Weston eyed him. “I will give you an entire afternoon to settle all of the details with her.”
Nathaniel jerked toward Weston. “What do you mean? Alone with her?”
Weston hooked his thumbs on the lapel of his coat. “No. You won’t be completely alone. Do I look stupid enough to trust you with a pretty girl for an entire afternoon with no chaperone? No. Your afternoon will be in a controlled environment. I will be just down the corridor from your conversation that will occur in my parlor.” Weston’s features stilled. “And if you make her cry or use words like fuck in her presence, God save you, you and I meet with pistols. Don’t think you can dodge a bullet. You aren’t that good. But guess what? I am. I haven’t missed a shot since I was ten.”
Jesus Christ. “Weston—”
“I have nothing more to say. The rest is between you and Gene. Just remember, you aren’t the only one gambling with your life here. We all are. And Gene more than the rest of us. So give her the respect she deserves and call on her.”
Nathaniel plastered a hand across his mouth in disbelief and eyed Weston before saying through clamped fingers, “I’ll call on her with my decision.”
“Good.” Stepping toward him, Weston tugged on Nathaniel’s linen shirt. “Gene asks I make you presentable and insists on paying for it. I know an excellent tailor on Regent Street who can stitch together an incredible outfit in three days. The man can make anyone look good. Even you.”
Nathaniel seriously thought about ripping out Weston’s beating heart and eating it. “In my opinion, you’re both sick. And you’re trying to make me sick.”
“Atwood. You have the ability to change all of our lives. Gene gets to cradle independence, I get to cradle a divorce and you get to cradle whatever the hell you need to cradle when we all get that quarter of a million. So the question is, do you want to change all of our lives? Or would you rather go back to being Coleman?”
A thin chill seized Nathaniel’s breath at the thought.
Why did he have the vexing feeling he was going to do this?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We now turn aside from the qualifications of the hero, to view his pretensions as a man of taste; and in this, as in several other instances which we have portrayed, it will be found that all pugilists are not so completely absorbed by fighting, as to prove indifferent to the softer attractions of life.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
Five days later
The Weston House
WITH A CALMING breath, Imogene carefully arranged all of the gold-rimmed porcelain plates stacked with small cakes and candied fruit onto the tea table, rearranging what the servants had laid out in an effort to make it look pretty. She dragged her mother’s heirloom vase filled with pink roses more toward the center of the table. Tucking a poem she had written beside it, she pressed a forefinger to her lips, kissing it, and then pressed that same finger to the center of the poem, wishing her words luck.
Plucking up a candied fruit from the top tier, she poked it into her mouth to remove the lingering taste of medicine and quickly chewed the sticky sweetness. Swallowing the last of the candied fruit, she slid her tongue across her teeth to ensure nothing embarrassing remained. Clean.
She stepped back, easing out a shaky breath, and glanced toward the open doors of the receiving room, knowing he would arrive at any moment. After getting Mary out of the house by having her take an invitation on the other side of town, Henry had informed her that he would be in the study and that she had two hours to get him to agree. Two hours before Mary got back.
The calling bell rang, causing her heart to pop.
She scrambled toward the cane chair set beside the tea table opposite the one set for him and sank into it. Smoothing her lavender muslin gown around her thighs, she primly placed both ungloved hands onto her lap and waited.
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Atwood has come to call, my lady.”
Her stomach flipped. “Thank you, Dobson. You may send him in. Inform my brother that Lord Atwood has arrived. He wishes to know of it.”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” Dobson inclined his head and turned to retrieve her visitor from the foyer.
She pressed her hands together harder, chanting to herself to remain calm. Dizziness swirled itself in. She swallowed hard, trying to push it away.
Within moments, steady footfalls approached.
She swiped her moist hands against her gown. What if he didn’t take the offer? What if he didn’t—
A large, broad-shouldered man loomed in the doorway.
Her eyes widened and she almost grabbed the sides of her chair to keep herself from sliding out of it.
It was Nathaniel. Only…it wasn’t.
His long hair had been completely sheared off, exposing a debonair silvering of hair at his temples. The rest of his short black hair fell in even waves across his forehead and barely touched his collar, opening the stunning features of a closely shaven rugged face. He was also exquisitely dressed in an embroidered smoke-blue waistcoat with a silk cravat and a soft black morning coat paired with matching wool trousers that attractively showcased a broad, muscled frame, which his billowing, patched great coat had hidden.
He wasn’t dashing anymore.
He was downright virile.
Ice-blue eyes pierced the distance between them in a breathtakingly intimate manner.
Her pulse skittered and although she tried to look away, she felt powerless to do so. “You may close the doors.”
He made his way toward her with a long-legged stride. “I would rather we not complicate the afternoon.”
Searing heat crept up the length of her thighs and chest. She rose from her seat to greet him, swaying momentarily against what felt like the swinging of the room and only hoped her poor limbs would be able to hold her up.
