“And me.” Marigold wiped the sweat from her brow. He’d spotted them almost immediately upon their arrival, breaking from the rest of his teammates to wave in their direction. A quiet thrill of possession skittered over her skin, the pride that came from knowing Archie washers, even if no one else knew it. That tonight, those talented hands may skim over her body, and no one else’s.
She’d spent her entire life having to share the affection bestowed on her, first with her sisters, then between her sons, and then with her husband and his parade of mistresses. But with Archie, she never doubted her place in his life, the importance she held to him. She missed his touch, and with the trial starting in three days, there was nothing more to be done except worry or enjoy his presence for however long she could have it.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around Matthew’s hand and held tight as an official signaled a penalty, but her mind wandered.
Staying in England wouldn’t be an option with the notoriety the trial had already received. Even on a pitch outside of Leeds, well-heeled spectators looked at her twice, then whispered to their companions. The gossip would only intensify, Archie had warned her, once the hearings began on Monday, and she’d be unable to visit his office without being noticed. Her window of time with him was closing.
But what if he stayed with her after the trial ended? Could she convince him to leave England with her, travel to America and become a family?
She was being foolish to think Archie would leave his life here. He had rugby, his legal practice, his entire family to care for. What man would leave all that to be a substitute father in a foreign land? He might enjoy her company for the time being, but it wouldn’t last once the reality of her new existence set in.
She huffed out a breath, and Matthew looked up at her. “Are you well, Mummy?”
Her smile was forced. “Of course, d-darling.”
She was destined to be lonely. Her sisters had their own lives and growing families, and her boys would leave for university before she could blink. She had a responsibility as their mother to protect them at all costs, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness, and she wouldn’t subject them to scrutiny as the children of the notorious former Marchioness of Croydon.
Matthew groaned as the opposing sides, the Rovers in familiar burgundy jerseys and the Leeds Lions in a brilliant yellow, crashed together at the center of the field. “That’s normal,” Marigold said, squeezing his hand. “It’s called a scrum.”
He couldn’t tear his attention from the pitch. “You know a lot about rugby.”
She chuckled despite herself. “More than you, p-perhaps.”
“There’s more than running, kicking, and passing.”
“Not really,” Reggie interjected, unable to resist correcting his younger brother. “The component moves are the same, but in different patterns, until—”
A crash on the grass, followed by a chorus of grunts and cheers.
Reggie winced. “The blocking gets in the way.”
The players separated and came back together several times more until, finally, Archie broke free with the ball. He tore towards the end of the pitch, his teammates and opponents trailing behind him. The spectators took up screaming—whether in excitement or horror was unclear—Matthew loudest of all.
Marigold threw up her hands then clapped as she laughed, overwhelmed with a bubbling glee.
“He scored, Mummy, Mr. Grant got a try!” Matthew jumped up and down, and Reggie simply smiled, a wide grin that showed his teeth.
Unable to contain herself, she threw her arms around both boys and pulled them close. “He did! Mr. Grant is incredible!”
Even surrounded by his cheering teammates, Archie’s gaze found hers and held, his smile softening into something more intimate, more personal.
Something just for her.
The match continued, the Lions putting up points for each of the Rovers’, and the mood of the players turned darker, rougher, as penalties accumulated. Matthew clung more closely to his mother’s side as the scrums increased in violence, many players emerging with cut lips or long scratches along their limbs. Archie had an ugly welt on his jaw, visible even at a distance, and Marigold gripped thefence with one hand to restrain herself from dragging him off the pitch and tending to him herself.
Archie broke free again, but he stumbled, struggled to right himself as defenders scrambled at him from behind.
“They’re losing control,” Reggie said, his voice containing a knife’s edge to which she was unaccustomed.
“I know, darling,” Marigold said in a whisper as she glanced his way. “But it’ll be over—”
In hindsight, Marigold would be glad she hadn’t seen the moment when the impact happened, only heard the shuddering sound of the collision and knew with a bone-deep certainty that something waswrong. A simultaneous gasp, then silence fell over the crowd like a rolling wave of fog.
“Mummy,” Matthew whimpered, “it’s Mr. Grant.”
Her eyes swept over the remaining players in burgundy, and when she didn’t see his mop of golden curls, fear gripped her throat and stopped her breathing in its grasp.
“What happened?” she managed.
