Forever a Lord (11 page)

Imogene glanced up at him. “I do believe my sister-in-law and His Grace are as speechless as I am.”

“Just don’t make me look stupid. What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh…well…first, we position ourselves. Stand right here.”

He halted. “Here?”

“Yes. Only turn to me. Full shoulders.”

He did. Full shoulders.

As she turned to face him, that delicate scent of lilies sensually teased his nostrils again, making him not only pause but breathe in. Everything about her made him want to breathe in. Deep.

Lowering his gaze to hers, a rush of pride punched him knowing
this
woman wanted to dance with
him.
Before all of London and whilst his father watched. It was like touching honor wrapped with silk.

Other couples hurried past them with ruffled looks and left the floor.

It was amusing. All of this was, actually.

Imogene daintily took his hands, arranging one on her corseted waist and gripping the other with one of hers, then sweeping their clutched hands out to the side and into the air.

He tightened his hold on that delicate hand.

Setting her free hand on his shoulder, she primly brought the heat of her body closer to his own. “There. Now wait for the music to commence.”

Fully aware that her full skirts were brushing up against his boots, trousers and thighs, and that her breasts were tucked right there before him, he dug his fingers into the smooth, soft silk of her gown. It was like sex. With clothes on. He hissed out a breath. “Are we supposed to be this close?”

Without meeting his gaze, she shyly offered, “Why else do you think I wrote you in for the waltz? If I am going to suffer a scandal, I might as well make it worth our time.”

He crushed her fingers against his hand and refrained from leaning in and licking her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Careful. I’m beginning to think you like me in the clothes-off sort of way.”

A flush overtook her smooth cheeks.

He slowly grinned. “You blush so easily.”

“I’m not blushing.”

“You most certainly are.”

The music commenced.

“To the left,”
she announced in a harried tone, whisking them both across the waxed floor. She set her chin and held a rigid stance. “Follow my boxed steps, then turn and do it again. Can you keep up?”

“Watch me.” Though he missed a few steps and even skidded, somehow he managed not only to keep up, but ensure his boots didn’t rip her gown off. He was, after all, a boxer who understood footwork. One had not only to move fast, but learn fast. “We’re too close to make this look pretty. You do realize that, yes?”

As they swept across the dance floor she eyed him and offered, “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

“You’re letting me touch you. What is not to enjoy?”

In between steps and turns, her hand tightened on his shoulder and hand, making him all the more aware of not only her touch, but just how much he wanted to rip her clothes off. It had been far too long since he had allowed himself to play this game. Far too long.

After a turn and another, she asked, “Are you really a peer of the realm?”

“Yes.”

“And how is it I never heard of you before and that you are parading as a boxer by the name of Coleman?”

He avoided her gaze and focused on steps. “It’s a lot more involved than I care to admit.”

“But you are, in fact, a boxer?”

“Yes.”

“An incredibly good one?”

“I like to think so.”

“One capable of winning the title of champion if given the chance?”

“If I answer that, I may come across conceited.”

She tightened her hold on his hand and his shoulder. “Henry mentioned that you are known for skipping out on investors. Is that true?”

“I’m not one for commitment. No matter what it is.”

“That seems to be the dilemma.” Her face betrayed a sudden seriousness as she seemed to think something through. “But you and I will resolve that.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “I prefer keeping things unresolved.”

Her steps suddenly faltered. She swayed against him and staggered. “I…I must take leave of the floor.” She leaned heavily into him, drawing him to a halt with both hands. “Before I faint.”

Faint? Oh, Christ, no. Not that again. Jerking her tightly by the waist against his side to ensure she didn’t tip, he quickly escorted them off the floor, ignoring all of the blurring faces.

He glanced around. There were no chairs. Nothing but walls and people standing in a crush. Hell. “Lean against the wall. Until it passes.” Ushering her to the nearest wall, he gently draped her against it. Removing her fan from her gloved wrist, he scrambled to open it. “I’ll ensure you get some air. Just breathe.” For some reason, the damn thing wouldn’t unlatch. He tugged on it harder.

Her hand jumped out, stilling his hands.

He glanced up.

“Not like that,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to the fan. Her gloved fingers effortlessly unlatched the peg at the end, freeing the fan into unfolding. “There.”

It was obvious he wasn’t used to dealing with female aristos and their little fans. Angling toward her, Nathaniel waved it at her flushed face and throat, trying to ignore the fact that half of London was watching him play servant. “Whatever you do, tea cake, don’t faint on me. Because I already look ridiculous enough fanning you.”

