Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  He sighed. “I can’t have you riled to the point of stuttering. It isn’t right. How about you and I come to an agreement with regard to your medication?”

  She swallowed. “What sort of…agreement?”

  “Go for two months without your tonic and see how you feel. If you decide you still need it after those two months are over, we’ll call in another doctor. Not Dr. Filbert, mind you, but someone else who isn’t biased. Can you agree to that much?”

  Rather dazed at the unexpected bend of his nature, she half nodded. “I… Yes. I can…I can stop taking it tomorrow. I can give it two months and…decide then.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He pushed off the bed. “If you need me, just knock on my door.” Holding her gaze for a pulsing moment, he turned and strode to the open door.

  Stepping out, he closed it with a soft thud.

  As always, she never knew what to expect from the man. He was so stubbornly hard and yet so…endearingly soft at the times she needed him to be. She lowered herself slowly to the bed and nestled her cheek against the cool, smooth linens. It was quite possible she was already beyond enchanted with this boxer.

  This could complicate things.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sir, my friends think that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day upon which I contended with you, not been so unfavourable, I should have won the battle; I therefore challenge you to a second meeting, at any time.

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  The following morning

  NATHANIEL WAS GOING to straight punch someone, knowing there was already a group of chroniclers lingering outside the house with pencils and writing books in hand. Since when did his life become not his own?

  Since Imogene, is when. Since Imogene. Damn her.

  Stopping at the bottom of the main staircase, Nathaniel thumped at the middle wall with the side of his fisted hand until it burned. “The carriage and I have been waiting fifteen minutes!” he called out loud enough for her to hear. “Are we going to Jackson’s or not?”

  He stepped back and checked the hall clock set against the far wall. He rolled his eyes. “There is a clock upstairs, too, you know!” he yelled out. “I checked last night!”

  “There is no need to yell like the boxing savage that you are,” Imogene chided from atop the stairwell. “We are on time and will get there in barely twenty minutes if we avoid Park Lane.”

  He glanced up at her. “A woman’s time and a man’s time are obviously—” His brows went up.

  Imogene regally descended the stairs, draped in a stunning lilac and lace gown that more than complimented her figure. It personified it. The lavish skirts swayed rhythmically against her elegant movements. The woman even wore an oval bonnet, which had been trimmed with white silk flowers and lilac satin ribbons.

  How the hell was he or anyone else at Jackson’s going to fight with all that satin and lace in the way?

  Landing pertly before him, she set her chin and smiled. “Do I meet your approval?”

  “Approval is one thing. Being practical is quite another. You’re overdressed.”

  She lowered her chin. “Overdressed?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? You’re overdressed.”

  She glanced down at herself. “But I thought it pretty.”

  A character is what she was. One he wished he didn’t like so goddamn much. “It is pretty. But that isn’t what I’m trying to say.”

  She glanced up. “What are you trying to say?”

  “That you’re overdressed. If you had any more lace on you, we would probably be able to open a dress shop.”

  She sighed. “What am I supposed to wear?”

  “I don’t know…maybe something with a little less—” he rigidly gestured toward her ribbons and silk flowers “—female paraphernalia.”

  “But everything I own is female. I am a female.”

  He stared. “Imogene. Men are going to be spraying sweat across the room. Or didn’t you know that?”

  “Of course I know that.” She plucked out a lace napkin from her reticule and wagged it at him. “That is why I brought this.”

  Oh, God. “That will barely clean up my middle finger.”

  She pursed her lips. “Your middle finger isn’t that large.”

  He snatched it from her and shoved it into his trousers. “If you need it, you know where to find it.”

  She leaned away. “You can keep it.”

  “I will. I would tell you to change but we don’t have time.” He thumbed toward the door. “Now move. Before we’re late.”

  Adjusting her carriage shawl about her shoulders, she leaned in, her hazel eyes now sparkling with an unusual amount of mischief. “I hear—and from a most reliable source, mind you—that your wife intends to turn you into a boxing champion. So whatever you do, don’t disappoint her by tripping on the lace napkin stuffed in your trousers.” With the flip of the ribbons on her bonnet, she brushed past toward the entrance door. “Now come along. You, sir, are late.”

  Everything about her made him want to grab and squeeze. Hard. He rotated toward her and jogged toward the door, setting himself against it. “Before we go. There are chroniclers waiting outside. They will be asking questions about me and the upcoming fight, most of which I’ll not be responding to. We only pause long enough to appear sociable, I answer four questions and we leave. All right?”

  She eyed him. “I don’t have to talk to them, do I?”

  Pushing away from the door, he grabbed her hand. “No. In fact, I prefer you not say anything. Chroniclers have a tendency to be aggressive. So don’t give them any opportunity to engage you.”

  She nodded, now looking a touch panicked.

  “Imogene.” He shook her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m a boxer. Remember?”

  She paused, her features relaxing. “Right.”

  “Now come along.” Opening the door, he hooked her arm around his and guided them out into a bright, sunlit day, closing the door behind them.

