Forever a Lord (10 page)

“That she was. She carried you upon her lips and within her heart until her last breath was taken and spent her entire life wanting to find you. If you don’t mean to honor the living, Uncle, I ask that you at least honor the dead. My mother deserved as much.”

Nathaniel squeezed his eyes tighter and swung away. Poor Auggie. Poor, poor Auggie had suffered as much as he had. A soul-wrenching clarity descended, almost making him stagger. He was damned either way. Whether his father lived or died, the truth would have to stay buried or it would ruin them all.

He had to be stronger in this. He couldn’t submit to revenge and destroy what little remained of his sister’s family. He had to protect them and was therefore going to have to settle on crushing his father another way. The only way he knew how. By taking back his name before all of London.

After a long moment of silence, he turned back and unfastened the leather belt from around his hips. He folded the belt around the sheath of his dagger and held it out. “Take it before I use it.”

Yardley grabbed hold of the belt and dagger and shook his head. “You need to find peace.”

Nathaniel set his shoulders and rounded on him. “I hear death is a nice long sleep. Sounds peaceful enough to me.”

Yardley let out a breath. “Take back the life that was so maliciously taken from you and create something worthier. Surround yourself with people who will love you and support you whilst taking your place back in our circle where you belong. That is how you will find and know peace. Give yourself a chance to know it. Consider starting a family and commencing anew.”

A gargled laugh escaped him. “Taking an aristo for a wife, who’d never understand the chaos within me, would only beget children whose bedtime stories would involve my nightmares. I don’t think so.”

Turning toward him, Yardley offered in a sympathetic tone, “You underestimate a woman’s worth and her ability to redefine a man. A woman can give you hope in a world that has none. She can fight for you when you have ceased fighting for yourself and everything you believe in.”

Nathaniel glanced toward him, rather intrigued. “Smitten, are you?”

“Beyond. You should be so lucky.”

Nathaniel smirked. Oh, to be stupid again. And to think that the poor bastard was set to marry Georgia. He refused to believe it. “Distract me. What’s her name?” Because he still refused to believe it.

“Her real one? Or the one she is parading under? For I will confess I am about to marry two women for the price of one. She is divine intervention. I have never known anyone or anything so exquisite.”

Georgia, Georgia, Georgia. She was going to make a mess out of his nephew’s life. He was going to have to do something about that. “I could use a little divine intervention.” Nathaniel strode back toward him and leaned in, looking to rattle the boy who knew nothing about him or the fact that he knew Georgia. “Would you be willing to share her with your uncle from time to time? When I’m feeling particularly lonely? Or are you the territorial sort?”

Yardley tossed aside the leather belt and blade with a resounding clatter and stared him down. “Do I look amused?”

Nathaniel snorted and patted his cheek. “Now, now, you aristos are so easily ruffled. I was joking.”

“Were you?” Yardley reached out and gripped his shoulder hard, digging the tips of his fingers into the flesh beneath. “Don’t cross the only family you have left, Atwood. Don’t even
joke
about it.”

Nathaniel liked this boy. He was fierce and loyal and honest. Few men were. “You needn’t worry, nephew. I only cross those that cross me. And you haven’t crossed me…
yet.
”

Flinging his nephew’s hand away, he walked backward toward the entrance of the study, knowing he had a name to resurrect. And he was going to do it by not only letting everyone know who he was, but by taking the championship so he had money to support his new identity—the aristocratic boxer. “I think I’m going to like London. There are just so many civilized people crawling around my boots looking to lick them clean.” Like Weston. “Now if you’ll excuse me…I intend to find myself a dance partner and scare the shite out of people.”

The duke was going to love this.

Swinging away, Nathaniel slid open the doors with a sweep of his arms and strode down the corridor toward the ballroom. The best revenge without spraying a drop of blood would be to take back his name.

And he was doing it. Now.

CHAPTER NINE

Woman, the fountain of all human frailty!
What mighty ills have not been done by woman?
Who betrayed the Capitol? A woman.
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.
Who was the cause of a long ten year war,
And laid at last Old Troy in ashes? Woman!

