enjoy him for as long as you can. Because the rest of the world waits for you tomorrow.” Her gaze lifted, and she nodded. “And I should be off, as your Goldilocks approaches.”

Heat rushed to Marigold’s cheeks. “He’s not mine.”

“Enjoy him anyway,” she whispered with a wink as she backed out of the room towards the kitchens, fluttering her fingers in farewell.

“Are you a friend of the countess?”

Marigold spun to face Archie, the flush high on his cheekbones making his eyes sparkle. “In a sense. Are you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We just met tonight. I like her.”

She smiled and held up the tray. “Me too. She gave me these.”

“Do you still want to run and hide to eat them? ”

As she nodded, the knot in her stomach shifted, the tendrils morphing into anticipation and excitement as the fear receded. “I’ll lead.”

Archie let out a whoop more appropriate for the rugby pitch as she took off down the hallway, close on her heels as candies flew off the tray and bounced off the walls, carpet, and Archie himself. The last door on the hall led to a cozy room, and she glimpsed shelves of books and a single mullioned window before Archie pushed into the library behind her. Together they slammed the door shut and she threw the lock, then they dissolved into laughter, the tray of candies falling to the floor between them with a clatter.

His arms bracketed her again, his forearms on either side of her head and his lips ghosting against her neck as her breath stuttered. Her blood was effervescent, her nerves crumbled into pleasure at being the center of his attention. She’d never felt this need before, the all-encompassing desire to touch and be touched. Certainly not with the marquess. Briefly she wondered if something was wrong with her, if the single glass of wine had left her senseless, but as a slow smile crept across his lips and she grinned in return, she remembered what her sister had said.

She deserved pleasure. While she barely knew him, she was certain Archie was safe. And after tonight, she’d never see him again.

What was there to lose?

“I hate to say this,” he murmured, “but I don’t think we have much of a future in thievery.” He pulled a caramel from his shirt pocket and tugged off the waxed paper wrapping with his teeth .

She whimpered as her core pulsed with sudden need, the inescapable desire to allow this man to bring her pleasure, give her everything she’d been denied for years.

He must have heard her desperate sound, because his eyes flared as he lifted the caramel to her mouth, and her lungs stopped functioning, every system in her body ceased working so she could focus on the way his pupils dilated when her lips parted, how his breath hitched when her teeth sank into the soft candy.

She endeavored to contain her moan in her throat, but his eyes flashed, his chest heaving.

“How can I get you to make that sound again?” He leaned in, one hand moving to her hip, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. “Besides run down the hall for all the caramels you dropped, because then I’d have to let go of you, and I’ll be damned if I do that.”

Her legs became liquid. He barely touched her, merely the brush of his lips and the span of his hand, and she craved him everywhere, everywhere , with a fervor she’d never known before.

“Why?”

He scoffed, but his smile siphoned the heat from it. “Why? Because I’ve never met someone like you. I want to know everything about you.” Her chest seized—she was holding so much back from him—but he continued.

“Tell me this feels different for you,” he pleaded. “That this is destined to be somehow. Do you feel that too?”

No words came to her—how could they, when what she had experienced tonight went beyond anything she had known or imagined, that she’d been seen for the first time in her adult life? That she wasn’t ready to give up this connection, even if it was wrong, even if she could never keep him.

So she kissed him. Properly, like she’d always dreamed kissing could be, but had never experienced. Whatever trepidation clung to her evaporated as his mouth molded to hers. He grunted low in his throat, deepened the kiss, his hands on her hips squeezing and flexing. When her tongue touched his lips, Archie made an approving sound and moved closer, his hips pinning her against the door.

His tongue slid against hers and her breath caught, the sensual glide overwhelming her with the taste of whisky, caramel, and the musk that was decidedly, uniquely him. How she identified that having only known him a few hours, she did not know, but whatever alchemy made him so appealing to her senses had her restless, aching, craving .

“Archie,” she gasped as his mouth left hers.

His lips traced a path of fire down her throat to where he sucked on her pulse point, making her knees buckle. Any words she forced to her lips faded into a moan, her hips seeking the ridge of his arousal pressing against her belly. She wanted him, needed him in a primal way, something powerful and animal that he’d unleashed and she hardly understood. “P-please…”

“What do you need, sweetheart? I’ll give you anything. Please let me make you happy.” He kissed her as he spoke, as though he were so desperate for her he wouldn’t even pause long enough to complete a sentence.

She let her head fall back, words inaccessible in the heat of her arousal.

He seemed to understand, kissed her again then paused. “Do you need me to touch you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, shimmering with gratitude.

“Where, sweetheart?” He skimmed his hand up her side, over her breast. “Here?”

She nodded, unable to think while he stroked and fondled her corseted flesh, bringing her nipples to hard points. The ache in her core only intensified, swelled to unbearable intensity.

“Is that enough? Or do you want more?” His words were smoky, rough yet tender.

“More.” The word was a gasp, an exhalation in itself.

“Here?” He squeezed the soft globe and dragged his thumb over her peaked nipple, sending a lightning strike directly to her center.

She shook her head. “Yes—no, I need…”

“Do you need my hand between your legs?” he whispered against her lips, his hips stuttering as he shifted his thigh between her knees. “Is that it?”

He lifted his leg to grind his thigh against her heated center, but the friction wasn’t enough with her layers of skirts in between. “Yes, please !”

His hand was already moving, tugging and lifting the heavy fabric separating them, but he paused. “Darling, you need to tell me when to stop. I—I want you, so badly, and I…” He trailed off, shook his head. “Please tell me when to stop.”

She channeled every lesson from those dreadful tutors, because every single time she’d tried to speak properly, she’d been so petrified of failing that she always had. With Archie, her only fear was regretting what could have been, and she wanted this sentence to be perfect.

She dragged her palm down his arm, clasped his hand and slid it up her leg towards her throbbing core. “I don’t want you to stop.”