Forever a Lord (13 page)

Weston sighed. “I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t. I even went back to the duke to present him the baffling exchange I had with Lord Sumner, only to be astounded again. The duke informed me that there is still one portrait in existence should anyone challenge the claim of you being Sumner’s missing heir. Only…said portrait lies buried with his beloved wife in the family crypt. I insisted he not disturb the grave of his wife. ’Tis crude and senseless. That said, despite the duke’s unwavering faith in who you are, I still need assurance and I mean to get it.”

Weston crossed his arms over his chest. “If you are indeed this missing heir, tell me what happened. Piece together this mess of calling cards, hidden panels and American Loyalists. Because I’m not about to invest a goddamn farthing into your boxing career until you tell me what the devil you are about and from whence you came. Those are the terms.”

Nathaniel’s throat pulsed, knowing he had to give just enough to get Weston to calm down. Lest he lose this offer and he was back into the dirt hole. “I can tell you a few things. But I can’t tell you everything.”

“I need to know more than a few things, Atwood. Ten thousand pounds isn’t a flick of lint I’m ready to toss.”

Nathaniel’s expression stilled. “I’m not about to hang what little remains of my family for your goddamn morbid sense of curiosity. My life isn’t a theatrical you can pay admission for.”

Weston was quiet for a moment. “What can you tell me? So I may trust what you are saying?”

Flexing his hand, Nathaniel cracked every knuckle. “It wasn’t a group of American Loyalists. It was a lone Venetian man who printed up cards with a set of words to create an illusion of being more than he really was. He wanted everyone to think that my disappearance was a nationalist motive against the crown. When, in fact, it wasn’t.”

Nathaniel drew in a breath in an attempt to keep his countenance calm. “And yes, there was a hidden panel. I knew about it long before I disappeared. It accidentally unlatched itself when I was using the wall for a target with my slingshot. I would use it to play Revolution and never told anyone, lest it be nailed shut. No one came into the house the night I disappeared. I left the house, using the panel, thinking, as any stupid ten-year-old boy with a pistol would, that I could face anything. Only to find myself in a situation I wasn’t able to get out of. The rest of the story,
asshole,
you will have to accept never knowing or I find myself another patron. You decide. Do you want a boxer? Or do you want a story? Because you can have the boxer but you damn well won’t ever get the story.”

Weston’s green eyes intently sought his, that bruised face and jaw tightening. After a pulsing moment, he half nodded. “I know conviction when I see it. And I see it. I respect whatever you have suffered and ask that you forgive me for intruding upon what you have every right to hold against your soul.” Weston stuck out a hand. “I wish to bestow unto you my firm belief, based upon the Duke of Wentworth’s faith in you, that you are indeed the missing heir. It is an honor to welcome you into my circle.”

Nathaniel gripped his hand. Hard. “And I wish to bestow unto you my firm belief that
nothing
will impede upon my ability to perform in the ring.”

“Excellent. That is exactly what I wanted to hear.” Weston hooked his thumbs into the trim of his pockets. “Here is the offer. A full seven thousand for you to cradle when the ink dries, all of your living expenses fully paid and Mr. Jackson himself as your right hand. The terms, which will be stipulated in a contract that will be witnessed by my lawyer when you sign, is that you get to keep half the winnings of every fight, including the championship. Together, we stand to make about a quarter of a million. If not more.”

Nathaniel didn’t even have to blink. “Done.”

Weston adjusted the sleeves of his morning coat. “No. We aren’t done quite yet. For although, yes, I will be profiting from your wins, I am not, nor will I be, your investor.”

Nathaniel’s brows came together. “Who is?”

“My sister. Gene.”

His palms felt annoyingly moist. “Your sister? I… What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that I don’t have any money to invest. My wife is my money and I’m not one to dig into the pockets of others. Even this has been hard for me to do. I’m here merely to negotiate the terms of the contract for my sister. She will actually be the one investing money in you. And not just any money, mind you. Her inheritance. Which is all the money she has. I thought you might want to know that.”

This couldn’t be happening.

