Forever a Lord (15 page)

She lowered her chin, her heart pounding. The pulsing intensity of that stare and those words made her think she was going to have to learn how to box herself. “Define
whenever.
”

“As in whenever the mood takes me.”

She swallowed and knew it wasn’t going to be
that
much of a hardship being touched and kissed by him. Naughty though it was, she had rather enjoyed their interlude. It was incredibly…exciting. And it was not as if she was saving herself for another,
real
marriage. “If that is what will get you to agree…then…yes.”

He gave her body a raking once-over. “Good. I’ll go talk to Weston.”

His once-over was a bit unnerving. “Yes. You should. He—” Dizziness suddenly overwhelmed her. She staggered toward the tea table she had spent most of the morning arranging and grabbed its edge, rattling the china.

Nathaniel jumped toward her and grabbed her shoulders to steady her. He quickly guided her down and into a chair. Leaning in, he searched her face. “Imogene.” The concern in his voice almost made the dizziness worthwhile.

“I’m fine.” She waited for the dizziness to pass. Thankfully, it did. She blinked rapidly, hating the way it always made her feel so helpless. “I’m fine.”

He squinted. “How often do you have these fainting spells?”

She set a hand to her throat, trying to cool the pulsing heat overtaking her. “About once or twice a month. Though for some reason, as of late, it has become more frequent.”

“Look at me.” He nudged up her chin. “You’re pale.”

“Am I?” She met his gaze. Everything had ceased swimming and her limbs felt normal again.

“How do you feel?” he asked, still holding her gaze.

His concern was rather touching. It appeared so genuine. “The dizziness is gone.” She tried to smile. “I’m fine.”

“Are you certain?” he pressed, drawing away his hand.

“Yes.” She eased out a breath and leaned back against the chair. “Thank you.” She glanced toward the open doorway. “Henry is waiting.”

He hesitated then straightened. “I’ll be back.” Inclining his head, he strode out.

She pressed a shaky hand to her cheek, a part of her relieved he was gone. How, oh, how was she going to survive these next four months?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

His pitched battles are numerous.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

W
ITH
A
LIT
cigar clamped between his teeth, Weston slid the double doors into each other and strode across the study toward Nathaniel. Taking a puff, Weston removed the cigar and rolled it between his fingers as white smoke floated out from his curled lips. “I can’t help but feel I just sold my own sister for a quarter of a million to a man who plans on groping her for four months.”

“I’ve never forced myself on a woman. So you needn’t worry in that. Now put out that damn cigar, will you?” Nathaniel collapsed into the wingback chair just behind him and blew out a breath. There was no such thing as retiring from women, was there? “So what happens next? How do we make this legal?”

Weston dashed out the cigar in the ash pan on the side table, leaving it there. “I suggest we omit the banns. It takes too long. Your best way of going about this is to apply for a special license with the Archbishop tomorrow afternoon. It shouldn’t take more than three days to approve, given record of your birth still exists in the county church over in Surrey. Obviously, there is no death certificate to go with that record of birth, so there won’t be any objections. The Archbishop was rather intrigued by your story and is looking to support transitioning you into a respectable way of life. I spoke to him about the matter.”

Of course Weston had.

“Once you have the license in hand, you and Gene can be wed by the end of this week. And with you being all over the papers, everyone will expect doves and violins. This is our chance to make the fighter everyone wants to see take on the role of the ultimate protector. It will elevate your name and sell more tickets.”

Nathaniel tapped a fist to his thigh. “You have this all planned out, don’t you?”

“Me? I’m merely ensuring it doesn’t go wrong.” Weston shook his head. “Did you know Gene already put in a bid to lease a fully furnished house you and she will be living in these next four months? She did it yesterday. I couldn’t convince her to wait. It was like she knew you would agree to all of this.”

The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth twisted in exasperation. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. What?”

He thumbed toward the closed doorway. “She almost fainted again. I’m rather worried.”

Weston sighed. “She has been suffering from it for years. Ever since the incident with the lye.”

“I see. And the doctor knows about this?”

“Of course he does. He insists she is in good health and thinks it’s related to her menses.”

Menses. Now there was a topic he sure as hell didn’t want to go into. “Ah.” Nathaniel cleared his throat. “So. What happens after the wedding?”

