Forever a Lord (18 page)

“And on we go,” Jackson called out. Jackson turned to Nathaniel and pointed. “We will be focusing on the Norley fight. Norley always goes for the head. The temple in particular, though he is most known for breaking the jaw. So let me play his game.”

Jackson thrust a large leather glove onto each of Nathaniel’s hands and, using the leather strings, wrapped, tied and knotted them into place. Every man in the room followed suit, the leather gloves that had been strung from the hooks on the wall now on every hand in the room.

Nathaniel angled himself across from Jackson, bringing both leather-clad fists up. All of the other men found their sparring partners, as well. With a sounding call from Jackson of
“Set to!”
every man started swinging.

Every time they all hit each other with those large leather gloves, Imogene flinched as if she were getting hit. When did men crawl into the idea that beating the blood out of another man was acceptable?

A quarter of a million,
she chanted to herself.
A quarter of a million.
She needed to remind herself why she was watching men maim each other into oblivion.

She stared, unable to believe how ruthless they all were.
Especially
Nathaniel. With his black hair scattered and growing damp, eyes fiercely narrowed and focused, and his large, muscled body hunched and tensed, there was not an ounce of humanity left in him.

He wasn’t the same man.

He darted in, his face intent on gashing, and savagely delivered a quick blow to Jackson’s side, making Imogene wince. Jackson darted in equally fast, yelling out a command, and returned a hooking blow that snapped Nathaniel’s head aside.

She choked back a startled yelp as Jackson hit him in the head again. Her hands jumped up and covered both eyes, her heart pounding in disbelief at having seen Atwood get hit so brutally.

Oh, God. This wasn’t even the actual fights or the championship.

This was mere training.

Grunts and rapid thuds echoed around her in a whirling blur. That was when she realized something.

Nathaniel could get hurt. Badly.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It required something more than fortitude, to act thus in opposition to nature, as well as considerable Ingenuity in husbanding his strength, that he might be enabled to reduce his opponent to his own level.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Evening

I
MOGENE
VEERED
TOWARD
her closed bedchamber door and leaned against it, intently listening to Nathaniel’s footsteps disappear down the corridor to his room. She splayed her fingers across the cool, smooth wood and swallowed against the tightness throbbing within her throat.

After a short supper, and barely a few words exchanged about nothing in particular, he insisted on retiring early into his own room. It was like he had lost all interest in her as a woman. He didn’t even try to touch her. Not once.

Was it because she had been unable to watch him fight and had stupidly sat with her hands plastered against her face even though she was the one investing in every hit? Some patron she had turned out to be. What had started out as a mere agreement had morphed into her realizing dreams were never quite the same once they became reality.

A knock to the door made her jump. She scrambled to open it. Yanking open the door, she was disappointed to find it was only her lady’s maid come to assist her into her nightgown. Not Nathaniel.

A half hour later, after her lady’s maid had uncorseted her for the night and gathered all of her clothing, leaving Imogene to herself in the comfort of a nightdress, Imogene pushed away from the closed door.

It was rather obvious Nathaniel was not coming to visit her. Drifting toward her dressing table, she sat in a half daze and leaned over the porcelain basin of water. Dipping her hands into its coolness, and using a sliver of soap, she washed and rubbed her face and throat clean. Using the folded cloth set by the basin, she dried her skin.

She bit back a shiver against the chill the cold water brought and sprinted across the room, crawling onto the bed. Grabbing for the linens, she wrapped them around her body and stared at the wavering light and shadows the candlelight created across the high ceilings.

She was still very dazed. The training session had jarred her into a reality she hadn’t even thought about.

Nathaniel could get hurt badly.

She squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a slow breath. Her mind was going to eat her alive. She needed to talk to him. Or she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Opening her eyes, she dragged all the linen from off the bed with her and wrapped it up tighter around her shoulders and body, pinning it closed with her arms around her nightdress. Padding across the room, she pulled open the door and leaned out.

A faint light peered from under his door at the end of the corridor. She bit her lip and shuffled her way toward it until she reached his bedchamber door. She raised her linen-buried hand to knock but then paused and drew it back.

In some way, she feared admitting that she already genuinely cared for him. Mostly because she knew her affection would never be returned. There were far too many scars covering that soul and that life.

With heart-pounding certainty that she would somehow find the right words to say to him, she raised her hand and knocked. There was a pause and then steps crossed the floor toward the door. She tightened her hold on the linens and felt an uncertain lurch of excitement and dread take over, knowing she was about to see him again.

The door opened and light flooded the corridor.

She blinked up at him.

