“What of it? I’m going to teach you how to put your fists up when you need to. Because there are times to be submissive and then there are times you can’t be. Admit it. You enjoyed winning your gown back, didn’t you?”
“A little.” Perhaps even more than a little. She appreciated the sense of control at getting her gown back. She was so accustomed to having to rely on others—knowing she could rely on herself was affirming. And Nathaniel had given her that.
Though she wasn’t sure about physically fighting. It did not feel natural. Or respectable.
“Don’t I get a thank-you?” he asked.
“For what?”
“For helping you deliver your first punch.”
“That is hardly something I should be thankful for.”
“I see.” Swiveling on his heel, he walked to the ledge of the rooftop and laid himself right where it sloped off and down onto the cobbled street forty feet below.
Her heart popped. “Don’t do that! What are you doing?”
His head jumped up to look at her, but he stubbornly remained on the ledge. “Say thank you,” he chided with a lopsided grin, now hanging an arm off the edge.
The man was insane. “You—” With her gown hanging open in the back and her trying to keep it from slipping off her body, she scrambled toward him. “Come away from there! This isn’t funny anymore. You are frightening me!”
He sighed and rolled toward her. “We clearly have a lot of work ahead of us.”
Falling onto her knees, she grabbed him, her fingers digging into his wool coat, and squeezed him tightly against herself. Her heart still pounded in disbelief. She shook him. “Don’t ever do anything like that again! Be it to prove a point or not! Are you daft?”
A gargled laugh escaped him. “At least I know you like me well enough not to push.”
Almost two weeks later—6:15 p.m.
Jackson’s
NATHANIEL STRIPPED HIS leather gloves from his hands and paused. Mad though it was, he was beginning to believe in something called serendipity. He couldn’t explain it, but it was as though everything that had happened in his life thus far had happened to lead him to one thing: Imogene.
The woman with those bright, eager eyes sitting on the bench against the wall. The woman who had gone—albeit slowly—from holding her hands against her eyes the first week to forgetting herself now and making full swings from her place as she watched him and the other men, the satin and lace sleeves of her gown flying. She would even occasionally yell out, “Harder!” startling some of the men into missing swings.
It was adorable.
And he had to do something about it.
Knowing there was no one else in the club but him, her and Jackson, he turned to Jackson, who was hanging up gloves from the group that had left and said to the man in a low voice, “Give Imogene a pair of gloves. She and I are going to spar.”
Turning toward him from the rack of gloves, Jackson’s brows went up to his grey hairline. He glanced back at Imogene, who sat in her pink satin and lace gown beside a book and bonnet. Jackson snorted. “If anyone passing the windows were to see a woman boxing in my club, I would never be allowed to own a business again.”
Nathaniel pointed toward the shutters outside the windows. “Close the shutters, give me the key and I will ensure I lock everything up so you can retire. I’ll drop the key off on my way back home. Our day is done anyway.”
“Yes, but—”
“Have you seen the way she was swinging all week? Give her a chance to let it out. She is making all of this possible. For all of us.”
Jackson stared at him for a long moment, then tossed him a pair of leather gloves by the strings. “Don’t put them on her until the shutters are closed.”
Nathaniel caught the gloves. “Yes, sir.”
Jackson shook his head, withdrew a key from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. “Drop it off the moment you lock up.”
Nathaniel took the key and shoved it into his waistcoat. “Yes, sir.”
Jackson shook his head again and strode toward the entrance door. Closing the door behind him, he folded the shutters over the windows and latched them into place, darkening the training room. Fortunately, all the lanterns had already been lit.
Jogging over to the door, Nathaniel bolted it shut and then walked toward Imogene. He theatrically held up the gloves by their strings and strode toward her. “Meet your new friends. Left glove and right glove.”
She lowered her chin but didn’t move from the bench. “Those aren’t my friends. They are your friends.”