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

K
NOTTING
BACK
HIS
hair with the twine he always kept on his wrist, Nathaniel adjusted his great coat and entered the massive expanse of the ballroom. Gold-and-ivory-accented walls and vast, sweeping ceilings trimmed with carvings loomed before him with a splendor he hadn’t known in ages.

He scanned bodies of satin, silk and lace weaving about before him and strode past an assembled group of older gentlemen with crystal flutes in their white-gloved hands. Their grey bushy brows rose in unison as they lowered champagne glasses and scanned his appearance.

Though he wanted to punch those round faces in, one by one, like tankards off a bar, based on their expressions alone, Nathaniel opted to coolly incline his head, instead. He had a name to resurrect and maiming old people of nobility was
not
the way to go about doing it. “The name is Atwood, gentlemen. Lord Atwood. How are you?”

They gaped.

“Lord Atwood?” one of the men asked in a startled tone. “Such blasphemy. Lord Sumner’s son is dead.”

Nathaniel leaned in to the old man, his voice turning to steel. “And how do you know that? Did you attend my funeral? Was there ever one?”

All four gentlemen continued to gape.

Still staring them down, Nathaniel added, “Rumor has it I’m very much alive.” With that, he strode past them and into the masses, leaving them to come to their own conclusion.

As Nathaniel moved deeper into the crowd countless men and women whisked forward and back across the dance floor beyond, advertising extravagant coifs and lavish ensembles drenched with emeralds and diamonds and rubies.

The boys back in New York would have coughed their brains out in an effort to rip off jewels from so many female necks.

Setting mud-stained leather-gloved hands behind his back, he glanced toward the nearest wall. Overly coiffed young women and their terse chaperones pressed themselves and their full gowns against the wall upon seeing him, their ostrich fans stilling against both chins and bosoms.

Their astounded rouged faces reminded him of the Venetian carnival masks Casacalenda would wear to entertain him in the cellar by recreating Italian theatrical parodies for him whenever he got bored.

The world was full of loons.

His worn leather boots thudded to a halt at seeing his father barely a few feet away.

The earl startled at glimpsing him.

Flexing his hands, Nathaniel taunted the earl with his presence by drawing closer. One of them would eventually break. And it wasn’t going to be Nathaniel.

A man who had been conversing with his father stared and quickly approached Nathaniel. “Sir?” The gentleman hesitated, glanced up and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if just realizing he stood a whole head shorter. He swept a snowy-white gloved hand toward the entrance of the ballroom behind them. “If you please.”

What a prick. Who ever knew rudeness could be delivered with such austere refinement? Nathaniel widened his stance. “Are you telling me to leave?”

The man eyed him. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“Well, I won’t. I’m a guest.”

“A guest?” the man echoed. “Sir, you are clearly—”

“I am clearly
Lord
Atwood. And our host is none other than my brother-in-law. So lick it.”

The man blinked.

Another gent quickly approached.

And then another.

Three aristocratic men now stared him down.

No matter where he went, no matter which part of the world he was in, people always wanted to fight him. “I take it you boys enjoy pain, to be coming up to me this way?”

Pale yellow skirts assembled indecently close to him. A familiar, delicate waft of lilies poked at his nose as a pretty female face inquisitively leaned in to look up at him, thick blond curls swaying against her gathered coif.

He turned abruptly to the woman peering in on him and froze, clamping his mouth shut in disbelief.

Arched brows and large hazel eyes that had mesmerized him all but a night ago, stared up at him in equal astonishment.

It was Imogene. And by God, did she look incredible.

Her pale throat dripped with emeralds and the delicate white lace neckline of her silk evening gown was low enough for him to see that provocative and decadent plunge between her powdered breasts. He remembered those. When she had been all wet. Damn. She made his imagination trot wild with images of taming her. On the floor. Against a wall. On a field. In a lake. It didn’t matter, so long as she was bound and at his mercy.