She leaned back her head, momentarily closing her eyes, and smiled. “I doubt you’re worried about looking ridiculous,” she murmured. She paused and added, “I feel better. It passed.”

Thank God. “I’m glad to hear it.” His fanning slowed with each wave as he found himself staring at that incredibly seductive pose she held against the wall. Her head was tilted far back, throat fully exposed, her blond curls grazing those flushed cheeks. It was like she was waiting to be stripped.

He paused, realizing he had stopped fanning. “Did you need me to keep fanning?”

She shook her head and reopened her eyes. “No. Thank you.” Leaning toward him, she took the fan. “I appreciate you tending to me.” She scanned a few passing individuals who were trying to listen in on their conversation. “Will you take tea with me this Thursday? At four. So we can talk in the privacy we deserve?”

He stared. Privacy? “What do you want to talk about?”

“’Tis a very personal matter that would involve commitment on both our parts.”

Was she was trying to get them married? Already? Shit. This is what happened when a man started publicly fanning a woman. “Uh…just so you know, I’m not looking to get married again.”

Her startled gaze met his.
“Again?”

“Long story. She died. And I’m not keen on playing that role ever again.”

Pushing away from the wall, she straightened and brought both hands together. “How sad. I’m very sorry to hear it.” She hesitated, those large hazel eyes intently searching his face. “She was incredibly fortunate to have you as a husband. You are endearingly protective and attentive toward the needs of a woman.”

Jesus Christ. This—
she
—was beginning to be a problem. She seemed to think he was a nice man. Oh, he had glimmers of being nice, yes, but not nearly enough to do a woman like her justice. He cleared his throat. “Uh…how are you feeling?”

She smiled. “Better. Thank you.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Glancing toward Weston’s wife, who was lingering a few feet away, he turned and wagged a finger toward the woman. “You. Lady Huff. Come here. Given she almost fainted, I want you to take her out of this heat. Take her home.”

Lady Weston momentarily froze but quickly hurried forward upon command. Rounding him, she sidled toward Imogene and took her arm.

Imogene stared. “Will you call on me? So we can talk?”

Edging away, Nathaniel met her gaze. This was quite the dilemma. But he knew what needed to be said. He instinctively softened his tone. He didn’t even know why. Looking at her made him do that. “You are too good of a girl to be having tea with me. Remember that when I don’t call. Good night.” Turning, he quickly strode toward the direction he knew was the front door.

He could sense she was watching him walk away.

And his chest tightened knowing it.

Turning into the vast quiet corridor that had been cleared of all footmen, he chanted to himself not to look back to see if she was still watching him. Because if he did, he knew he’d yank her up off that floor and carry her back to Limmer’s and show her everything she needed to know about him as a man. From the scars on his hands, to the ones on his arms and shoulders and chest, to the way he preferred taking a woman:
bound.

The unexpected rustling of skirts and steps made him glance toward the staircase. His eyes widened as none other than Georgia Emily Milton, Irish washerwoman from the Five Points, flounced her way down the large staircase, her pinned strawberry curls bouncing along with the rest of her.

What the—

Gone were the dragging, calico skirts and apron. They had been replaced by an elegant off-the-shoulder evening gown and teardrop diamonds that tauntingly hung from her ears and throat, gleaming and shimmering against the vast candlelight.

He’d actually seen her at Rotten Row—the day Matthew had met his lady of the moment, but he still couldn’t believe it. The woman who thought herself better than him and the entire sixth ward in New York City and had a tongue the size of Manhattan to match, had managed to squeeze into a world where she didn’t belong.

And the woman actually looked half-decent.

She jerked to a halt on the last step upon seeing him. Her green eyes widened.
“Coleman?”
She glanced around frantically to ensure they were alone. “What under heaven and above hell are you doing here? Robbing the guests?”

He snorted. She would think that of him, of course. Georgia’s animosity toward him, Matthew and the rest of the Forty Thieves was no secret. “It’s good to see you, too, freckle face.”

“How did you know I was here?” She lowered her voice. “Did you and Matthew follow me and Lady Burton out of the park when we crossed paths all too coincidentally?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

She glanced around again. “Where is Matthew anyway?”

“Hell if I know. But if I had to guess, he is probably with your lady friend. That woman is all he ever talks about.” He paused in response to the glint of her diamonds and let out a low whistle. He pointed at the necklace draping her throat, wondering how much it was worth. Probably a good hundred. If not more. “That looks expensive.”

She eyed him. “It is.”

Matthew desperately needed money. And so did Nathaniel. Not that he was about to ask the woman if she had money to spare. He cleared his throat. “It was good seeing you. So to speak.”

