Forever a Lord (17 page)

“Give in to it,” he rasped against her. “Like you did on the stairs.”

She gasped in overwhelmed bliss as he stroked and stroked into her. She jerked her wrists against the silk stockings, wanting so desperately to touch him and his broad back, but she couldn’t. “Can I touch you?” she breathed out between each of his thrusts. “Let me…touch you.”

“No.” He pumped into her harder. His large hands slid up and into her hair. “Let me hear you.” He rode and rode into her, harder and harder. “Come on. How does it feel?”

She moaned.

“That wasn’t good enough. Louder. Like you want more.”

She pushed out an even louder moan. For him. Only it felt like she was bringing her climax on by doing so. It was too much. “Oh!” She cried out and shook beneath him, giving in to the bursting pleasure his thrusts flung her to.

“Fuck, yes.” Fisting her bundled hair hard with one hand and grabbing her tied wrists by the knot, he pumped into her again and again, banging into her until an anguished groan escaped him, too.

He stilled, burying himself deep inside of her and eventually paused. “Shite,” he breathed out, still buried inside her. “I poured into you.”

Her heart pounded as her eyes popped open. “What?”

He heaved out a breath. “Fuck.”

Him and that word.

With a few swift tugs, he released her hands from her stockings and whipped them aside. Leaning in, he grazed her wrists with his fingers and gently rubbed them as if to take away what he had done.

She blinked at his shoulder buried above her, realizing she had indented visible, deep marks into the skin that was already covered with white scars. She slid a finger to it in concern. “Did I bite too hard?”

He rolled off to the side and collapsed onto his back. “I didn’t feel a thing.” His chest rose and fell as he stared up at the canopy above them. “I don’t know what came over me. I couldn’t even think. I just… I’ve never spilled into a woman like that before.”

Shifting onto her side and toward him, she shyly pulled her skirts down around her legs, feeling a heavy, warm wetness between her thighs. “What do you mean you spilled into me?”

He glanced toward her, still on his back, and searched her face. “I poured my seed into you. Which means you can end up with a child.”

Her stomach fluttered and crashed all at once, knowing a child might come of it. “And how will I know if…?”

“Your body will tell you.” Shifting toward her, he propped himself on an elbow. “The most certain one is when your menses ceases. The moment it does, tell me. We’ll ensure we address it and take it from there. Just be sure to tell me.”

It was so odd. How was it that she felt like she had always talked to him like this? Even though she knew there were still so many caverns of his life she knew nothing of?

She had no words to describe it. She felt like she was living the life she was meant to live. A life where she didn’t feel like she was being a burden to anyone. Nathaniel didn’t make her feel like she was a burden. He made her feel like she was her own person and he was his.

Without even thinking, she placed a hand over her heart, then let it drift and placed it against the middle of his chest.

He lowered his gaze and fingered her hand.

Her heart squeezed. It was like his attempt at returning affection. It was so endearingly sweet. “How did we end up like this?”

He continued to finger her knuckles. “One delectable woman with a lot of money and one stupid man with none.”

A giggle bubbled forth from her lips.

He smiled and continued to touch her hand as if every contour of her finger fascinated him. His features seemed at peace and at ease, as if he were content with this and them and what had happened.

Something whispered of a chance to get to know him. He wasn’t guarded. Her heart fluttered as she sidled closer. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“What is it like being a boxer?”

He glanced up, his rugged face brightening. “It’s the only time I feel like I can actually make the entire world bend against my hands. It’s amazing.”

She hesitated and tightened her hold on his hand. “I promise not to burden you over these next few months.”

He eyed her. “You need to stop talking like that. I just took your virginity, and you’re up and saying you’re the burden?”

She swallowed. The beat of his heart against her fingers and the rising and falling of his chest became her world in that moment. She had never known anything like it. She felt so intimately connected to him. And yet…there was so much she had to know about him. What sort of secrets lay buried within him?

She shifted just enough to see his face better and eventually offered, “I imagine you were hurt knowing your own father and mother didn’t come to our wedding. Especially when all of London did. Be our union superficial or not, they should have been there.”