He grinned and halted before her, wagged a finger toward her hands. “I’ve been watching you all week. Your very face brightens when the men string up their gloves. It’s you and I now. So hold up those hands and let’s do this.”
She slid her hands behind her back, burying them in the folds of her gown. “I shouldn’t.”
Kneeling before her, Nathaniel tapped her knee with his free hand and held her gaze. “I know you want to. Come on.” He held up the boxing gloves by the strings, causing them to swing before her.
She bit her lip and eyed the leather gloves. “Am I allowed to? Even though I’m a woman?”
He knew she’d been eyeing the gloves. “Yes, you’re allowed to. Jackson closed up the shutters and the door is officially locked. Just make sure you don’t get Jackson into trouble and start telling your female friends about this.”
“I don’t have female friends. So we really don’t have to worry, do we?” She giggled and grabbed for the gloves, setting them onto her lap. “Now what?”
He laughed. “You put them on, is what.”
“I know, but how? Does it matter which hand goes into which?”
He flicked the right glove and pointed to her right hand. “That goes on that one. And the other on the other one. Once you get them on, I’ll string you up.”
She nodded and quickly tugged on each glove. She held them up before herself awkwardly, the lace of her sleeves falling to her elbows. “Aren’t they a bit heavy?”
“They are meant to do more than protect the hands during sparring. Their weight also builds mass in the arms during training.” Leaning toward her, he wrapped the strings and tied them firmly and tightly into place, until the strings indented the leather. He genuinely enjoyed strapping her hands. Even binding her into gloves was incredibly erotic.
She met his gaze, her mouth quirking. “Do I get to hit you? Hard?”
A laugh escaped him as he pushed down her now-bound strings. “Yes. As hard as you like.”
She lifted a hand and tapped at his shoulder with the rounding part of the glove. “Go get those gloves on right quick, lest you lose the championship to me.”
Another laugh escaped him. As of late, it was as if all he did was laugh. She brought it out in him more and more, damn her. “Walk over to the floor.”
“Yes, sir!” She popped up off the bench and bustled toward the boxing floor, holding both gloves up high over her head of bundled curls.
He called after her, “You don’t need to hold them that high, you know. The idea is to protect your face, not your hair.”
“Oh. Right.” She turned and lowered the two leather gloves, setting them against her chin. “Like this. Like you do.”
Something about the way she said it made him draw in a slow breath. It made him realize how much she really had been watching him.
He loved knowing it. Because his boxing was an extension of everything he was and would always be and to have her acknowledge that part of him, despite its savageness, was more than endearing. It was downright soul rendering.
Casually crossing toward her, he rounded the floor and paused before her. This was going to be fun. He snapped up both bare fists. “Are you ready to take me on?”
Though she held up her gloved hands at her chin, she glanced toward his hands. “What about your gloves?”
He kept his fists up. “What? You don’t trust me without them?”
&nb
sp; She hit her gloves against each other, thudding them. “The real question is, do you trust me?”
“Ooooo. That sounds like a challenge I’m looking to lick.” He rounded her. “Come on. Come at me, tea cake.”
She pursed her lips. “At least try to pretend I’m one of the boys. You wouldn’t call them tea cake whilst sparring them, would you?”
He lifted a brow. “If they looked like you, I would.”
“Now that deserves retribution, my lord.” Her features tightened with genuine focus and she darted forward, swinging out a fist.
He skidded aside, impressed she could move so quickly. He let out a low whistle. “Very good. Do it again.”
By the end of the hour, the woman had worked them both into a dripping state of sweat. He couldn’t help but be in awe. She not only stayed with him throughout every swing but hadn’t asked to rest once. In what felt like a breath, she had become a little boxer. His little boxer.
“Last hit,” he called out. “This time let it land. That way, you know how it really feels to follow through with a swing.” He moved in close. Much closer than he normally would with an opponent.
“Are you certain you want me to actually hit you?”