“I already spoke to Jackson and here is what he has planned. We all focus on your upcoming fight with Norley. We anticipate a good eight hundred pounds a side, with tickets going for a full guinea and a half, right here in London, Covent Garden, in four weeks. The bastard hasn’t lost a fight since January and is making a march for the title. You beat him and we move on to Gill. You beat Gill and we move to Terry. You beat Terry, whose ego is bigger than his fist, and we are set to fight for the title of Champion that I
know
you will take.”

Nathaniel half nodded, but his thoughts weren’t with boxing anymore, but rather with a pair of hazel eyes and cascading blond hair he had been allowed to unravel. Sliding a hand into his waistcoat pocket, he touched the folded parchment Imogene had given him. Something about fingers and souls and reverence.

Weston paused. “Are you listening?”

Nathaniel’s hand jumped out of his pocket. He glanced up. “What?”

Weston swiped a hand over his face, his ruby ring glinting against the remaining afternoon light that slashed through the windows. “Is Imogene going to be too much of a distraction for you?”

Nathaniel set both heavy hands onto the chair’s armrests. “Not at all.”

“Abstinence will make you a better fighter, you realize,” Weston added in an awkward tone.

Nathaniel tried to squelch his amusement. “I take it you speak from experience?”

Weston cleared his throat. “No. I was just—”

“I told you I wouldn’t force myself on her. I’m not that sort of man.”

Weston raked a hand through his hair. “Good. I’m glad you won’t— Because I’m having trouble with this.”

“I can tell. And I understand.”

Silence clung to the air.

Nathaniel shifted in his seat and tossed out, “Is there anything else you want or need to say?”

“Yes. We should discuss your schedule.”

“What about it?”

“Jackson has it all set. Starting next week, you will be arriving at Jackson’s Monday through Saturday at noon, spar until four and finish with weights at six. We have four weeks from tomorrow to get you ready for Norley. You’re fit and more than able, but we need to get you ready and focused.”

“And I take it Imogene still wants to be at all my training sessions and the fights?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mind the training sessions, Weston, as it’s a controlled environment, but I’m not too keen on having her at a real fight. A woman shouldn’t be standing shoulder to shoulder with several hundred men whilst blood sprays.”

“I plan on standing beside her. And believe me, it won’t last. I once gashed myself with a dagger and to this day, I can still see her hands plastered to her face. If she doesn’t have her hands plastered to her face, I’d be worried. It means she wants you dead.”

“Good to know.”

Leaning in, Weston said in a low tone of warning, “I expect you to treat her with the respect she deserves for however long this ruse lasts. Whatever you two do in the confines of that house and out of view is none of my goddamn business, given you and she will be legally wed, but I also don’t want to be rolling up my sleeves and cleaning up a mess once the four months are done.”

Nathaniel leaned back against the chair. “You needn’t worry. She gets what she wants and I get what I want. I really don’t see this going wrong.”

“So says the devil.” Straightening, Weston rummaged in his inner coat pocket. “I have something for you.”

“What? Money?” Nathaniel chided. “Because I have a feeling, based upon my inability to say no to your sister, she is going to be incredibly expensive.”

“You get your full seven thousand when we sign the contracts tomorrow morning.” Weston pulled out a folded parchment and wagged it at him. “Here. This is all I will ask of you since she will be under your watch these next four months. See to it Dr. Filbert visits with her once a month and that she takes everything prescribed here.”

“Of course.” Nathaniel leaned forward and snagged it. Unfolding the parchment, he blinked. It was a long list of seventeen different ingredients for a prescribed tonic. None of which he had ever heard of, except for…
laudanum.

Jane had died from laudanum. Having dealt with Jane and her dependence on the substance, Nathaniel knew all too well it caused dizziness. And God only knew what the rest of the ingredients did. He’d never heard of them.

Pulse drumming, Nathaniel rose from the chair and snapped his gaze to Weston. “You mean to say she consumes all of these ingredients on a weekly basis?”

“Weekly? Daily.”

His breath caught. “Daily? What the hell for? Do you have any idea how dangerous laudanum can be?”

“’Tis for her throat.”

“Are you telling me this doctor is trying to cure her stutter with this shite?”

“What is prescribed isn’t for her stutter,
Dr. Atwood,
but the lye she was exposed to when she was seven. Her throat needed considerable healing and this is but a continued precaution.”

Nathaniel grabbed Weston by his coat. “She has been consuming all of this on a daily basis since she was seven? Are you demented? Why would you submit to pouring filth down her throat? Have you ever considered that maybe this tonic she keeps taking is why the poor woman is staggering about?”