He slowly pushed away her hand and rolled onto his back. “I could care less.” His tone indicated otherwise. “If my mother chooses to side with my father, what can I do? I’m done chasing this in my head. I can’t keep sending her missives that just keep going unanswered. Nor am I about to hurt her in the same way my father hurt me.”

His father? She blinked. “What do you mean? What did your father do?”

He vacantly stared up at the canopy of the bed. “I would rather not say.”

She gently set a hand onto his chest. “Nathaniel. I…I am here to listen. Please know that.”

He continued to vacantly stare up at the canopy of the bed. “I thought this was about a quarter of a million pounds. Not me.”

She swallowed, that blunt response stinging more than her pride. It actually stung her heart. “Cease. I genuinely wish to know you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. And because…I…I want to know which of the stories are true and which are not.”

He pushed her hand off his chest. “I’m not giving that part of myself to you, Imogene. So don’t ask me which stories or true or not. Because you’ll never know.”

Her brows came together. She tried not to let agitation bite into her. “How is it that you don’t think me worthy enough of knowing things about you, and yet you feel entitled on dabbling in not only my body, but my world of stuttering and Dr. Filbert and my medications? Let the dabbling be mutual if we are to play this game of who bends to whom.”

“We are obviously done here.” He sat up. “Good night. I’ll retire into my own room.” He adjusted his trousers around himself and his hips, buttoned the flap and pushed himself off the bed, landing on the wooden floor with an aggressive thud. He strode for the closed door.

She scrambled to sit up. “Nathaniel. Please don’t be angry with me. I was merely conveying what I genuinely feel.”

He opened the door. Abruptly turning toward her, his ice-blue eyes flared. “Discussing disturbing events of my life is no different than reliving them. And I’m not about to relive what I went through just so you can better understand what I already know.”

By God. What had he endured?

Holding her gaze, he rigidly pointed. “And despite what you think, as your business partner, I have a right to ensure your health isn’t being swindled by some balding quack. I’ve seen too many people shrivel and die in the Five Points consuming tonics for their ‘health.’ If I see you taking any of that medication, you had best be wearing a pair of leather boxing gloves. I won’t say it again.”

She scrambled up onto her knees, determined to prove to him that he wasn’t in control of her life. She was. She pointed to herself. “
I
will decide what needs to be done when it comes to my medications. Not you. I.”

“It’s already taken care of and done. I talked to him. He knows that if he damn well comes anywhere near you, or attempts to administer any more of his tonics, I’ll be putting a knuckle through his brain.”

“But I wasn’t there to listen in on the conversation and form an opinion.”

“Yes, but I was.”

“Since when did you become me?”

He stared. “Are you arguing with me? Because I don’t like it. So I suggest you fucking stop.”

She chanted to herself not to submit to a stutter, even though she felt it coming on from the riled angst that threatened to slap her
and
him. She focused on each and every word, ensuring it was precise, only it turned into a mess. “I think it-it-it is the-the-the principle of the matter and n-n-not whether I think you are right or-or-or wrong. I will drink that quack juice merely t-t-to demonstrate whose hand really holds the-the-the cup.”

A muscle flicked angrily in his jaw. “I dare you.”

She set her chin. “T-t-tomorrow afternoon at four. In the-the-the parlor. Be there.”

After a long pulsing moment of silence, he shifted toward her and grated out, “You and I will be at Jackson’s. I’ve got training all day tomorrow. Or did you forget?”

She stared, swallowing a sense of calm she desperately wanted to feel.

“There is no reason for you to take that damn tonic, Imogene,” he bit out. “There is absolutely nothing physically wrong with you. Or don’t you know that?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and set her hands on her ears, not wanting to listen to him anymore. She stuttered. That was what was wrong with her. And she wished upon all wishes that stupid tonic would fix it. Only it never did. And she hated knowing it. She hated, hated, hated knowing that she would forever be at the mercy of looking stupid.

The bed suddenly shifted and a hand grazed her wrist. “Imogene.”

Startled, she opened her eyes and glanced up to find Nathaniel leaning in.

His blue eyes intently held her. “Did you need me to sleep with you tonight? I can.”

Astounded by his concern, she blinked rapidly and slowly shook her head. “I… No.”

He sighed. “I can’t have you riled to the point of stuttering. It isn’t right. How about you and I come to an agreement with regard to your medication?”