She kept eyeing him. “Do you and Matthew need money? Be honest.”

A part of him wanted to say yes but he was too proud to submit to that. “I have to go.” He turned but Georgia caught him by the back of his coat.

“Coleman.” Her voice hardened.

He grudgingly turned. “What?”

She released her hold. “I left Matthew a rather sizable amount of money when I took off to become a respectable lady. What did he do with it?”

Nathaniel tried not to feel awkward. “What he always does whenever he gets money. He gave it away. The sixth ward orphanage got most of it.”

She sighed not once but twice. “Him and his mercy plights.” Lifting her hands to the back of her neck, she unclasped the diamonds and grudgingly held them out. “Here. Pawn it. And tell Matthew to lay off stealing any more horses. This isn’t New York.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. I can’t take it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Forget about your pride and think of Matthew. I don’t want him getting into more trouble.”

Matthew sure as hell did need it. And it would keep him out of trouble. Nathaniel half nodded and carefully took the diamonds, tucking them into his coat pocket. He cleared his throat and managed, “I will pay you back when I can.”

“Don’t bother. I have plenty more.” She watched him. “Dare I ask why you’re even here?”

He shrugged. “I was visiting.”

“With who?”

“With my so-called father, the duke and your Yardley.”

She stared. “Your father?”

“It’s complicated.” Knowing she was going to love his response, he smirked. “It looks like you and I are going to be family, freckle face.”

She kept staring. “How so?”

“Didn’t you know? Yardley is my nephew.”

She gasped and scrambled back. “He is?”

“Try not to faint on me. I’ll be fine with it if you’re fine with it.” He pointed. “Tell the duke I’m taking off to invest in my boxing career, but that I’ll be in touch. All right?”

She glanced toward the corridor one last time to ensure they were still alone and quickly said, “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Is everything as it should be with you?” She sounded concerned.

He shrugged. “Nothing ever is as it should be. I’m used to it.” He patted his pocket. “Thanks for the diamonds. Matthew really needs money to get to New York.” Nathaniel edged back, oddly touched by Georgia’s concern for not only Matthew but himself. It would seem this new role of playing a lady suited Georgia. It had…softened her. Imagine that.

CHAPTER TEN

At length, grown desperate, he broke several panes, and, inserting his head through the fracture, bore down all opposition by the following witticism: ‘Gentlemen, I have taken some
panes
to gain admission, pray let me in, for I see
through
my error.’

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Later that night
The Weston House

“W
HAT THE DEVIL
were you thinking?”
her brother roared through the flapping towel still hanging over his head, which covered not only his face but the expanse of his robed shoulders. He swung a rigid fist down against the bed he was confined to. “Aside from your ailing health, have you no goddamn respect for your reputation?”

Awkwardly lingering beside the bed, Imogene eventually offered, “’Tis very difficult for me to take you seriously when all I see is a flapping towel. I suggest you take it off.”

“I am
not
letting you see my face. And you are
not
changing the subject. Respectable women
don’t
associate with nameless men, much less boxers. Whether you are investing money in him or not!”

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to pretend she was more occupied with arranging her gown than listening to him. “If it makes you feel any better, he isn’t all that nameless. His name is actually Atwood.
Lord
Atwood.”

“What? Gene. He is
not
a peer of the realm.”

“Oh, yes he is. He not only told me so, but—”

“Forget whatever lies the man smothered your poor brain with. Have you seen him? His hair is reminiscent of 1772 and his clothing appears to have been worn for equally as long. He has no money—
none
—and is staying at Limmer’s with a one-eyed man who carries two pistols and a razor because one pistol doesn’t appear to be enough. Where do you see nobility
or
civility sitting with all this?
Where?
”

She glared. “There is no need to insult him
or
his friends.”

“I refuse to believe you are actually defending him. Him! Did he put you up to this? Is he threatening you to say these things? Gene. Talk to me. Remember what happened when you let Mrs. Fink convince you she would burn down the house if you told anyone about the way she was treating you? You almost died. Did you learn nothing from that?”

She narrowed her gaze at the towel. “Don’t you dare compare him to Mrs. Fink. That woman was a monster. And this man is anything but. I like him.”

“Like him?” he echoed. “What is there to like beyond his two fists? Men at the coves are scared out of their wits to even ask him how to spar and you just walked up to him and…?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Despite his gruff nature, he is incredibly protective of me. You should have seen the verbal lashing he gave your wife tonight before all of London. You would have enjoyed it.”

“I’m not that vindictive,” he grouched through the towel. “Thanks to you, however, Mary has started asking all sorts of questions.”