His tousled black hair hung in his eyes and though his cashmere robe was tied firmly at the waist, the collar still hung slightly open, exposing his throat and a V-shaped section of his bare, muscled chest. And his face. His poor jaw and cheekbone covered with welts and bruises from the training he had done with Jackson.

She swallowed. Was it so wrong to want him for more than what they had originally agreed upon?

His blue eyes raked the length of her as dark brows came together. “Is something wrong?”

How could he pretend that his face and his body didn’t hurt? “Might I come in?”

He draped an arm across the doorway, leaning toward her and lowered his chin. “No. I’m not interested in engaging you like that anymore. We’re done.”

The way he said it made her pulse lurch. What did that mean? “I wasn’t looking to…” She couldn’t say it.

His expression remained stoic. “What were you looking to do then?”

He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? “I need to talk to you.”

He cocked his head. “Then talk.”

“Is there a way for you to take less fights?”

He eyed her. “Not if we’re talking about the championship.”

She held her linen tighter against herself. “I’m worried,” she admitted.

“About what?”

“About you.”

His brows rose. “Why?”

“The more I think about you getting hurt in a boxing match, the more I panic. I don’t care for it.”

He shifted against the door frame. “I suggest you not worry and that you go to your room. I’ve had a long day.”

She threw him an exasperated look. “Do you think me incapable of genuine concern after what I saw today? Mr. Jackson was irresponsibly
vicious
toward you.
Vicious.
Banging your head around like…like…you were some…some…ball on the croquet lawn. It’s supposed to be training. Not an introduction to Roman Empire Crucifixion.”

A gruff laugh escaped him as the edges of his eyes crinkled. “The point of training is to be prepared. Real fights, tea cake,
are
a form of crucifixion. Men die in the ring all the time and I’m trying to ensure I don’t die myself.”

He wasn’t helping. Her misgivings only seemed to increase. “I don’t like it. I don’t like any of this.”

He tipped his entire body forward, appearing more and more agitated. “Might I ask what you thought boxing entailed prior to watching it today?”

“Well, I…”

“What? Two pillows and a rooster?”

“No. I knew what boxing entailed. I will have you know that I’ve read the entire volume of Mr. P. Egan’s book on the matter. And more than four times.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. I just…”

“You just what? We married to ensure you can watch me do this, morning, day and night. Everything we’re doing morning, day and night is because of you and a chance at a quarter of a million pounds. And suddenly you have a problem with it?”

She fidgeted beneath the intensity of that gaze. “It isn’t that I have a problem, I just… When I saw you getting hit like that, I… It…it became too real. All of this is becoming far too real.”

He dragged his arm down the door frame. “So what are you telling me?” His voice and his features darkened. “That we’re done? That you’re pulling your goddamn investment? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, I…” She glanced down the corridor and back at him. “If we do this, you have to promise me you won’t get hurt.”

He searched her face. “Imogene. It’s boxing. I’m going to get hurt. So I can’t promise you otherwise.”

Hearing him say it made her want to sob. Henry had made him sound inhuman when it came to boxing, as if nothing could ever touch him. Only she had spent the entire afternoon watching him getting not only touched but brutally knocked around. “Nathaniel, I—” She grabbed his waist hard and frantically tugged him close, burying herself against his warmth. She shook him, trying to make him understand. “Henry claimed you were untouchable, so I didn’t even think that— If you get hurt, the money will be nothing more than a curse. And I’ve been cursed enough in my life. I don’t want any more regrets. I don’t.”

He stilled. After a few breaths, his large hands slowly skimmed across her braid and down her back. “You needn’t worry about me,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

“How do you do it?” she asked against him.

“Do what?”

“How do you take hits and pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

His fingers dragged up into her hair. “I’ve spent my whole life doing it. I’m used to the pain.”

She dug her head into him, those words stabbing her. Despite his never saying it, this man had suffered like this his whole life. It was heartbreaking. For at least she knew she had many, many glorious and happy moments with her papa and mama and Henry. Without pain. Without strife. It hadn’t always been bad. It felt like it, but it hadn’t been.

He drew away, unlatching her arms from his waist. “Go back to your room. All right? Because I really don’t need this right now.” He stepped back but didn’t meet her gaze.

A crazy little voice told her that he not only wanted her but needed her, despite his telling her to go. And wild though it was, she was determined to listen to that voice, because she had to stop putting herself before this man. It wasn’t right that he was physically endangering himself merely because she had asked him to. Merely because there was a lot of money involved.

She squeezed past him and into his bedchamber. “I’m sleeping with you tonight. And every night until the championship.”

“No. I have to focus on my fighting.”

She swallowed. “I’m not asking you to bed me.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

“I simply want to sleep with you. That way, neither of us will be alone. Is that so wrong?”