Her smooth face faintly tinged with a hint of pink. She lowered her voice as if she were afraid the world might hear. “I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

He removed his mud-stained gloves, feeling suddenly aware that they were far too dirty to be in the presence of such a beautiful woman. When they were off, he offered matter-of-factly, “I’m socializing with a few friends. And you?”

She pulled in her chin and glanced toward the four men. She lowered her voice again. “They don’t look happy to see you.”

“Welcome to my life. No one ever is. I’m used to it.” Shoving his gloves into his great coat, he heatedly perused her gown and the way it clung to her luscious figure. “You look incredible,” he confided. “It makes me wish we were alone again. Only this time, I’d personally see to it something actually happened.”

Her eyes widened. She edged away and glanced toward several aristocratic women who leaned toward each other, whispering.

He’d forgotten the rules these aristos played by. Men weren’t supposed to be honest in public.

“Sir!”
The same huffy brunette he’d briefly met at Weston’s house lunged between him and Imogene, wagging her peacock fan up at his face as if it were a stiletto. “You aren’t even appropriately dressed to be acknowledging her. Now leave before I have every man in this room carry you out and deposit you into the rubbish bin where you belong.”

Knowing this stiff fluff was Weston’s wife, Nathaniel bit down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something he’d regret. He usually didn’t give a damn for what others thought or said. He’d been through far too much to care, but knowing Imogene was quietly watching and judging this and him made him want to put a fist through every wall in the room. She probably now saw what everyone else did: absolutely nothing.

Nathaniel shoved his way through those who had gathered and stalked through blurring faces. If he took the championship and the money, he would be more than nothing. He would be his own man again. He would be—

“Nathaniel!”
a female voice suddenly called out, skirts bustling after him.

He swung around in jarred astonishment. Imogene remembered his name.

Gasping whispers of
“Who is he?”
frilled the stuffy room, edging through the music still playing.

Imogene hurried through the crowds toward him, her pale yellow skirts a-swaying from side to side. She alighted before him, grabbed up a card and a pencil hanging by a velvet string around her gloved wrist and breathlessly announced, “The waltz is set to begin.” She glanced up, her cheeks flushed and her bright, hazel eyes genuine. “Shall I write your name in for it?”

He couldn’t help but be savagely pleased, knowing she saw more than a patched coat and unbrushed hair. She saw him for what he was: a man.

Knowing Lady Weston would be bustling her way through the crowds after her at any moment, he lifted a brow. “I take it you’re out to hang yourself this fine evening?”

“Are you? Coming in here dressed like that?” She glanced around and said in a bargaining tone, “I can show you what clothes to wear and how to conduct yourself in public. For you clearly need advice. Have tea with me. As my dear mama used to say, anyone who can learn to hold a teacup properly can learn to do anything properly.”

He snorted. “I’m not looking to be
that
popular.” Although he was rather impressed by her boldness to engage him before all of London, he knew he had to save her from her own stupidity. “Here is a bit of advice—I’m the sort of man who will not only ruin your reputation but your life.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say you would ruin my life.”

Something was wrong with her. He almost tapped her on the forehead. “I’m trying to save your pretty ass from getting spanked.”

Her brow creased. “You shouldn’t use words like that. Or tea is out of the question.”

He rolled his eyes. “Unless tea involves you fully naked with your arms tied behind your back, I’m not interested.”

She gasped. “No waltz for you, either.”

“Good. It’s not like I ever learned how to dance. Now are we done with all these etiquette lessons? Or do you plan on teaching me how to play the harp, too?”

She shook her head and stepped back and back. “You aren’t the same man I met two nights ago. He respected me. Whilst you clearly don’t.”

His throat tightened, seeing the betrayal in her eyes. Why was he playing his defenses against this woman? And what was it about her that made him want to kneel every single time? “No one was watching us that night. Here, we have a full audience. I am trying to dissuade you from being seen with me. Now go.” He stepped back and turned away, trying to veer around a staring couple.