She swallowed. “What sort of…agreement?”

“Go for two months without your tonic and see how you feel. If you decide you still need it after those two months are over, we’ll call in another doctor. Not Dr. Filbert, mind you, but someone else who isn’t biased. Can you agree to that much?”

Rather dazed at the unexpected bend of his nature, she half nodded. “I… Yes. I can…I can stop taking it tomorrow. I can give it two months and…decide then.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He pushed off the bed. “If you need me, just knock on my door.” Holding her gaze for a pulsing moment, he turned and strode to the open door.

Stepping out, he closed it with a soft thud.

As always, she never knew what to expect from the man. He was so stubbornly hard and yet so…endearingly soft at the times she needed him to be. She lowered herself slowly to the bed and nestled her cheek against the cool, smooth linens. It was quite possible she was already beyond enchanted with this boxer.

This could complicate things.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sir, my friends think that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day upon which I contended with you, not been so unfavourable, I should have won the battle; I therefore challenge you to a second meeting, at any time.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

The following morning

N
ATHANIEL
WAS
GOING
to straight punch someone, knowing there was already a group of chroniclers lingering outside the house with pencils and writing books in hand. Since when did his life become not his own?

Since Imogene, is when. Since Imogene. Damn her.

Stopping at the bottom of the main staircase, Nathaniel thumped at the middle wall with the side of his fisted hand until it burned.
“The carriage and I have been waiting fifteen minutes!”
he called out loud enough for her to hear. “Are we going to Jackson’s or not?”

He stepped back and checked the hall clock set against the far wall. He rolled his eyes. “There is a clock upstairs, too, you know!” he yelled out. “I checked last night!”

“There is no need to yell like the boxing savage that you are,” Imogene chided from atop the stairwell. “We are on time and will get there in barely twenty minutes if we avoid Park Lane.”

He glanced up at her. “A woman’s time and a man’s time are obviously—” His brows went up.

Imogene regally descended the stairs, draped in a stunning lilac and lace gown that more than complimented her figure. It personified it. The lavish skirts swayed rhythmically against her elegant movements. The woman even wore an oval bonnet, which had been trimmed with white silk flowers and lilac satin ribbons.

How the hell was he or anyone else at Jackson’s going to fight with all that satin and lace in the way?

Landing pertly before him, she set her chin and smiled. “Do I meet your approval?”

“Approval is one thing. Being practical is quite another. You’re overdressed.”

She lowered her chin. “Overdressed?”

“Isn’t that what I just said? You’re overdressed.”

She glanced down at herself. “But I thought it pretty.”

A character is what she was. One he wished he didn’t like so goddamn much. “It is pretty. But that isn’t what I’m trying to say.”

She glanced up. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you’re overdressed. If you had any more lace on you, we would probably be able to open a dress shop.”

She sighed. “What am I supposed to wear?”

“I don’t know…maybe something with a little less—” he rigidly gestured toward her ribbons and silk flowers “
—female
paraphernalia.”

“But everything I own is female. I
am
a female.”

He stared. “Imogene. Men are going to be spraying sweat across the room. Or didn’t you know that?”

“Of course I know that.” She plucked out a lace napkin from her reticule and wagged it at him. “That is why I brought this.”

Oh, God. “
That
will barely clean up my middle finger.”

She pursed her lips. “Your middle finger isn’t
that
large.”

He snatched it from her and shoved it into his trousers. “If you need it, you know where to find it.”

She leaned away. “You can keep it.”

“I will. I would tell you to change but we don’t have time.” He thumbed toward the door. “Now move. Before we’re late.”

Adjusting her carriage shawl about her shoulders, she leaned in, her hazel eyes now sparkling with an unusual amount of mischief. “I hear—and from a most reliable source, mind you—that your wife intends to turn you into a boxing champion. So whatever you do, don’t disappoint her by tripping on the lace napkin stuffed in your trousers.” With the flip of the ribbons on her bonnet, she brushed past toward the entrance door. “Now come along. You, sir, are late.”

Everything about her made him want to grab and squeeze. Hard. He rotated toward her and jogged toward the door, setting himself against it. “Before we go. There are chroniclers waiting outside. They will be asking questions about me and the upcoming fight, most of which I’ll not be responding to. We only pause long enough to appear sociable, I answer four questions and we leave. All right?”