“About what?”

“About him. About you. About what our interest seems to be. What am I supposed to tell her? That I’m using your inheritance to invest in a boxer for a chance at a divorce?”

She winced. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Setting all that aside, I’m concerned not only for your reputation but for you. How involved are you with the man, given the dance you gave him? Be honest.”

She heaved out an exasperated breath. “Not as involved as I would like to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I invited him to tea to discuss certain ideas I have about investing in him and he refused.”

“Tea?”
He snorted. “Men like him aren’t porcelain dolls you can set in a chair and talk to about sunlight. Men like him need cages.”

She shoved at his knee. “If you had permitted me to associate with more men throughout the years, maybe I wouldn’t be so naive. Because clearly, real men are nothing like you.”

“I’m not about to deign that with a— Gene. Listen to me. Regardless of whether we invest in him or not, you cannot publicly fawn over him and—and…dance with him. You can’t.”

She clamped her hands together. “Giving him that dance was the right thing to do. I gave him back the dignity everyone else in that ballroom sought to rip away. You should have seen how they treated him. And how your wife treated him. It was unforgivable. You think she treats you abominably? She treated him the same.”

Henry was quiet.

Imogene traced a finger across the thigh of her silk gown, still mesmerized by the image of those ice-blue eyes and that rugged face that had clearly seen so much of the world. Unlike her. If there was a future, she saw it in those haunting eyes that sought to seize the world as much as she did.

She couldn’t explain it, but a part of her
knew
he had the fire to become a boxing champion. Of course…if he was known for running out on investors, which the man himself had admitted to, there was only one way to go about securing their investment. She’d realized it as they’d danced together. Now she simply had to convince him of it. And convince Henry, as well.

She sighed. “I think the best way to ensure our investment doesn’t flit out on us, is for him and I to wed. I don’t mind. And once he wins the championship, he and I can annul the marriage and go our separate ways.”

Henry rigidly sat up, the towel shifting on his head. “
Good God!
Have you lost the last of your rational mind? What are you— You barely know him!”

She set a hand onto his knee, trying to calm him. “Unless I marry him, Henry, I won’t be allowed to associate with him. And how am I to invest ten thousand pounds into a man I’m not allowed to even associate with? Especially a man known to skip out on investors? If we are to play patron, we do this right. He needs more than our money if we are to ensure his success. He needs guidance through the ditches of a society you and I know all too well.”

He paused. “You intend to marry him for the sake of this investment?”

She rolled her eyes. “People marry for the sake of investments all the time. How is this different?” Imogene tapped at his knee. “Here are the terms. We give him a full seven thousand he gets to pocket for himself. I cover all of his training costs and living expenses out of whatever money I have left, and in return, he has to marry me under the proviso that I control his boxing career, like any patron would, and that when he wins the championship, we split all profits in half and go our separate ways. That will guarantee he doesn’t stray until we get our money.”

“Gene,” he rasped, leaning toward her, sending the towel swaying around his face. “For God’s sake. I can’t imagine handing you over to a man like that. I can’t. Not even for half a breath, let alone four months.”

She sighed. “You have no choice. I need a guarantee and you owe me a boxer.”

“I don’t owe you— Jesus Christ. You’re beginning to sound bloody deranged!”

“Cease yelling at me.”

“I have every right to damn well be yelling, given what appears to be stupidity overtaking all rational thought!”

She narrowed her gaze. “I’m asking you to cease behaving like some…some…asshole.”

He froze. “Where the devil did you hear that word?”

She probably shouldn’t confide that she heard it from Nathaniel and had asked one of the footmen what it meant. “It doesn’t matter. I’m more than old enough to use it. I’m not a child anymore, Henry. I have a right to make decisions on not only what words I use but how I invest my money.”

He leaned toward her, bringing the towel closer to her face. So close she could feel the heat from his skin beneath. “You mean to actually marry this man and subject yourself to his advances? Advances he would have every right to make if he were legally your husband? For what? A measly quarter of a million pounds?”

She lifted a brow. “Advances aside, since when did a quarter of a million pounds become measly?”

He leaned back. “I feel ill.”