“I’m more than fine with being alone.”

“I don’t believe you. As such, I’m staying. And you can’t make me leave.”

He glanced toward her and hesitated. Huffing out a breath, he eventually half nodded and swung the door shut with a thud.

Biting her lip, she glanced toward the open wardrobe where all of his clothes hung and paused. At the bottom of that wardrobe, peering out on an angle, beyond the open doors, was a small leather-bound book that had been strung closed by a red velvet sash. It looked more of a female origin. Not something that would have belonged to him.

It appeared he had tried to stash it from sight, only to have failed. He had probably been perusing it when she had knocked.

He crossed toward the wardrobe, as if fully aware of where her attention now lay and leaned down, tucking it out of sight. He closed the lacquered doors into each other and faced her, meeting her gaze in a distant manner that indicated she say nothing.

How could she not say anything? “Who is she?” She tried to hide the ache within her voice but it was no use.

He stared. “Who?”

She gestured to the wardrobe he had just shut. “I saw the book with the sash. Don’t pretend I didn’t see it.”

He shifted his jaw, a lethal look surfacing beneath that distant facade. He angled toward her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

She wasn’t one to lie. “Maybe I am. Maybe I am jealous toward a man I gave my virginity to.” Unable to hold it in, she confessed, “I haven’t been the same since last night. I think about it with almost every breath I take. In many ways, I have become yours without meaning to. In many ways, you have made me yours.”

He was quiet for a moment, as if startled by her admission. “I didn’t mean to complicate things between us.”

“But you did.”

“I know. I did.” He raked back his hair and then muttered, “It’s my sister’s diary.”

His sister. The one who had been wed to the ever-good-natured Duke of Wentworth. The one who had died. Now she felt insensitive and half-baked. “I’m ever so sorry. I didn’t— Were you reading it?”

He glanced away. “I haven’t been able to. I’m not much of a brother.”

She stepped toward him, anguish overwhelming her. “I can help you read it, if you want. I know how difficult it is. I was never even able to set flowers on my mama’s or my papa’s crypt. I always had Henry do it for me. I finally did it myself a few years ago, and though it was overwhelming, it made me feel like I was visiting with them. You should read her words. It would be like visiting with her, too.”

He turned away and, setting both hands wide against the wardrobe, he leaned heavily against it. “What do you want from me, Imogene? Why do you keep trying to dig into me and my life? What do you think you’re going to find?”

Her stomach churned. It was obvious he wasn’t used to people caring. “Are you not used to someone genuinely wanting to partake in your life?”

He pushed away from the wardrobe and swung toward her, a muscle flicking in his welted jaw. “No. Not really. In my opinion, when your own father can turn against you, anyone can. I’ve learned to keep things simple and at a distance. It’s best that way. More important, it’s best for me.”

She inwardly shriveled at hearing those words. She had been blessed to have always known the support of her family. Even though now all she had left of that family was Henry. “I won’t turn against you. You and I are friends.”

His expression remained cool. “I don’t know what we are.”

“I know we are friends. We have shared enough to be that much. Have we not?”

He set his shoulders but said nothing.

She swallowed hard and knew this man needed to understand that she genuinely cared for him. Because she did. And it was obvious it was something he had never heard enough of in his life. “I would be fooling myself into saying everything I have done thus far, including giving you my virginity, was done for a quarter of a million. This afternoon, whilst I was watching you get hit, what I felt in that moment was something money cannot buy. That emotion of genuine concern was there for you. It really was. It still is. I want you to know that. I like you. Very much. And I care for you. Very much. More than I should probably be admitting to.”

His harsh features notably softened as did those ice-blue eyes that held her gaze. “Get into bed. It’s late.”

She clutched the linens around her, trying to balance not only herself but her whirling thoughts. She nodded and drew in deep, calming breaths, then let them out. She knew the moment she got into his bed, she would be doing far more than submitting her body to him. She would be submitting her heart to a man who clearly needed one.

* * *

N
ATHANIEL
KNEW
THAT
letting Imogene stay in his room and in his bed was a mistake. As if her confession hadn’t riled the last of him, she looked like a dream, bundled up from shoulder to toe in ivory linens, her nightdress peering out from beneath. Her beautiful face glowed with the rising flush her words had brought and that blond, braided, rumpled hair only seemed to add to his wanting to savor what little time he had with her. Because their four months was going to pass with but a breath and he didn’t want to get any more attached. Especially knowing that no one had
ever
gifted him with the amount of patience and understanding and respect that she had. Be it for a quarter of a million or not. “Get into bed,” he said again.