His eyes swept over her in an appreciative glance that he masked quickly. “I’m thrilled you’re here,” he said, taking her hand as she nodded to her driver. “Is your coachman staying nearby?”
“At the Rooster and Ram in t-town. He’s arranging a room for me,” she said, hating the quiver in her voice. It was ridiculous to be nervous, but she couldn’t fight the tremble in her fingers, theanxiety that bubbled in the center of her chest. She’d attended balls in palaces and dined with the finest of London society; how could she be terrified to visit a simple country home?
Because it’s Archie.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on his face. A wide smile and cheeks flushed, mischief and utter delight sparkling in his sky-blue eyes.
“Wonderful,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “I can take you there tonight. You’re just in time for supper!”
She hoped her recoil was subtle. “Supper?” The sun had barely started its descent; she typically dined well into the evening and had no appetite to speak of, although her nerves could be at fault for that.
He gave a knowing shrug. “Country hours. When we wake before dawn, everything moves earlier. My sisters and mum are inside. Shall we?” He tipped his chin towards the house, a subtle question ofare you absolutely certain you want to do this?
She glanced at the unassuming home. She was anything but certain.
But then she looked at Archie, the hope in his expression and the way he subtly bounced on his feet.
And she nodded.
Only two steps toward the farmhouse, and she realized her first error. A cloud of dust bloomed around the hem of her skirt, darkening the subtle blush color to a murky brown. Resigning herself to needing to have it cleaned, she lifted her chin and walked resolutely forward—
Until she needed to enter the house, and the brim of her wide silk and tulle hat collided with the doorframe and fell backwards, tugging her hair and drawing a shriek from her throat.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” Archie said, grabbing the garish accessory and lifting it back in place, although several pins had popped loose, and one now poked her behind the ear. “This heap is so ancient, I have to bend in half to fit through the door.”
She gasped as she pulled at the pins, locks of hair releasing from the careful and intricate chignon Mrs. Addington had labored over that morning. Finally, she released the monstrosity from her head,clutched it to her chest, and looked up through the lank strands now falling over her brow.
What must have been Archie’s mother and two sisters stared at her, aghast. Understandably.
She shoved her hair off her temple, and her lips twitched in a pained smile. “H-hello,” she croaked.
Archie cleared his throat. “Mum, girls, this is Lady Marigold Torcross. Marigold, this is my mum, Catherine Grant, and my sisters, Samantha—” he pointed towards a taller girl on the cusp of womanhood, “and Eloise,” he said gesturing towards the younger, all gangly limbs and a skeptical expression.
Both girls and their mother gaped at Marigold for a long moment. “A p-p-pleasure to meet you,” she managed, certain she looked like a wild animal in the middle of a tea parlor.
Mrs. Grant snapped out of her stupor faster, clearing her throat. The girls blinked and dipped into low curtsies, as did their mother, mumbling variations ona pleasure, my lady.
“Mum, that’s not necessary,” Archie said, but Mrs. Grant was already advancing, bobbing again in front of Marigold.
Immediately Marigold saw Archie’s features in the woman’s bright eyes and the blond curls, although hers were nearly gray. “Milady, what an honor it is to have you in our humble home. May I take your bag?” She looked Marigold over, and she blinked at the state of her skirts. “Good heavens.”
“Thank you f-f-for having me.” Marigold tugged open her reticule—the largest one she owned and the one she’d used to smuggle jewels out of Croydon House in London—and withdrew a package wrapped in delicate pale blue paper. “For you.”
Mrs. Grant looked at Marigold as though she’d handed over the Holy Grail. “Milady, you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” She didn’t miss how Archie beamed at her side.
She had the strongest urge to lean into him, to turn and take his hand in hers, to allow him to soothe her frayed edges. But she held herself close, elbows tucked tight like she could fade away if she tried hard enough.
Eloise rushed to her mother’s side. “Mummy, can I open it? Please?” She was already pulling at the paper, and when the label appeared—
“It’s from Betsy’s!” the girl shouted, and her older sister shrieked.
“Girls, that’s enough,” their mother admonished, but she was equally eager to gawk at the imprint from York’s finest tea shop. Marigold had wandered the shops along the Shambles for hours tofind the perfect gift, lingering on the corner across from Archie’s office for far too long before continuing on to Betsy’s.
The girls were still fawning over the package, peeling back the wrapping and gasping to see the array of tins inside. “Darjeeling,” Samantha gasped, “and Earl Grey!”
Eloise held up a tin and wrinkled her nose. “What is rooibos?”
