She spun on her heel—a move that sounded dramatic when she read it in novels but only seemed clumsy on her—and fled his office, slamming the door shut behind her. Several moments passed, yet she heard no movement, no sign he was following her.
A sick laughter bubbled up from low in her belly, pushing free in a sound somewhere between a morose chuckle and a sob. She pressed her back against the door and slid down its polished surface until her rear end hit the gleaming parquet floor.
Addington, the family’s butler, froze as he emerged and saw her. “My lady, what’s happened? Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” she said, her lips curling into a wry smile. “Everything is wrong. B-but I will make it b-better.”
Chapter 1
One month later
Despiteavertinghereyes,Marigold couldn’t escape the sound of bare flesh slapping, nor the grunts and moans that assaulted her senses from all angles. “Surely they d-don’t enjoy this,” she hissed, opening one eye to peer at her older sister.
Lily made a non-committal hum, her hand shading her brow as she watched two dozen men pummel each other on the grass pitch below. “They’d enjoy it more if we couldjust push straight from the lineout!”She bellowed the last bit, slapping her palm down on the split-rail fence that separated the spectators from the action.
“Are they supposed to be—” Marigold’s query was cut off as the opposite sides collided once more in what she’d learned earlier was called a scrum but appeared more like a cataclysmic tangle of human limbs.
“Yes,” Lily replied absently, as though she could divine her sister’s line of questioning. “Well, we’resupposedto be driving the ball, but our offense is taking a beating and—oh,hell!”
Marigold returned her attention to the field where a giant of a man in a white and burgundy jersey broke away from the pack carrying the oblong leather ball. His muscled legs churned as he streaked towards the end of the pitch, the spectators screaming in outrage as players in black streamed after him. The man, apparently having reached his target, tossed up his arms in victory before being surrounded by peers wearing matching jerseys. His mop of blond curls bounced as teammates buffeted him, the joy in his grin palpable.
“Bloody hell,” Lily bit out, planting her fists on her hips and shaking her head.
Marigold wrung her hands, unsure what to do. She’d become a reluctant student of rugby and the Burnley Hornets during the weeks she’d been visiting her sister in Lancashire, as many of the men who worked in her stables played on the local team. A team that was apparently being pummeled by their opposition. She lacked the knowledge to contribute to the conversation, although it seemed cursing was a reliable response, so she mirrored her sister’s headshake and muttered, “Oh, what…muck.”
Lily cut her a look. “One of these days, I’m going to teach you to curse properly.”
“I think those are contradictory t-terms,” Marigold hazarded, and some of the tension left her when her sister chuckled. She leaned closer, fearful of being overheard despite no one in thevicinity having the slightest interest in what she had to say. “Thank you again, Lills. For t-taking me in.”
“Lord knows you needed to escape Croydon. Your stutter has nearly disappeared.”
Precious few people mentioned her vocal ineptitude, as, frankly, precious few people heard her speak enough to detect it. But escaping the slow strangle of Harrow Hall and the marquess’ looming presence had lifted the invisible weights suffocating her, her lungs taking in air for the first time in years.
“You’re always welcome here,” Lily went on. “It was lovely seeing my nephews before Mama took them.” Her features softened at the mention of the boys; despite being married for eight years, she had no children of her own. Unsurprising, considering Lily’s husband, the Earl of Whitby, had spent the better part of the last decade on the continent without his wife.
“You were kind to tolerate them. I promise I’ll repair Reggie’s damage to your library.”
“Damage?” Lily scoffed. “No one has touched those books in generations. Reggie can keep them if you’re willing to tote them back to Yorkshire.”
“I hope he’ll have forgotten b-by the time he returns from America,” she said.
Lily grinned. “Do you think Mama knows what she’s doing in taking them for two months?”
“No, she’s only had girls to manage,” Marigold replied, a slight smile slipping through. As the second-oldest of five sisters, she admired her mother’s willingness to take the boys to Boston tomeet their new cousin, but she wondered if her mother was ready to deal with them whenbe on your best behaviorwore off.
“And you’re welcome to stay however long you need,” Lily continued, pulling Marigold from her thoughts. “But I know you’ll be more comfortable in your own space. How much time will it take to open the townhouse in York?”
Familiar tension settled back in her breast. “Addington said it will be ready when I return next week. His daughter was looking for a new p-post, so she will be my housekeeper. And Nanny Emerson will come along, of course.” Marigold released a shuddering sigh. “I can’t imagine having to share Harrow with the marquess any longer. Although I worry about the hives.”
“Your bees will be fine,” Lily reassured, but her words lacked the soothing tone Marigold needed at the moment. “Isn’t someone at Harrow looking after them?”
She nodded, her chest still constrained. “They require little care at this time of year. The hive is mostly self-sufficient. The gamekeeper agreed to check it every week and write if anything is amiss, but I d-d-doubt I could make it b-back in time to p-protect them.”
Lily shuddered, but gave her sister an affectionate look. “I can’t understand what you see in those things. One isn’t a bother, but an entire swarm?”
“They’re p-peaceful,” Marigold protested. More accurately, when she was with her bees, hermindwas peaceful, as the hive required her to be composed and calm in their midst. When the rest of her world seemed to spin on an axis of anxiety, the bees demanded tranquility and forced her to see order in chaos.
Two years ago, a colony had taken up residence in a dead tree beyond the gardens. Marigold (or more accurately, the fascinated Reggie) had sought the aid of a local apiculturist who’d transferred the colony to an artificial hive closer to the kitchen gardens. The bees became Marigold’s passion, a hobby appropriate to a gentlewoman.