Weston used an arm to free himself and stared. “Dr. Filbert is the best doctor London has to offer and comes highly recommended by the Royal College of Physicians. It costs me thirty pounds every time he so much as tips his hat. Gene survived the incident because of him and these ingredients.”

Nathaniel folded the parchment and shoved it into his pocket. “’Tis my duty, given she and I are partners in this goddamn boxing venture, to ensure she only takes what is necessary for the sake of her health. And in my opinion, swallowing things I can’t even pronounce isn’t fucking necessary. I’ll call on this Dr. Filbert myself. Something tells me he won’t be tipping his hat for that much longer.”

Weston narrowed his gaze. “Don’t overstep your bounds by thinking you have any right taking over her personal life. She was never interested in taking a husband. She wouldn’t have even taken you. She just doesn’t trust you to follow through and I don’t readily blame her. Remember, Atwood, she wants the money. Not you. Money. You do know that, yes?”

So saith the man who was making a sizable profit off his own sister’s scheme. Nathaniel leaned toward him. “Focus on your own life, Mister Divorce, and not mine. Because the moment she and I sign contracts, Imogene is no longer under your jurisdiction, but mine. And from here on out, I’ll be sure to remind you both who is making that quarter of a million possible. Not you. Not her.
Me.
”

Hitting a hard hand to Weston’s chest to demonstrate who was really in charge, Nathaniel stalked out. No one was going to make him feel like he was a carriage step in need of folding. No one.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was like a drowning man catching at a straw.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

A week later—early evening
18 Berkeley Square

I
MOGENE
LINGERED
IN
the middle of what was now
her
receiving room. It was so odd to think it was not only hers but that she had paid for it.

The heavy curtains around the French windows had been drawn, shutting out the night beyond, whilst several candles in sconces illuminated the length of the pale blue walls. Though the house was small and the furnishings simple, for it was all she could afford if they were to remain in a fashionable district, she was content knowing it was but a gate to a new life that was all but four months away.

Gathering her celadon skirts from around her slippered feet, she turned and made her way out of the receiving room and into the small foyer. Her “husband” of barely a few hours had already excused himself to lift weights he had carried upstairs.

Being wed to an aristocratic boxer or, rather, the celebrated “Missing Heir,” which London was officially all ablaze about, wasn’t quite what she thought it would be.

Their afternoon wedding, though incredibly exciting, had been a blurring mess. She couldn’t even remember hearing herself say yes. Word had gotten out to every gazette and newspaper in London as to when and where the wedding was to take place. It resulted in complete chaos.

More than her sister-in-law, her brother and the Duke of Wentworth and Lord Yardley showed up—the entire boxing community did; Angelo’s fencing community did; the cockfighting community did; the Master of Foxhounds did; lords and ladies of the aristocracy, though oddly, not Lord Sumner or his wife; a representative from the crown; and even Lord Banbury, Mary’s not-so-secret lover, lingered in the back of the church.

It was awkward.

None of that even included all of the people gathered outside. Countless men and women waved and called out their congratulations, expecting her and Nathaniel to wave through the carriage window as if they were the King and Queen of England gracing everyone with their presence.

She actually thought it rather charming and kept telling Nathaniel to wave. But for some reason, he just sat against the carriage seat clenching his two fists, his eyes closed throughout their entire carriage ride. He also hadn’t said a word to her, even when she had repeatedly tried to get him to talk. It was like the man was having excessive regrets. Though he exploded back into character and life once they had left the carriage and arrived “home.”

Pinching her lips, Imogene lingered in the foyer. Between all that and the endless scowls her brother and Nathaniel had exchanged prior to, during and after the wedding, she felt mentally and physically roasted. It was as if Henry and Nathaniel appeared to have declared war on each other and neither of them was telling her why.

Men.

Pausing beside all of her trunks, which continued to sit untouched in the foyer, she set her hands on her hips. Honestly. She had told the housekeeper to hire footmen as soon as possible.

Stepping to the side, she peered past the narrow mahogany staircase, down the empty corridor leading to the back of the house. Every door was shut as if the servants had abandoned their posts.

This was well past awkward. There was no one around. And heaven only knew how long Nathaniel would be lifting his weights.

“Mrs. Langley? Are there any footmen available to tend to my trunks?” she called out to the corridor, her voice echoing. “I would like to retire to my room.”