Everything seemed to drum and hum as he drew steadily closer. The light from the window behind him accentuated the outline of his large body in a soft glow.
He now lingered before her, shrinking the entire parlor into a pinprick with his presence. The crisp scent of soap, hair tonic and shaving cream drifted toward her.
Gone was the man who smelled of leather and smoky wood from a blazing fire that mingled with the scent of cigars, coal and the ocean.
Henry had cleaned him up a bit too much.
It was very impressive.
She swept out her hand for him to take in greeting. “My lord.”
“I prefer Nathaniel.” He glanced toward her hand and coolly met her gaze. “And according to your brother I’m not supposed to touch you.”
She blinked and lowered her hand, her cheeks heating. Her brother was taking this a bit too far. She swept a quick hand toward the table beside them. “Will you sit?”
“Standing will be satisfactory, thank you.”
She hesitated. “You plan on standing the whole time?”
“Yes. My clothes aren’t all that accommodating and are a bit more fitted than what I’m used to. Comfort apparently doesn’t exist in the realm of high fashion.” He shifted from boot to polished boot and then tugged his morning coat. Tugging again, only more forcefully, he blurted, “Do I look like an idiot in this attire? Because I certainly feel like one. Silk isn’t something a man ought to be wearing.”
She burst into laughter, all her nervousness gone.
He groaned. “I do look like an idiot. Don’t I?”
Tempering her laughter, for she didn’t want him thinking that she was laughing at him, she offered, “No. You look—”
“Ridiculous. Like I drank too much champagne.” He wagged his cravat at her and then poked at buttons on his waistcoat. “And I have you to blame for this. Weston wouldn’t let me call on you otherwise.”
She giggled. “You look incredibly handsome. Very much so. I mean it.”
He set his shoulders and eyed her. “Handsome I can manage. I suppose.”
She smiled. If only she could convince this man to agree to her scheme.
Their lives would never be the same.
He paused and traced his gaze down the entire length of her, from shoulder to slipper. “You look very—” Shifting his jaw, he flicked his eyes toward her breasts, tarrying there for a brief moment before veering back to her face. He said nothing more.
She pressed her lips together. It was awkward knowing he appeared to be at a loss for words because of her appearance. What was it about her breasts that fascinated him so?
He set both hands behind his back, straining the fine wool of his coat, and glanced around the receiving room.
Hoping to rattle a bit of a conversation out of him, she confided, “All of the gazettes and papers are ablaze about your story. I have never read so many versions of a man’s life put to print.”
“Neither have I.”
“Is any of it true?”
“Pieces.”
“Which pieces?”
“You and I don’t have that long, tea cake.”
No. She supposed they didn’t. She smoothed her skirts, trying to think of something else to say. “Your parents must be incredibly elated having you back in their lives. I imagine you have been calling on them often, trying to embrace lost time, yes?”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t have that sort of relationship with them. My father thinks me a farce and apparently so does my mother. I had my nephew deliver three missives into her hands this past week, asking she and I meet. I have yet to hear anything. And I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will. My father is probably controlling what she does and doesn’t hear and what she does and doesn’t think.”
“Oh.” How odd. Perhaps another subject was in order, for she certainly didn’t want to stifle what little conversation they were having. “I met Mr. Jackson. He came to supper last night. He seems very excited to train with you. Apparently, he hasn’t had a student take the championship yet. He hopes you will change that.”
He said nothing. Merely stared off over her shoulder.
This was not the same, quick-tongued man she’d met that first night or in the ballroom. It appeared she had a Samson on her hands. Off the hair went and so did he. “Is everything all right?”
His gaze jumped to hers. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You appear to be distracted.”
“I am. Is there anything else you wanted to know?”
He seemed agitated. Maybe if she could get him to sit down, she could coax him into being more civil. She gestured toward the chair. “Please. Sit.”
He eyed the chair. “It’s too close to your chair.”
She glanced toward it, her brows coming together in an effort to understand. Because both chairs were on opposite sides of the table and were not even near each other. “How far do you need them to be?”
He strode toward the cane chair, swung it up with a simple toss, strode past her and set it with a resounding thud in the middle of the room, several feet away from the tea table. “This is good.”
She couldn’t help but feel insulted, knowing he didn’t even want to sit across the table from her. The man who had kissed her forehead, cheek and chin in her bedchamber and had also daringly waltzed with her before all of London now wouldn’t even sit next to her in an empty room.
She heaved out a sigh. Perhaps a bit of poetry was in order. Poetry always put her in a good mood. Stepping toward the table, she slipped her poem off the table. Crossing to the middle of the room, where he stood, she held it out.
He stared. “What is it?”
“A poem I wrote for you.”
His brows rose. “You write poetry?”
“One of my few talents. Though nothing worth publishing.” She stuck it farther out.
He scratched at his chin, sidled closer and tugged the parchment loose from her fingers. He lowered his gaze to read it.