  “Lord Atwood!” Several men in topcoats and beaver hats, who had been lingering by the iron railing dividing the house from the cobbled street, hurried toward them. “Lord Weston assured us you would be available to answer questions.”

  He was beginning to hate Weston. “I’m certain he did.” His arm tightened against Imogene’s, silently imploring her to remain calm, as they descended to join the group of men. “Regrettably, I only have time for four questions, gentlemen. My wife and I have an appointment.”

  The mustached gent closest to him leaned in and quickly asked, “Norley publicly announced last night over at Cardinal’s that, with your wife being your investor, you won’t last past a few rounds. He says you look like a kept man and that your marriage is a farce. What have you to say to that?”

  Nathaniel smirked, knowing Norley was desperate to be making public comments. “Norley should be spending more time training and less time talking. If I look like a kept man, I’m damn proud of it. Next question?”

  Another man pushed closer. “There are those who claim you are parading as the missing Sumner heir merely for publicity purposes. Is that true?”

  Nathaniel stared the man down. “I wish publicity meant that much to me. Next question?”

  “Since when does an aristocrat go into the realm of professional boxing?” someone tersely tossed out.

  Nathaniel shifted toward the man. “I don’t really consider myself an aristocrat, gentlemen. I certainly didn’t grow up as one. I lived on the streets and barely had enough to pay for clothes and food. Boxing is what kept me alive. And that is why I keep doing it. Next and last question?”

  A stockier, round-faced man called out, “Rumor has it, you have been associating with Harriet Wilson during unconventional hours. Are you her latest protector and what does your wife of one day have to say to that?”

  Imogene stiffened against his arm hold, her startled gaze flying up to his.

  He hated chroniclers. But what
he hated even more than chroniclers was knowing Imogene now thought he was cavorting with other women. A jealous woman was not a happy one and he had an upcoming fight with Norley to focus on.

  Releasing Imogene’s arm, Nathaniel strode up to the chronicler who had asked the question, snatched hold of the man by the lapels of his topcoat and with a violent thrust, flung both the man and his beaver hat in full reverse toward the pavement. “Does that answer your question?” he bit out. “Whatever woman I am with, for whatever the reason, she always gets my full attention. Call it a rule of mine. Respect it.”

  Turning back to Imogene, he grabbed her by the waist hard and pushed her toward the direction of the waiting carriage. “Any more questions like that, gents,” he called out over his shoulder, “and I’ll ensure more than your pencils break. Keep it to boxing. Not my goddamn life.”

  Hurried booted steps and more questions filled the air, trying to catch up with him. “Will your father be watching any of the fights?”

  Nathaniel almost whipped around and launched himself at the man who asked the question but knew if he did, he’d probably end up at Scotland Yard for it. He had spent his entire life shoving aside his life and now his life was intent on shoving back. And whilst he had tried to do right by his mother and his sister by not implicating his father—or killing him—the reality was that, in an attempt to better his life, he was throwing open all doors to secret sniffing chroniclers and all of London. Regardless of whatever his path to the championship brought, he knew he was done bowing to the past. It was time that the past bowed to him. And it would.

  Hoisting Imogene up and into the open door of the waiting carriage, he climbed in, slamming the door behind himself, and threw himself into the upholstered seat across from her. He hit the ceiling of the carriage with a fist to signal the driver to go.

  When the jogging faces of the chroniclers disappeared, he fell against the seat. This was but the beginning. He hadn’t even taken his first fight yet.

  He paused. His chest tightened at realizing he was sitting in the carriage. God, it was always something. He detested how it made his skin crawl. There were times he was capable of focusing and pretending small spaces didn’t bother him and there were other times—like now—that it not only bothered him but made him nauseous.

  Shite. He dug his fist against his mouth and tried to focus on something. Anything.

  Imogene intently observed him. “What is it?”

  He swallowed past the knot in his throat and did everything he could to keep himself from rocking. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  He tried to look out the window, reminding himself he had the means to get out. “I just don’t care for small spaces. Once we get out, I’ll be fine. Just leave me alone. Leave me to focus.”

  She quickly rose, settled herself beside him and leaned in close. “I remember when we were in the carriage the last time. You sat with your eyes closed the whole while and wouldn’t even speak to me. I thought it was me.”

  “Yes, well, it isn’t.”

  She hesitated. “Tell me how I can help.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers and held that soft gaze. An odd sense of peace overcame him knowing that she was genuinely concerned for him. Him. Not the quarter of a million. Him. And why the hell did he care?

  She smiled and took hold of his hands. “You look better already.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  She playfully lifted a brow. “So who is Harriet Wilson?”

  He snorted at the unexpected but welcome topic and leaned toward her. “If I knew that, I would have answered the question. Chroniclers are known for trying to make their own stories more exciting. Get used to it.”

  She nodded, gently swaying the ribbons of her bonnet, and continued to attentively hold his gaze.

  He tried to stay focused on her and only her. “Distract me from the fact that I’m still in this goddamn carriage. What are you thinking about?”

  She smoothed a hand across the coat on his forearm. “You. What is it about the carriage that makes you so uncomfortable?”