The ticking of the French hall clock was the only answer she received. Oh, bother. She supposed she could manage to drag one small trunk up the stairs. Fortunately, she had asked her lady’s maid to follow her into married life these next four months but she wasn’t about to ask the poor woman to come down and carry her trunks. Even at five feet and three inches, Imogene was still almost a head taller than the woman.

Imogene eyed the trunks and sidled toward the smallest one. This was one way of learning how to be self-sufficient. How difficult could it be? Footmen did it all day and all night. One trunk wasn’t going to be her undoing. And it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do.

She half squatted and winced as the whale boning from her corset insisted she not bend. She grabbed the leather handle on the trunk closest to her feet and lifted.

It wouldn’t budge.

She really shouldn’t have packed so much.

“Oh, come now,” she muttered under her breath, trying to convince her trunk to cooperate. “You aren’t that big.” She lifted again, this time using the strength within her legs.

The leather straps of the handle pinched her palms hard despite the protection of her gloves. She ignored the sting, gritted her teeth and focused harder on lifting the small trunk off the floor. Just as it was coming up, her grip gave out and the trunk fell with a resounding thud.

“Oh, go to the deuce anyway,” she muttered, swatting a foot at it. “You, Mr. Trunk, are as about as useless as I am.”

“Trunks can be quite stubborn, can’t they?” a deep voice drawled from somewhere above.

Startled, Imogene popped back up to her full height and snapped her gaze up toward the top of the staircase.

Nathaniel leaned against the top rail of the banister, bare muscled arms crossed over his broad chest.

She almost choked.

Since she’d last seen him, he’d removed all respectable clothing and was scandalously down to only trousers and black leather boots. Those trousers were also slung incredibly low on his narrow hips. So low, they showed the dip of his well-muscled lower abdomen that veered toward his…
ehm.

A small smile touched his lips as he observed her from above. “Enjoying the view?”

Her heart skipped. “Given you are obviously done lifting weights, you ought to put a shirt on.”

“Get used to it. This is what I will look like not only in the ring but in your bed at night.”

Lovely. He would remind her of that.

He lifted a dark brow. “Did you need me to oversee the trunks?”

The thought that he’d been watching her verbally scold her trunks was rather embarrassing. She rubbed her still-burning palms into the sides of her skirts. “Yes, please. I have a horrible tendency to overpack.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He unfolded his arms and descended the stairs, those piercing blue eyes never once leaving hers. “I’ll carry everything up to your room later.”

“I’m assuming there are still no footmen?”

He stopped on the last stair. “I’m afraid not. The housekeeper you hired apparently won’t have us fully staffed until next week.”

She rolled her eyes. “I knew I should have hired a different housekeeper. Mrs. Langley came a little too cheap.”

“We will more than manage, I assure you.”

“We will have to.”

He intently held her gaze and lingered. “How are you? Good?”

A tingling heat unexpectedly rattled her body. Why did she feel as though he were suddenly trying to be…overly familiar?

She lowered her gaze and fumbled to strip her gloves from her hands to keep herself occupied. “Very well, thank you. Tomorrow we officially commence your training sessions with Jackson. I’m rather excited to be part of this venture. It makes me feel useful.” She tightened her hold on her gloves, wondering if she should put them back on.

Nathaniel jumped over the trunk that separated them and landed at her side with a thud.

She almost jumped herself in startled astonishment.

Holding her gaze, he reached down and tugged both gloves from her hands and tossed them toward the stairwell. “Talk to me. Not the gloves.”

“Oh. I…” She nodded and was now very much aware of him and that bare and incredibly well-sculpted, muscled chest. Why did she want to keep looking at it and him? And why did he continue to silently linger?

The pounding in her head matched the pounding of her heart, though she tried not to let on. “Is there something you wanted?”

He pressed himself closer, his trouser-clad thighs indenting her full skirts if he wasn’t violating any key social rules. His hands skimmed her corseted waist. “Join me for supper. Before we retire for the night.”

Imogene stood awkwardly frozen against the heat of those large hands which continued to penetrate the midsection of her stomacher. For some reason,
retire
didn’t sound like
retire.

His hands continued to skim her waist. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She glanced up at him, her cheeks heating. “If you have to ask, you most likely are. A shirt would help.”

“Now, now, be nice.” He edged back. “I will attempt to adhere to the conduct of a gentleman during supper. Though I can’t promise as to what my conduct will be afterward.” He extended a formal hand for her to take. “Is this how you aristos escort a lady to a table?”