Bringing her hands together, she mentally sketched out the words he was reading and read them in her mind along with him.
Touch a finger to my heart.
Touch a finger to my soul.
Touch a finger to the reverence you alone control.
Take my hand, I beg of you, and lead us not astray.
I vow for a quarter of a million,
I will humbly respect you in each and every way.
A laugh rumbled out of him as he fingered the edges of the parchment it had been written on. He angled it more toward himself, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “This is…” His brows came together. He glanced up again. “Is there a point to this?”
She grinned. “I wanted to make you laugh.”
His mouth quirked. “Well, you did.”
“I’m genuinely hoping you and I could be friends. Is that at all possible?”
“Back to the friends, is it?” He muttered something, then folded and refolded her poem several times, until the parchment was a palm-size square. Without meeting her gaze, he tucked it deep into the inner pocket of his coat.
She blinked and couldn’t tell if he had tucked it away because it was worth keeping or if he had tucked it away because it was that bad. It was probably because it was that bad. Her sense of humor wasn’t always the best.
He puffed out a breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Imogene. What you clearly don’t recognize—for you have never seen me in the ring, and God forbid you ever do for I am a very different man when I swing—is that I’m equally brutal as the sport I play. By taking on the role of patron, you would be subjecting yourself to four months of me and my boxing morning, day and…night.”
He said it as if night was a bad thing. “I know.”
He captured her gaze. “I enjoy making people bleed merely to prove that I am stronger. Hardly a quality a lady such as yourself should be exposed to. It isn’t normal. Nothing about me or my life is normal and that has been my life since I was forced to become a pawn at ten. Though I try to pretend I’m well beyond my past, and I sometimes have moments that I forget it exists, I haven’t been the same since I was taken.” He stared unblinkingly at her. “Nor will I ever be.”
Her chest tightened at hearing him say it. She couldn’t even imagine what he wasn’t saying. After everything she had read and everything Henry had told her about his life, and the bizarre circumstances surrounding his disappearance, she sensed this man needed a friend. Not just an investor. She softened her voice. “What was done to you when you were taken? Were you…hurt?”
He glanced off to the side. “Not in the physical sense. No.”
“Do you ever speak of it to anyone?”
“No. Not really. And now that I’m in London, I have to ensure I don’t speak of it at all.”
Imogene’s brows came together. “Why not?”
“There is a reason why I was taken. There is also a reason why I didn’t come back after I was set free.” His ice-blue eyes became disturbingly hooded. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be burdened with a secret that isn’t yours to keep? But if you don’t keep it, everyone you love will suffer for it as equally as the person who deserves to suffer for it?”
Tears pricked her eyes at hearing the savage conviction in that husky voice. It was like meeting a version of herself at seven sitting in that chair, sobbing as the lye burned its way into far more than her tongue. It had burned her soul and every drop of trust in the one person who was supposed to oversee her care.
She swallowed. “Yes,” she confided. “I do know what it is like to be burdened with a secret. I almost died as a child whilst trying to cradle one. But I know everything we endure makes us stronger and more willing to fight for what we do want.”
He eyed her. “And what are you fighting for?”
The question was one she had never been asked aloud but one she had answered so many times in her head. “I am fighting for a chance to be my own person. To be independent. I am also fighting for my brother’s happiness. A chance he never got because of me. I think it time I reverse the clock and give him back what he not only deserves but wants and needs. Everyone deserves a second chan
ce at happiness.” She hesitated and added, “Even you.”
Nathaniel observed her. “Even me.” Slowly closing the distance he’d been keeping, he paused before her and lingered. “What if I promise you I won’t skip out?”
“I’m afraid I can’t trust your word. I will require a commitment on your part and some knowledge that you will be bound to follow through.”
He seemed to consider this. “So once the championship is over, which will be in four months’ time, you and I will split all of my wins in half and we are done and free to go our separate ways. Is that right?”
Was he yielding? “Yes.”
“And how we do we settle that, given we will be married?”
“Through divorce.”
“And what grounds will we be able to provide to the church and Parliament after four months?”
“Henry mentioned an unconsummated marriage would best provide those grounds.”
“Unconsummated?” He looked her over seductively. “No. I don’t think so.”
She swallowed. “No?”
“No.” He edged toward her, his expression heated yet lethally controlled. “I have given this some thought before coming here. Lots of thought, actually. If I’m to submit to you, you will submit to me. It’s not like you’re wanting to take a husband after you and I are done. So here is the offer. In return for giving you complete control over my life and my boxing career, I expect you to bed me. And more than once, mind you. Which means…you and I will have to agree to a mutual separation. Agree to that and I’ll sign the contract.”
Their eyes locked.
Her pulse zinged from the intensity rippling between what little space slivered between them. There had to be worse things than submitting to a very attractive man who thought she was attractive, too.
Forever a Lord Page 14