She eyed him. “I don’t have to talk to them, do I?”

Pushing away from the door, he grabbed her hand. “No. In fact, I prefer you not say anything. Chroniclers have a tendency to be aggressive. So don’t give them any opportunity to engage you.”

She nodded, now looking a touch panicked.

“Imogene.” He shook her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m a boxer. Remember?”

She paused, her features relaxing. “Right.”

“Now come along.” Opening the door, he hooked her arm around his and guided them out into a bright, sunlit day, closing the door behind them.

“Lord Atwood!” Several men in topcoats and beaver hats, who had been lingering by the iron railing dividing the house from the cobbled street, hurried toward them. “Lord Weston assured us you would be available to answer questions.”

He was beginning to hate Weston. “I’m certain he did.” His arm tightened against Imogene’s, silently imploring her to remain calm, as they descended to join the group of men. “Regrettably, I only have time for four questions, gentlemen. My wife and I have an appointment.”

The mustached gent closest to him leaned in and quickly asked, “Norley publicly announced last night over at Cardinal’s that, with your wife being your investor, you won’t last past a few rounds. He says you look like a kept man and that your marriage is a farce. What have you to say to that?”

Nathaniel smirked, knowing Norley was desperate to be making public comments. “Norley should be spending more time training and less time talking. If I look like a kept man, I’m damn proud of it. Next question?”

Another man pushed closer. “There are those who claim you are parading as the missing Sumner heir merely for publicity purposes. Is that true?”

Nathaniel stared the man down. “I wish publicity meant that much to me. Next question?”

“Since when does an aristocrat go into the realm of professional boxing?” someone tersely tossed out.

Nathaniel shifted toward the man. “I don’t really consider myself an aristocrat, gentlemen. I certainly didn’t grow up as one. I lived on the streets and barely had enough to pay for clothes and food. Boxing is what kept me alive. And that is why I keep doing it. Next and last question?”

A stockier, round-faced man called out, “Rumor has it, you have been associating with Harriet Wilson during unconventional hours. Are you her latest protector and what does your wife of one day have to say to that?”

Imogene stiffened against his arm hold, her startled gaze flying up to his.

He hated chroniclers. But what he hated even more than chroniclers was knowing Imogene now thought he was cavorting with other women. A jealous woman was not a happy one and he had an upcoming fight with Norley to focus on.

Releasing Imogene’s arm, Nathaniel strode up to the chronicler who had asked the question, snatched hold of the man by the lapels of his topcoat and with a violent thrust, flung both the man and his beaver hat in full reverse toward the pavement. “Does that answer your question?” he bit out. “Whatever woman I am with, for whatever the reason, she always gets my full attention. Call it a rule of mine. Respect it.”

Turning back to Imogene, he grabbed her by the waist hard and pushed her toward the direction of the waiting carriage. “Any more questions like that, gents,” he called out over his shoulder, “and I’ll ensure more than your pencils break. Keep it to boxing. Not my goddamn life.”

Hurried booted steps and more questions filled the air, trying to catch up with him. “Will your father be watching any of the fights?”

Nathaniel almost whipped around and launched himself at the man who asked the question but knew if he did, he’d probably end up at Scotland Yard for it. He had spent his entire life shoving aside his life and now his life was intent on shoving back. And whilst he had tried to do right by his mother and his sister by not implicating his father—or killing him—the reality was that, in an attempt to better his life, he was throwing open all doors to secret sniffing chroniclers and all of London. Regardless of whatever his path to the championship brought, he knew he was done bowing to the past. It was time that the past bowed to him. And it would.

Hoisting Imogene up and into the open door of the waiting carriage, he climbed in, slamming the door behind himself, and threw himself into the upholstered seat across from her. He hit the ceiling of the carriage with a fist to signal the driver to go.

When the jogging faces of the chroniclers disappeared, he fell against the seat. This was but the beginning. He hadn’t even taken his first fight yet.

He paused. His chest tightened at realizing he was sitting in the carriage. God, it was always something. He detested how it made his skin crawl. There were times he was capable of focusing and pretending small spaces didn’t bother him and there were other times—like now—that it not only bothered him but made him nauseous.