Imogene jumped toward him and grabbed his arm the same way she had that night, which startled him into realizing just how much he wanted to be touched by her.

He froze and glanced down at her. “What are you doing?”

She angled him toward herself, then held the pencil against the blank space of her dancing card. “I misunderstood your intentions. For which I apologize. I am genuinely touched by your attempt to protect my reputation. But I don’t need protection, given I have no interest in taking a husband. That said…I would be more than happy to lead, seeing you don’t dance. Shall I write you in?”

Every muscle in his body felt ablaze, fully aware of not only her but that everyone was watching them. “Why are you doing this?”

She fingered her dance card, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Because something tells me you would do the same for me if you saw people banding around me and trying to push me out the door.” She glanced up. “Or wouldn’t you?”

God. How he wanted to grab that beautiful face, lean down and tongue the breath out of her for what she just said. “For you, I would. Yes.”

She half smiled. “I told you men and women could be friends.” She leaned in. “Now. Play the game I always do when there are too many people around and the panic sets in. They are but birds on the trees and their words are but whistles that matter only to the wind.”

She couldn’t be real. Because her way of thinking certainly wasn’t. “Do we have to dodge their droppings, too?”

She grinned, both cheeks dimpling. “I do it all the time.”

He sighed, sensing that saying no to her would be like saying no to the moon and the stars. “You’ve already damned yourself, so we might as well finish this. Go ahead. Write me in for that waltz. Hopefully your brother won’t slap me with a duel for accepting.”

“My brother is too much of a gentleman for that. Though he is not above yelling.” She sidled closer and adjusted her dance card, propping it against her gloved hand. “You never gave me your full name. What shall I write down?”

“The name is Atwood. A-T-W-O-O-D with a Lord in front of it.”

She glanced up and burst into laughter before clapping a hand over her mouth, looking more startled than he.

It was obvious she was laughing
at
him. “What?”

She lowered her voice. “You were being funny.”

“No. I was giving you my name. Why is that funny?”

“Your name? You mean you’re a peer of the realm?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“But I thought—” She stilled, arresting her merriment and glanced toward Lady Weston, who came to a rigid halt beside them after she had finally made it through the crowds.

“Lady Imogene,”
the woman said in a lethal, boarding-school tone. “You wouldn’t entertain Lord Seton or Lord Danford or any of the respectable men in the room who graced you with their presence tonight, and yet you dare entertain this—this—” She stopped trying to find a word. “We are going home. And you will explain your monstrous behavior to your brother. Is that understood?”

Imogene bit her lip, then primly lowered her gaze back to her dance card and scribed his name in the empty space as if she were signing the United States Constitution. “I wrote you in for the waltz, Lord Atwood. Though I’m afraid it will involve quite a bit of physical contact. I hope you don’t mind.”

A gruff laugh escaped him. He could learn to like this one. A lot. “I don’t mind physical contact. I’m a boxer.”

Lady Weston narrowed her gaze and grabbed Imogene’s arm, hurrying them past.

Nathaniel could tell by the way Imogene had winced the woman had grabbed her a bit too savagely.

He sidestepped in front of Weston’s wife, bumping the woman hard with his own frame. “Let her go.”

The woman’s startled dark eyes flicked up from his chest to his face, her face flushing.

Gently taking Imogene’s arm, he drew her back toward himself, prying her free. “Don’t
ever
touch her like that again. Now step the hell away.”

The woman scrambled back.

“Atwood!” The Duke of Wentworth skidded in beside them, eyes wide and frantic. “I asked you to stay out of sight.
This isn’t out of sight!
”

“Not to rile you, Your Grace,” Nathaniel casually explained, “but I owe this here lady a dance. Now excuse us.”

Taking the soft warmth of Imogene’s gloved hand, he protectively led her toward the direction of the crowded dance floor. “You said you’d lead. It’s not common that I allow someone else to be in control, but in this case I’m holding you to that. Because I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.”