Jasper looked petrified of the looming librarian. “Will you help me take these to the office at least?”
But Archie was already halfway down the aisle. “I’m already running late. Would one of my mother’s pies convince you to forgive me?”
Jasper scowled, but Archie knew he’d won the man over. “A berry tart!” Jasper called, and Archie breathed a sigh of relief as he escaped from the musty space onto the bustling main street to search for a hack to bring him to York. As soon as he’d found one, convinced the driver to go the extra distance, and sat back against the leather squab, he was vibrating with energy, perched on the edge of a proverbial cliff, but with no idea which way he wanted to jump. He needed everything to go perfectly in London, or he’d be unable to put forth any case worth taking seriously.
And he needed to be taken seriously. How many more turnip disputes and clock controversies would he take on before he lost his patience and quit, leaving his clients, Jasper, and his family to pick up the pieces?
He could justify his obsession with this case as wanting to expand rights for women in abusive homes, but he couldn’t ignore the truth that haunted him.
If he didn’t win this case, he would fail yet another woman.
He could practically hear his mother, sisters, Jasper, and the entire roster of his rugby team chastising him for such absolutist thinking, but the thought had stuck itself in his consciousness like a burr, and nothing would pull it free.
His eyes drifted shut, and the image of Marigold—a marchioness, hisclient—flooded his mind. The moment after they’d both climaxed, when he held her against his chest as they smiled and laughed. He’d felt grounded then, as though no storm or movement of the earth could shake his foundation. Envisioning a future with Marigold had been the closest he’d ever been to having a damn plan for his life, a picture of a life that pleased him. Settled him.
Archie let out a humorless chuckle and opened his eyes. That woman was his client, the one that might make his name, make his wealth and status, protect his sisters and mothers.
Best he not wonder what would have happened if he’d allowed himself to fall in love with her.
Chapter 9
SixmorestopsuntilKing’s Crossing. Marigold toyed with the sixth button on her glove, the one furthest up her forearm, and fought the urge to tear it off completely. The textured silk covering the button—one that was altogether ornamental and therefore irritated her even further—soothed her as she passed her thumb over it again and again, but not enough to ignore the shift from countryside to towns whipping past her windows, a sign thatshe was approaching London.
What would happen if she were to tear off the button, or tugged off the glove and hurled it across the train? Perhaps scream and stomp her feet like Matthew did when denied a second pudding?
This is all your fault.
She glanced over her shoulder; Archie was still sitting in the seat one row behind and across the aisle from her, his presence a silent sentinel and persistent reminder of the harm she’d caused in the world with her selfishness. He must have better things to do thanaccompany her to retrieve the marquess’ letters. An inane mission to find a mistress, if the woman indeed existed.
Marigold shifted in her seat as the train slowed and rumbled into the Newark station. The second-class car, far simpler than what she was accustomed to on the rare occasions when she traveled, carried only a dozen passengers, but her breath caught when she saw the swarm of people jostling for position on the platform.
“May I sit with you?”
She swung her gaze to the aisle where Archie stood, his attention darting between her and the crowd. Relief flooded her, and she nodded, shifted to the seat next to the window. Had she been less anxious, she might have seen the humor in how he had to contort his large body, collapsing his broad shoulders and shifting his long legs, until he found a comfortable position in a space that had been more than enough for her but seemed to have shrunk the moment he sat down.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to sit next to a stranger,” he said, keeping his focus trained on the back of the seat in front of them.
“Thank you,” she replied, barely above a whisper.
The air between them pressed against her skin, the weight of so many unspoken words and broken trust clawing at her. She tugged the button again, and this time it popped off in her hand.
“Are you alright?”
She whipped her gaze to Archie, then back to her lap as her cheeks heated. “Yes.” A rushed exhale, then she shook her head. “No. I hate London.”
“So do I. I get overwhelmed with so many sounds and people.”
“So d-d-do I.” A long moment passed in silence before she found the confidence to speak again. “I never had a London season. All the p-p-parties a young woman goes to when she’s old enough to marry,” she said in response to his furrowed brow. “I d-d-dreaded having to make conversation with so many strangers.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Her laugh was dark. “Listen t-t-to me. The other girls and their mothers t-t-teased me for it, and my mother suggested I sp-sp-speak as little as I could.”
Archie’s expression softened, creases appeared between his brows and next to his mouth, but he said nothing. Yet another slash of regret pierced her side, reminding her that her lies had pushed this gentle man away and forfeited any comfort he offered.
“The marquess asked for my hand b-before the season started in earnest. I’d only met him once, and he seemed kind enough, b-but I was surprised when he p-p-proposed.”
She remembered that day, the relief that she would not have to go through the trial of a season, nor the anxiety and uncertainty that would accompany every moment. That relief was powerful enough to make her forget she’d be marrying a stranger. Only after the wedding did she learn her husband was far more interested in currying her father’s favorable political connections than he was in havingheras a wife.