“Uh…yes.”

He nudged it closer. “Take it.”

She inwardly winced at the awkwardness between them and placed her bare hand into his bare hand, feeling more than her arm trembling.

His large warmth curled possessively around hers and tightened. Tugging her around the trunks by the hand, he guided her down the empty corridor, past countless other rooms, until they approached a dimly lit room.

Her eyes widened when they entered what appeared to be a dining area. The sweeping walls that had been painted a soft gold seemed to glow like the inside of a chalice and lit white candles scattered the entire length of the room.

A white linen cloth covered a table that had been set for two, with polished silver, gleaming porcelain and crystal. Each set plate already had a more than generous amount of steaming roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. A decanter of red wine and two crystal glasses, which had already been filled, awaited in a celebratory manner.

Although it was a simple meal, it was astoundingly lovely. And charming. As if he had gathered what few servants they had to have a meal made just for her.

Releasing her hand, he strode toward one of the two chairs and pulled it out, his muscles shifting as he gestured toward it. Those blue eyes softly beckoned for her to take pleasure in the welcoming mood he had set.

Knowing she had better sit before her legs folded, she hurried toward him, smoothed out the backside of her skirts and sat. “Thank you.”

He shifted her chair closer to the set table. Though he had already finished positioning her chair, he continued to hold the back of it with both hands. “Our first meal together as business partners.”

She set her chin and stared before herself, trying to pretend his presence didn’t wash over her completely. Even though it did. “Yes.”

He drew away, rounding toward the other side of the table. He sat in the chair directly across from hers and, leaning forward, took hold of his filled wineglass and lifted it toward her in a salute. “To the championship and my patron, who is making
everything
possible.”

Wanting to distract herself from those haunting eyes and that bare chest, she retrieved her own glass, lifted it in a return salute, then brought it straight to her lips. She sipped at the tangy wine and wondered how she was going to keep up the charade of not being nervous.

“Whatever your needs may be,” he said in a smooth voice that dripped of some sort of innuendo, “I’ll see to it they are all met on my end. All you have to do is ask.”

She set her wineglass next to her plate lest her sweaty hands cause it to slip. Trying not to be bested by a man who clearly knew more about what was going to happen to her than she did, she obliged, “I wouldn’t offer up such generosity. I might take off to France with your full quarter million and marry Henry off to a French woman. I hear they know how to love a man. Which he needs.”

A low rumble of a laugh floated toward her. “I’ll be sure to keep you in view at all times and take everything I want from you now.”

She wasn’t even going to ask what a man who came to dinner without a shirt wanted from a woman. Plucking up her napkin, she spread it neatly and daintily onto her lap. Taking up her fork and knife, she lowered her eyes to her plate and ate. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Imogene.”

She paused and finished chewing her food. She was beginning to wonder why she’d really been invited to dine with him. “Yes?”

He shifted in his chair and leaned toward the table. “I met with Dr. Filbert whilst I was waiting on our license and terminated all of his services. The man’s only explanation as to why you needed to take your daily tonic was to ensure you didn’t lose your voice. In his medical opinion, he thinks it possible after all the lye you had been exposed to. It made no sense to me, Imogene. None. And considering you suffer from unexplained fainting spells, I think it time we get you off his filth. I’m beyond riled knowing your brother, a seemingly intelligent fellow, had sold himself into this. Why did neither of you connect your condition to the tonic you were taking?”

Imogene’s startled gaze flew to his. Whilst she was anything but fond of Dr. Filbert’s quack juice, it had helped her survive the incident and had kept her in good health for years. “Is this why you and Henry aren’t particularly fond of each other at the moment?”

He lowered his eyes, slid his long fingers around the base of his wineglass that sat on the table and swirled the red wine within. “Yes.” Nathaniel stilled his glass. “As a boxer, I know a few things about tonics and their effects. I’ve learned to stay away from them. You need to trust me in this.”

Imogene returned her eyes to her plate, irked knowing Nathaniel and her brother were quibbling over something
she
should be making a decision on.

She eyed him. “I am not at all pleased with you or my brother for mistreating each other based on something
I
should be deciding. I ask that you let me decide what will be done with Dr. Filbert.”

He was quiet for a moment. “And what is your decision?”

“You told me all but a breath ago. You don’t expect me to decide whilst chewing on my meal, do you?”