Weston scratched at his jaw and then winced, realizing all too late that he was engaging a bruise. “There isn’t a thing I would deny that girl. I have spent years upon years of my life guilt-stricken, knowing I was unforgivably stupid in my younger years. I tried to save what little money my mother and Gene and I had by hiring the cheapest governess I could. As a result, Gene suffered for
weeks,
because, even at the age of seven, she was damned determined to protect her family from a crazed woman who threatened to burn down the house if she lost her position. A woman whose method of assisting Gene with her stutter was to force her to hold lye in her mouth to ‘loosen’ her tongue.
Lye.
After Gene almost died from gaping sores that had become infected due to repeated exposure to that lye, I swore to not only give her everything but to protect her from everything. Even if it meant kneeling myself. And I have. Everything I do is for that girl, Atwood. Everything. You need to know that.”

Nathaniel’s chest tightened in riled angst,
loathing
what Imogene had endured. Yet, unlike him, she had somehow remained…
soft.
It was humbling. He tried to appear indifferent even though he was anything but. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because even though I initially resisted her and this whole idea, she needs this far more than I need a divorce. She always thinks of herself as a burden to everyone and I want her to realize she is not only of worth but can change the lives of others. And you, and this, may be her chance.” Weston slowly shook his head. “Though she would cringe to no end if she knew I was telling you any of this, aside from her fainting spells, Gene also stutters. Whilst she has taught herself to speak incredibly well, when it does overtake her ability to speak, she lapses into forms of silence that are damn deadly. There could be a fire and you wouldn’t be able to get her to scream. She withdraws when overly riled or panicked. Mind you, I have always kept her from experiencing those situations for the sake of her mind and health. She suffers from severe ailments and oddities that make her incredibly vulnerable.”

Weston pointed rigidly at him, his green eyes sharpening. “You had better treat her with every respect she deserves for however long this ruse lasts. If I hear of anything remotely displeasing—
anything
—you will regret ever meeting me. Do you understand?”

Nathaniel stared. “I’m confused here. What are you saying? What are you asking me to do?”

Weston widened his stance. “I’m tasked to inform you, Atwood, that she won’t offer you the contract unless you agree to marry her. Call it collateral for the ten thousand she is investing. We know of your reputation for skipping out on investors, and we will be damned if we are left flailing in the wake of your flight. She also wishes to be personally involved in every aspect of your career until the championship and knows that isn’t possible given she is a woman. Unless, of course, she becomes your wife. Four months from now, once the championship has been won or lost, then you and she will split all profits, whatever they may be, and go your separate ways. That is the agreement.”

Nathaniel almost choked on the astounded breath he sucked in through his nostrils. “Are you bloody serious?”

Weston was quiet for a moment. “I am.”

“She expects me to marry her
and
hand over my entire boxing career?”

“As your patron and investor, she has the right to set the terms of the contract.”

“And what the devil does she know about boxing?”

“Absolutely nothing aside from a few pages she has read from a book. Jackson is the one who will actually be guiding you and your boxing. Which Gene will also be graciously paying for. Jackson’s skills are anything but cheap. My sister will be focusing on developing your popularity with the masses and insists on attending all of your training sessions and boxing events to ensure her investment remains intact.”

He gaped. “What the hell are you talking about? Since when do women attend training sessions?
Or
boxing events?”

“Since Gene fancied it. It won’t last, Atwood. Once she sees real blood spray, you won’t have to worry about her insisting.”

“And what does she get out of this arrangement?”

“Half your winnings and a sense of security that you won’t take off with the money. Despite her submitting to being your wife for four months, she would still be your patron and as such, would expect you to follow whatever rules she sets until you go your separate ways. That would include keeping your hands to yourself during all four months of the marriage.”

Nathaniel snorted. “No one owns me like that. I own me. You be sure to fucking tell her that.”

Weston slowly smoothed his cravat. “I’m afraid I won’t be playing messenger. Gene expects you to call on her with your response in the next few days. As you well know, we only have four months to get you into the championship. That doesn’t leave us much time.”

Nathaniel swiped his face in exasperation. If he went to see her, he could very well find himself in a situation he couldn’t get out of. Because he’d find it difficult to say no to her. He’d always had trouble denying women what they needed most, and with a woman like her it would be doubly challenging. He just couldn’t say yes to the idea of a woman controlling every aspect of his life for four months. He couldn’t give up control—it defined him.

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

W
ITH
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 chance 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?”