Page 41 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

Eight months later

A rchie paced across the parlor floor twice more, wiped his palms down his thighs, and sat on the settee. He’d faced more difficult meetings than this. Last week, he had argued a case in front of the high court without a quiver in his voice or a tremble in his hand.

But not since the trial had the rest of his life hung in the balance.

With one last steadying breath, he opened his eyes to face Reggie and Matthew. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Matthew’s features twisted in concern. “Are we in trouble?”

The innocent question punched the air from his lungs, and he chuckled. “No, you’re not in trouble.”

“Are you in trouble?” Reggie was always more astute than his brother .

“No, at least I don’t think so. I have a question to ask you.” He swallowed, braced himself. “I’d like your permission to marry your mother.”

Reggie raised one brow. “That’s not a question.”

“You’re an adult,” Matthew said, as though Archie had forgotten. “We’re children. You can’t ask us permission.”

Christ, he was an adult. He should be able to manage this, shouldn’t he? So why was perspiration dripping down his spine at the fear of losing the boys’ approval? “Let me start over. I love your mother and I’d like to make her my wife. Do I have your permission?”

Matthew tilted his head quizzically. “Does Mum want to marry you?”

If he’d asked the question several months ago, the answer would have been a resounding no . Marigold had adjusted slowly to her newfound independence, insisting on establishing her household and finding a new equilibrium with her children before bringing Archie into her life permanently. He visited their modest home in London whenever he could, playing endless games of rugby and taking the boys to museums once the weather changed. Showering Marigold with flowers and her favorite chocolates, even if it meant regular train rides to buy them in York. Despite his impatience, Archie forced himself to wait for her to be ready.

He’d never been good at waiting.

He spent a month traveling from York to London at every opportunity. When Marigold asked him to celebrate Matthew’s tenth birthday in October with the family, he’d helped her bake a fruit tart in his honor.

The next week, Archie moved his practice to London, setting up an office in Paddington. He slept on the floor for weeks, but he didn’t want to miss another important moment with her sons.

The first Sunday of each month, he brought Marigold and the boys to his mother’s farmhouse for supper. When her sister Violet married her Scottish entrepreneur, he accompanied her to the wedding and helped dry her dress after the torrential downpour that threatened to ruin the ceremony. Marigold had cried happy tears when the couple exchanged vows, and Archie held her hand tight, dreaming of the day they would do the same.

Marigold invited him to celebrate Christmas Eve with her family, staying until breakfast in the morning. He’d started in the guest room, for propriety’s sake, before sneaking into her chamber and bringing her to climax deliberately, again and again, until she collapsed onto his chest in a deep sleep.

He taught Matthew how to pass the rugby ball—and sat through Marigold’s lecture when they practiced inside the house and broke a window. Reggie learned to beat him in chess and had begun to share more of his thoughts. Archie forgot what it was like to live without Marigold and her children in his life.

But he hated pretending she didn’t mean as much to him as she did, keeping what they shared a secret. He wanted her on his arm, in his bed, carrying his name. He wanted the world to know he was hers .

But did she want to be his? “I don’t know if she wants to marry me. That’s why I need to ask her.”

Matthew scratched his head while Reggie tapped his chin with one thin finger. “She’ll marry you if you make her happy. You should do things she likes,” Reggie said.

Archie perked up. “Like what?”

“Not jewelry,” Reggie said. “She hates that.”

“She likes flowers.” This from Matthew.

“And chocolates.”

And orgasms . But Archie didn’t say that.

Matthew nodded. “Tell her she looks pretty.”

“And that she’s smart. Because she is,” Reggie added, as though Archie didn’t know it.

“And eat your vegetables. That always makes her happy.”

“I will,” Archie said. “Every single one.” Even the beets. Anything for her.

“How are you going to ask her?” Reggie asked.

“Um…” Archie squirmed, knowing his answer wouldn’t pass muster. “I was going to say, will you marry me? ”

Both boys screwed up their faces in disgust. “That’s not romantic,” Matthew said.

“Do you know any Shakespeare?” Reggie stood and made for the bookshelves at the back of the room.

“I’m going to tell her how I feel,” Archie said, somewhat frantically. “How I’m the luckiest man on earth every time she smiles at me, because I know I had to earn it. I love how brave she is, how she can tame bees, how she winces every time we play rugby but trusts me not to hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me,” Matthew said with a fervor that brought tears to Archie’s eyes.

“Never,” he said. “I love you both, too. I know I’m not your father, but I love you. Your mother has raised you to be remarkable gentlemen, and I want to help her. I want to be there to see the men you become, to have some part in it.”

Reggie had stopped scanning the shelves, and Matthew watched him with wide, searching eyes.

Lord, he couldn’t stop talking now, a dam burst open inside him. “I want to grow old with her, share all the birthdays and Christmases, the bad days and the good. I want them all, with her and with both of you. If you’ll have me.”

Lord, but he prayed that they’d have him. That he would be enough for this family.

After a long pause, Matthew looked at Reggie, and Reggie nodded. “I think she’ll like that.”

“Me too,” Matthew said.

Archie stood, his chest tight with emotion as he made for the door. “I’ll ask her now, and—”

He swung the door open and had to catch himself on the frame to avoid colliding with Marigold. Her mouth hung open in a perfect O, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes were damp, and Archie’s stomach swooped. “How much did you hear?” he asked.

The O turned to a tentative smile. “All of it,” she breathed, chased by a broken laugh.

He took her hands, clasped them against his chest so she could feel his pounding heart, the foolish organ that she and her boys had stolen. “I wanted to ask you something—”

“Yes,” she said, her lips spreading into a wide grin. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Matthew whooped from behind him while Reggie clapped, and she was in his arms, kissing him as he laughed, as he cried, as he felt the fulfillment he’d been chasing crash over him.

She tucked her head under his chin, kissed the flushed skin of his throat. “I love you,” she said, and he bent to kiss the crown of her head.

“And I love you, Marigold. Always.”

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