“Yes, I’d like that.”
His entire body lit up in fireworks as he spun to face her.
She motioned to his hand as her lip pulled up in a hesitant smile. “B-but I insist you get a fresh glass.”
Chapter 3
“…bombuslapidarius,andb-bombuslocurum.” Marigold sat back in her chair as a satisfied smile pulled at her lips. “All the species of b-bees living in the United Kingdom.”
Archie’s features had morphed from admiration to disbelief, then awe to absolute befuddlement over the past dozen or so minutes, but he hadn’t broken eye contact once, and she’d finally stopped expecting he would scold her for being a bore. “I have no way of verifying if you’re correct, so I’m going to take your word for it.”
She took a long sip of her claret to soothe her throat. She didn’t remember the last time she’d spoken so much in a single go. “You could check the library.”
He scoffed. “If you think I’m leaving to go look up such a simple thing as bees, you are mistaken.”
Marigold rolled her lips between her teeth, pleasure pooling up from deep in her belly. “B-bees are not simple.”
“As you’ve just shown me. But you’re missing the point. I’m not leaving your side.”
Her cheeks burned, but not from embarrassment, but pride. She was certain no one had ever said something so profoundly romantic to her, although, judging by the nonchalance with which he said it, Archie did not mean it with the profundity of significance that she heard.
Most of the guests had abandoned the card room in favor of the action at the billiards tables, leaving them in relative privacy as darkness descended over the pastures beyond the French doors, so no one bore witness to the pink staining her cheeks at his attention.
He leaned forward and almost put his elbow on his plate of anchovies on toast, but Marigold darted her hand out and pulled the plate away just in time.
“So you tell them apart by the color of their bottoms?”
His knees bumped hers beneath the table, and awareness sizzled through her veins, spreading to her fingertips and toes as he held her gaze, hung on every word. She’d been talking about her hives for the last half hour, but his attention had only strayed for long enough to fetch her another plate of potted cheese and a glass of wine before he’d asked another litany of questions.
“Yes, among other features.”
His brows furrowed. “Who are the scientists walking around looking at bee’s bottoms? Seems awfully rude to me. Why can’t wedescribe the color of their hair or their sparkling conversational ability?”
A giggle escaped—she wasgiggling?—and his eyes danced like she’d given him a momentous gift.
Marigold had never met a man like Archie. He seemed to be friends with everyone present, exchanging quick pleasantries, handshakes and grins as though they were lifelong acquaintances. And when he looked at her, she felt his adoration like a physical touch, like she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever encountered.
With each conversation congratulating him on a spectacular game, questioning him on his tactics and plans for the rest of the season, he gracefully exited and came back to her, always back to her, as though she were a gravitational force he had no desire to escape.
As though she were special.
But she must be, somehow, because in the nearly two hours since she rescued the bee from his glass, he’d hardly left her side. Their conversation had skipped the typical social pleasantries that always left her feeling awkward and self-conscious. Instead, they lept into the nuances of the game of rugby and the intricacies of beekeeping.
He leaned back in his chair, his casual strength sending a bolt of unexpected desire darting between her thighs. “Alright, enough talk of bee bottoms. Your turn.”
Marigold bit her lower lip. Somehow they’d come to the unspoken agreement that they would discuss nothing of consequence, or perhaps only things of the utmost consequence. She’d learnedthat his parish school teacher had put him in rugby because he constantly was tackling the other altar boys before services, and he’d learned that she didn’t stutter as much when talking about her bees because she had to calm herself in their presence.
But the pesky details of their daily lives—such as their surnames or, say, that she had ahusband—simply hadn’t come up.
Her stomach gave a twist, but she pushed the guilt away. What harm was there in flirtation, in allowing herself to feel appreciated,beautifulfor one evening?
As though Lily heard her thoughts, her sister appeared in the doorway and winked as she collected a fresh bottle of whiskey from the bar before continuing on her way.
“On your farm,” she breathed, and Archie nodded. “D-did you ever grow anything you hated?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and the levity drained from his expression. He hummed, a growl low in his throat as he swirled the dregs of whisky in his glass and threw it back. “Sugar beets,” he finally spat, the words delivered with such hatred that Marigold blinked.
“Sugar b-beets?” she echoed, and Archie shook his head.
