Marigold left the door slightly open behind them, and Archie’s breath caught at the sight of the room. A small office, the walls robins’ egg blue with white trim, and neat bookshelves above bracketing a desk. A third wall boasted a tall mullioned window overlooking the mews. Her desk could not have been more different from his: a slight, delicate piece of turned cherry with intricate engravings and inlaid mahogany accents, a small stack of correspondence in one corner, a finger vase with a single yellow rose.
Archie’s desk looked as though a mail cart had exploded.
She turned to him, her lips pinched. “Why are you here?”
Why was he there? Oh, right. “I had news about the case.”
“Then send a messenger and I’ll g-go to your office,” she hissed. “Not here, not with…” She gestured towards the other room where her boys were presumably distracting themselves. He’d bet Matthew was eavesdropping at the door.
“I didn’t know they’d be here. When did they arrive?”
“Yesterday.” She bit her bottom lip, and he wanted to reach out and rescue the abused flesh.
He lowered his voice. “You told them about the divorce?” When she nodded, he stepped closer, aching to wrap her in his arms.
But she stepped back. “Yes. They know.” She swallowed, looked around as though seeking something to put between them. “What news d-do you have?”
“Pearl’s letters arrived this morning, dozens of them. All in the marquess’s hand.” Impossibly, she paled further. “I haven’t read them yet, but I hoped you could help me go through them.”
Please say yes. I’ve missed you.
Her nostrils flared. “Yes. I can.”
“Mr. Grant?”
Their attention whipped to the door, where Matthew had cracked it open further. “Matthew,” Marigold chided. “You’re not t-to interrupt adults.”
“I know, but…” He shifted on his feet. “The sun is out, and I was hoping Mr. Grant would show me how to play rugby.” His grin spread wider, and Archie glimpsed his resemblance to his mother. The wide, boundless smile that rarely appeared on her seemed a fixture on her son. “Please, sir?”
Archie glanced at Marigold, who hesitated for a long, pregnant moment, then nodded once. “Of course. But you’d best change your clothes. You’re going to get messy.”
Do not lust over his forearms.You’re irritated with him.
Sadly, Marigold’s eyes weren’t listening to her mind’s most urgent plea.
She lifted her hand to shield her gaze from the bright sunlight streaming down through the open lancet and arched tracery windows of the ruins of the medieval abbey at the center of the botanical gardens. Even the ruins were neat, the crumbled stone having been gleaned years ago to build the winding trails throughout the parkland. The shadows cast by columns that once held an awe-inspiring cathedral roof now formed the outlines of their makeshift rugby pitch.
Archie had shed his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, hence the indecent display of forearms that seemed determined to shake her out of her pulsing anxiety. Her boys had followed suit and disposed of their coats, and now the three stood in a loose huddle, Matthew clutching an oblong leather ball that Archie had charmed off some young men who’d just finished their own game.
“To review,” he said, “how do we move the ball?”
“Running, kicking, or passing,” Matthew cried.
“Butneverforward,” Reggie added, gravity in his tone.
Archie beamed, and Reggie puffed up his chest a bit. “Excellent. Now, you two are on your own team, and I’m a defender…”
Soon the boys were lined up with Archie several meters down the field, crouching.
Those. Thighs.
They strained against the fabric of his trousers, testing the strength of the seams. She remembered how she’d bounced on them with his hand beneath her skirt, imagined how he’d use that strength if she were to take him to bed—
Marigold removed her hat and used it to fan herself. It was a rather hot day, after all.
If only she could keep her thoughts of Archie confined to sheer lust. But watching him with her boys, playing and gifting them with attention their father never had, allowed more pernicious considerations to sneak in.
During the long walk from St. Helen’s Square to the Yorkshire Museum Gardens, she’d had time to scrutinize her reaction to his unexpected appearance at the townhouse. It wasn’t the first time he’d stopped by without warning, but this visit upset her more because she hadn’t planned what she’d say to her sons about him, his role in her life.