  He shifted against the seat and knew there were some things he wasn’t going to be able to keep from her. “I was kept in a cellar during my captivity. And sometimes, I still feel like I’m…in it.”

  Her startled gaze flew to his. “A cellar? Nathaniel, why were you kept in a cellar?”

  He stiffened. “Imogene. There are some things I just don’t want to talk about. And this is one of them. Especially now.”

  She nodded, her hand gently rubbing his coat and arm. “Forgive me. I understand.”

  God. He wanted to touch her again, as he did last night, but knew, damn her, he’d never be able to again. Not after what he’d done to her, tying her up and seizing her virginity as if it were his to seize.

  He dug his gloved hands into the seat to keep him from thinking about what he’d done. “Stop touching me. For God’s sake, stop.”

  Her hand edged away. “I’m sorry.”

  He adjusted his coat, annoyed with himself for still wanting her so much. He had stupidly misled himself into thinking he could fuck her and think nothing of it. The problem was, something happened the moment he’d claimed her. Something that had never happened to him before. He had started wanting her in more than that way.

  He wanted her in every way.

  This was becoming far more than mere attraction or a wink at a business contract. He liked her a bit too much. Which was a problem. Because she was rattling the cage of something he swore to avoid for the rest of his life: passion. He knew what it did to people. It made them rip everything apart.

  He had to avoid getting any more attached. He was used to detaching himself from people. He’d done it all his life. What was one more person?

  Rising from his seat, he strategically placed himself across from her, feeling as if now she were choking him, not the carriage. He was morbidly relieved when they rolled to a stop and Jackson’s appeared outside the glass window.

  * * *

  IMOGENE REMOVED HER bonnet, folding the satin ribbons, and set it quietly onto the bench beside her, feeling quite overdressed. From the other side of the room, Nathaniel and nine other men, including Mr. Jackson, stripped down to shirts and waistcoats.

  She pinched her lips, feeling awkward about seeing so many men strip at once. It made her stomach churn and her throat burn.

  Some of the young men were smirking as if aware of her discomfort and purposefully positioned themselves in a way that best displayed their dressed-down muscled bodies.

  Men were so annoying.

  One moment they were human. The next they were not.

  Nathaniel being an example of that.

  The man hadn’t tossed so much as a word or glance at her since they had left the carriage. It was like she had ceased to exist now that they had stepped into his realm. Boxing.

  Jackson called out to the men, “Mr. P. Egan will be making the rounds this week, given the upcoming championship. Impress him, gents, and the glory of his remarks and the popularity it will bring are yours.”

  Imogene’s brows went up. Mr. P. Egan? Why, she knew that name. She had been reading the man’s boxing scribbles from Henry’s study in an effort to better understand what she was investing in. She pertly sat up, feeling unusually pleased with herself for knowing something about boxing.

  “And on we go,” Jackson called out. Jackson turned to Nathaniel and pointed. “We will be focusing on the Norley fight. Norley always goes for the head. The temple in particular, though he is most known for breaking the jaw. So let me play his game.”

  Jackson thrust a large leather glove onto each of Nathaniel’s hands and, using the leather strings, wrapped, tied and knotted them into place. Every man in the room followed suit, the leather gloves that had been strung from the hooks on the wall now on every hand in the room.

  Nathaniel angled himself across from Jackson, bringing both leather-clad fists up. All of the
other men found their sparring partners, as well. With a sounding call from Jackson of “Set to!” every man started swinging.

  Every time they all hit each other with those large leather gloves, Imogene flinched as if she were getting hit. When did men crawl into the idea that beating the blood out of another man was acceptable?

  A quarter of a million, she chanted to herself. A quarter of a million. She needed to remind herself why she was watching men maim each other into oblivion.

  She stared, unable to believe how ruthless they all were. Especially Nathaniel. With his black hair scattered and growing damp, eyes fiercely narrowed and focused, and his large, muscled body hunched and tensed, there was not an ounce of humanity left in him.

  He wasn’t the same man.

  He darted in, his face intent on gashing, and savagely delivered a quick blow to Jackson’s side, making Imogene wince. Jackson darted in equally fast, yelling out a command, and returned a hooking blow that snapped Nathaniel’s head aside.

  She choked back a startled yelp as Jackson hit him in the head again. Her hands jumped up and covered both eyes, her heart pounding in disbelief at having seen Atwood get hit so brutally.

  Oh, God. This wasn’t even the actual fights or the championship.

  This was mere training.

  Grunts and rapid thuds echoed around her in a whirling blur. That was when she realized something.

  Nathaniel could get hurt. Badly.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It required something more than fortitude, to act thus in opposition to nature, as well as considerable Ingenuity in husbanding his strength, that he might be enabled to reduce his opponent to his own level.

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  Evening

  IMOGENE VEERED TOWARD her closed bedchamber door and leaned against it, intently listening to Nathaniel’s footsteps disappear down the corridor to his room. She splayed her fingers across the cool, smooth wood and swallowed against the tightness throbbing within her throat.