“Quite. Come on. Come at me.”
“What if I hit you too hard?”
He wanted to kiss her. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I can’t take a hit from you, I shouldn’t be boxing.”
She gasped. “Was that a jab at my being a woman?”
Now he really wanted to kiss her. “Will it make you swing at my head?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Because women can hit just as hard as men if given the chance.”
“I see. Then yes. It’s a jab. Women can’t hit.”
“Oh, now, that deserves a hit. Watch this.” She turned toward him, her flushed features still focused, and swung at his head with her right hooking toward it.
He purposefully didn’t move and let it bounce off his head. Though it hit him impressively hard given her light weight, he added in an exaggerated “Ooof!” and threw himself onto the ground, enjoying the rest.
“Nathaniel?” she echoed, scrambling toward him and kneeling beside him, gloves jabbing into his sides. “Did I really hit you that hard? Or did you fall on purpose?”
He bit back wanting to laugh and rolled onto his back, throwing his arms out beside him on the floor. “Both.” Reaching for her, he grabbed her hard by her corseted waist and yanked her down onto himself, forcing her to hang above him. “You win the bout, given I can’t get back up. Now name your prize. I’ll give you anything you want. And I do mean anything. So think good and well on this. I’m in a rather vulnerable position. Rare for me, you know.”
She grinned down at him, long curls falling out from her pinned hair. “I get whatever I want? Can I hold you to that?”
He nodded, tracing his gaze adoringly from those bright hazel eyes to her unraveling blond hair. “Anything. Because I’m more than impressed. What do you want?”
She leaned down, touching her nose to his nose and whispered, “You. Can I keep you? Forever, my lord?”
He stilled beneath her, searching her face. It was as if she meant it. His hands jumped to her face and held her possessively in place, right where she was, her nose touching his nose. “And what would you do with me if I let you keep me forever?” he asked in a low tone.
She hovered above him. “I would spend every moment adoring you. In the way you deserve.”
It was as if she was admitting to loving him. As if he deserved to be loved.
Tightening his hold on her face, he covered her mouth with his and savagely kissed her, not only wanting to give in to the idea of her, but needing to give in to the idea of her. It was obvious he was done for. He’d never seen that coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Act well your part—THERE all the honour lies!
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
The Wentworth House
Two weeks later—evening
EXCUSING HERSELF FROM an old gentleman whose words slurred from one too many cognacs, Imogene scanned elegantly dressed guests quietly conversing at the small gathering. The Duke of Wentworth—being the endearingly supportive brother-in-law that he was—had decided to host an intimate party for a select few the night before Nathaniel’s first fight toward the title of Champion. Whilst the duke hadn’t been all that pleased with Nathaniel taking on the role of an aristocratic boxer, the man still genuinely supported Nathaniel in his decision and tried to openly acknowledge it.
Oddly, she hadn’t seen Nathaniel in some time. He had disappeared somewhere within the small crowd. Sashaying into a pause, she found him and his nephew propped against the farthest wall in the room intently discussing something.
Garbed in black evening attire, an embroidered waistcoat and a silk cravat with his black hair suavely swept back with tonic, Nathaniel looked as debonair as ever. And the way he had casually set his broad shoulder against the wall with his head slightly cocked in conversation made him appear even more so.
It was astounding to see him look so at ease in a social setting he had initially resisted attending. He was worried the duke and his nephew wouldn’t be as accepting of his boxing aspirations, but they had proved him wrong.
The duke and his nephew supported him completely.
She smiled, still watching him. He seemed so different from the man she had first met. More at ease with himself and the world. She sometimes liked to think that she had brought about that change.
Nathaniel glanced toward her in midconversation. With the quirk of his full mouth and the perusal of her chartreuse gown, he inclined his head, acknowledging her from across the room.
Her stomach fluttered and that incredible feeling of being acknowledged by a man like him in that way, and in public, was something she knew was going to stay with her all her life.