“Henry. I understand your concerns. But I can assure you, there is far more to the man then even he lets on.”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

She sighed. “According to gossip tonight, and there was quite a bit of it after he walked out, our pugilist went about the room claiming to be the son of Lord Sumner. He even introduced himself to me as such. I didn’t know much about the name, but from what your wife huffed on and on about in the carriage on the way over, he couldn’t be who he says he is. According to London gossip, Lord Sumner’s lone heir disappeared as a child whilst the Sumners were in New York City—
kidnapped by American loyalists, mind you
—and the boy was never seen again. Not even a body was found. That was back in 1800. Which got me wondering. Given no body was ever found, ’tis possible it’s because that body is still walking around. Did you know that prior to any of this coming out, our pugilist told me he came from New York? The same New York where the boy disappeared? He also claimed to have been born in Surrey. And according to your well-informed wife, Surrey is where the Sumner family held their country estate before they sold it in 1820. I asked.
Highly
coincidental.”

“You and your imaginings. It isn’t all that difficult to masquerade as a person who was never found.”

“I disagree. I think he really is this heir. There is a genuine conviction he exudes that I cannot deny. Regardless of whether he is or isn’t this heir—and I think he is—you will be negotiating all of my terms and getting him to agree to them. So he doesn’t run out on us.”

“You actually expect me to—” Henry whipped off the towel, exposing a savagely swollen blue-black and blood-crusted nose, eye, mouth and cheek that made him look like he was dead and deranged.

She choked, slapping an astounded hand against her mouth. “Oh, Henry,” she choked out through her hand in complete disbelief. “I… Oh. Look at you.”

He glared as best he could through a disfigured, swollen, bloodshot eye. “Yes. Look at me, Gene. Look at me.
This
is the world he is coming from.
This
is all the man knows and loves. And you wish to marry him? To secure your so-called bloody investment?”

“He did this to you?” She refused to believe it.

“No. I was paired with another man. Thank bloody God. Or I wouldn’t have
any
eyes left in my head!” He leaned closer toward her, which only made Imogene lean back, given the state of his face.

She didn’t want to be near it.

He pointed to himself. “I’ve gotten to know the bastard rather well, talking to him and watching him over at the milling coves almost every night. He knows how to better hit, how to better move and is showing off skills that I’m telling you, I have never seen in a man. I actually saw him take on a fellow weighing thirteen stone, which he knocked over like a pillow without so much as getting touched. He isn’t human. Be he of the realm or not, we’re talking about a savage you could never rein in for a day, much less four months, which is how long we have until the championship. And you want to bargain with him? Fool that you are, young and daft that you are,
ill
that you are, you think you can sweep him into your life and sweep him back out again? Is that what you think? And what if he doesn’t win the championship, Gene? Have you thought about that? What then? You may never be rid of him is what then.”

She lowered her hand. “You and I both know he isn’t looking for anything permanent. Believe me when I say getting him to stay will be hard. Getting him to leave will be easy. Which is why matrimony is a good idea. To ensure he stays long enough for us to get our money. Do you think you could even get him to agree?”

Snapping up the towel with the flick of his wrist, he arranged it grudgingly back over his head, burying himself in it. “You and your proverbial ideas.”

She leaned in close. “Henry. Can you imagine the fame it would bring him if he is in fact this missing heir? Newspapers well across more than London will be writing about it. And if he were to fight for this title of Champion for us, men would come in droves merely to see
‘The Missing Heir’
in person. I know if I were a man, I would. For what would a man who has endured so much in his life fight like? I imagine it would be well worth seeing.
And
paying for. Even if he doesn’t win the championship, if we make him popular enough, we can earn us all enough money to create an incredible new life for each of us.”

Henry shifted, adjusting and readjusting the linens around his frame. “You and your imaginings sometimes surprise the living blazes out of me. Do you know that? Because you’re right. The moment these papers pick up the gossip of him being the missing heir
and
a boxer, it would more than make him popular. Men from every level of society would barter to invest in him, be he this heir or not. And we can’t have that. Because he is going to take that title, Gene. I have seen more than enough boxers in my lifetime to know it.”

He leaned back against his piled pillows and settled into them. “I will look into who he is before the papers get ahold of this. Which will be soon, after the flurry you and he made tonight. People are going to want to know who he is and I have to find out before they do.”

“And what if he is this heir?” she pressed.

He sighed. “I really wish I wasn’t as desperate as you.” He paused. “But I am,” he muttered. He sighed again. “Why is it when you say things, they sound rational, even when they aren’t?”

“Henry.”

“All right, all right. If he turns out to be a peer of the realm, we will make an offer based on whatever terms you set, given you are of age and it is your money.”

Imogene sat up excitedly. “Yes. And as his investor and patron,” she pointed out, “he will have to do everything I tell him to.
Everything.
”

“That doesn’t mean he will abide by the rules, Gene.”

“Oh, he will. I know he will. He isn’t quite as rough as he lets on. I think he likes me.”