Shite. He dug his fist against his mouth and tried to focus on something. Anything.

Imogene intently observed him. “What is it?”

He swallowed past the knot in his throat and did everything he could to keep himself from rocking. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He tried to look out the window, reminding himself he had the means to get out. “I just don’t care for small spaces. Once we get out, I’ll be fine. Just leave me alone. Leave me to focus.”

She quickly rose, settled herself beside him and leaned in close. “I remember when we were in the carriage the last time. You sat with your eyes closed the whole while and wouldn’t even speak to me. I thought it was me.”

“Yes, well, it isn’t.”

She hesitated. “Tell me how I can help.”

He lifted his eyes to hers and held that soft gaze. An odd sense of peace overcame him knowing that she was genuinely concerned for him. Him. Not the quarter of a million.
Him.
And why the hell did he care?

She smiled and took hold of his hands. “You look better already.”

He nodded but said nothing.

She playfully lifted a brow. “So who is Harriet Wilson?”

He snorted at the unexpected but welcome topic and leaned toward her. “If I knew that, I would have answered the question. Chroniclers are known for trying to make their own stories more exciting. Get used to it.”

She nodded, gently swaying the ribbons of her bonnet, and continued to attentively hold his gaze.

He tried to stay focused on her and only her. “Distract me from the fact that I’m still in this goddamn carriage. What are you thinking about?”

She smoothed a hand across the coat on his forearm. “You. What is it about the carriage that makes you so uncomfortable?”

He shifted against the seat and knew there were some things he wasn’t going to be able to keep from her. “I was kept in a cellar during my captivity. And sometimes, I still feel like I’m…in it.”

Her startled gaze flew to his. “A cellar? Nathaniel, why were you kept in a cellar?”

He stiffened. “Imogene. There are some things I just don’t want to talk about. And this is one of them. Especially now.”

She nodded, her hand gently rubbing his coat and arm. “Forgive me. I understand.”

God. He wanted to touch her again, as he did last night, but knew, damn her, he’d never be able to again. Not after what he’d done to her, tying her up and seizing her virginity as if it were his to seize.

He dug his gloved hands into the seat to keep him from thinking about what he’d done. “Stop touching me. For God’s sake,
stop.
”

Her hand edged away. “I’m sorry.”

He adjusted his coat, annoyed with himself for still wanting her so much. He had stupidly misled himself into thinking he could fuck her and think nothing of it. The problem was, something happened the moment he’d claimed her. Something that had never happened to him before. He had started wanting her in more than that way.

He wanted her in every way.

This was becoming far more than mere attraction or a wink at a business contract. He liked her a bit too much. Which was a problem. Because she was rattling the cage of something he swore to avoid for the rest of his life: passion. He knew what it did to people. It made them rip everything apart.

He had to avoid getting any more attached. He was used to detaching himself from people. He’d done it all his life. What was one more person?

Rising from his seat, he strategically placed himself across from her, feeling as if now
she
were choking him, not the carriage. He was morbidly relieved when they rolled to a stop and Jackson’s appeared outside the glass window.

* * *

I
MOGENE
REMOVED
HER
bonnet, folding the satin ribbons, and set it quietly onto the bench beside her, feeling quite overdressed. From the other side of the room, Nathaniel and nine other men, including Mr. Jackson, stripped down to shirts and waistcoats.

She pinched her lips, feeling awkward about seeing so many men strip at once. It made her stomach churn and her throat burn.

Some of the young men were smirking as if aware of her discomfort and purposefully positioned themselves in a way that best displayed their dressed-down muscled bodies.

Men were so annoying.

One moment they were human. The next they were not.

Nathaniel being an example of that.

The man hadn’t tossed so much as a word or glance at her since they had left the carriage. It was like she had ceased to exist now that they had stepped into
his
realm. Boxing.

Jackson called out to the men, “Mr. P. Egan will be making the rounds this week, given the upcoming championship. Impress him, gents, and the glory of his remarks and the popularity it will bring are yours.”

Imogene’s brows went up. Mr. P. Egan? Why, she knew that name. She had been reading the man’s boxing scribbles from Henry’s study in an effort to better understand what she was investing in. She pertly sat up, feeling unusually pleased with herself for knowing
something
about boxing.