There were times she wondered what was happening between them. They were partners in everything and yet…they were not. She was still achingly waiting for him to verbally acknowledge that he adored her as much as she adored him.
Shifting against the wall, Nathaniel returned his gaze to Yardley and said something seemingly more involved to which Yardley shook his head, half-amused.
Knowing she ought to give Nathaniel time alone with his nephew, she let out a breath and rounded the room, trying to find someone else to talk to. With only two dozen people present, as opposed to the ten dozen or more that usually attended gatherings or balls, she felt more at ease.
She had never been all that fond of crowds.
A pretty redhead dressed in an elegant primrose lace and satin gown, sidestepped toward her, startling Imogene into a quick halt.
The woman playfully smiled and confided in a conspiring, American-Irish accent, “The name is Miss Tormey. We’re going to be relatives, you and I.”
Imogene pulled in her chin. “I beg your pardon?”
Trying to flick open a fan with a sweep of her gloved hand, Miss Tormey rolled her eyes, realizing the fan hadn’t opened. She manually pried it open and grouched, “It never opens right. No wonder men don’t bother with these. I only use it because Lady Burton kept telling me it keeps people from reading lips. Which you Brits like to do all the time.” Setting the now-open fan strategically beside her face, Miss Tormey leaned in. “Robinson and I will be announcing our engagement tonight. In about an hour. I wanted you to know, seeing you and I are about to be family.”
Imogene blinked. “Uh…congratulations.” Realizing she had no idea who the woman was even talking about, she asked, “Who is Robinson?”
Miss Tormey grinned, her green eyes brightening. “That would be Lord Yardley. Robinson is his nickname. You know, like Robinson Crusoe. The character from that book.” Her grin faded and she took on a more pensive look. “I actually read the book for the first time last week. It wasn’t even good. Cannibals and pirates don’t make for what I call a good story. There wasn’t even a romance in it. In my opinion, m
en ought to stop writing books. They are wasting not only their time but ours. Though mostly ours.”
Imogene stifled a giggle. She rather liked this Miss Tormey. “So you and Lord Yardley are set to wed?”
Miss Tormey nodded, sending her gathered strawberry ringlets swaying about her face. “Yes. He and I would have been married weeks ago, but you aristos are all about formality and ba ba ba.”
Ba ba ba? Another laugh escaped Imogene. “Well, congratulations. With you marrying Yardley, that would indeed make us family. Nathaniel is incredibly fond of his nephew. He always tries to find time for not only him but the duke between all his training. ’Tis endearing to know how well they all get on.”
“Let us hope it lasts, yes? Or you and I will be at a loss.” Miss Tormey leaned in again, still holding up the fan to their faces. “Is it possible for you and I to get to know each other? I need more than just male company.”
Imogene gently grabbed the woman’s arm. “I would very much like that. Shall we take tea in the next few weeks?”
Miss Tormey lifted a rusty brow. “How about whiskey instead? I’m going to need it, knowing that I’m staying in London for the rest of my life.”
Imogene stifled another laugh. “I have never had whiskey, but I’m certain if you can sip whiskey, so can I.”
“Oh, you don’t sip whiskey, lady friend. You guzzle it. I’ll show you how.” Miss Tormey tilted her head toward the other end of the room. “I never thought that heathen would ever take a wife. Is he treating you good?”
Imogene’s heart skipped at seeing Nathaniel striding toward them. “Incredibly good,” she managed.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Miss Tormey flicked her fan shut. “I should paddle away. I doubt the man is coming over to see me. We’ll do whiskey sometime. After I’m officially engaged, that is. I hear society grants a little more lenience to a woman then. Thank God. Because I can’t keep at this.” Miss Tormey swept past and made her way toward Lord Yardley, who was mouthing something to her from across the room. Miss Tormey set her fan to the side of her mouth and returned the silent mode of conversation.
Forever a Lord Page 22