Forever a Lord (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention
to a few words more, which I trust,
will quench the thirst of…(?)

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

5:07 a.m.
The Weston House

I
MOGENE
LINGERED
BY
the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.

Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.

The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!

Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.

Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.

The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.

Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the carriage. “Henry?”

Her brother, who was rising from his seat, yanked his coat over his head, burying himself in it before she could see him. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What—” Stumbling into the darkness of the upholstered seat, he roared, “Get back inside! You aren’t even damn well dressed!”

“Weston,
sit,
” someone gruffly commanded in a low baritone from within the shadows of the carriage seat. “And cease yelling at her. How is that helpful?”

Henry leaned toward that voice, still keeping himself buried within the coat. “I can’t have her seeing my face!”

“I understand,” that low baritone offered. “Cease yelling about it and let me get her inside for you, all right?”

Her throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.

A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.

Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.

Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.

Which she most certainly was.

Those dominating ice-blue eyes momentarily erased everything, including every last drop of cold rain. She blinked, realizing that the rain had, in fact, stopped. It was as if the heavens had cleared in the name of this man.

He leaned down toward her, holding on to the side of the open door with a large, scarred hand. “Weston had his first go at real boxing earlier tonight and lost. Miserably. You don’t want to see how miserably. Just know he and I are now good friends because of it. We actually spent most of the night talking and cleaning him up. Or at least trying to.” His voice was smooth, deep, and bore a surprisingly sophisticated accent given his rough appearance. “You really don’t want to see him in his current state. I suggest you retire, tea cake.”

Tea cake?
Her lips parted and she honestly couldn’t decide what horrified her more. Knowing her brother had allowed himself to be pummeled due to his own stupidity or knowing that she’d been called a tea cake by some vagrant whilst standing in a rain-drenched robe and nightdress.

“Can you step back?” he asked. “I’d like to get down. I’m not overly fond of carriages.”

She stepped away from the carriage entrance, trying not to stumble on the wet gravel.
That
was why he’d lingered. Not because of her, but because she’d been blocking his ability to move.

She really
was
a tea cake.

The man jumped down with a thud onto the gravel, his great coat billowing around his large, muscled body as his riding boots splashed into the puddle. “Are you going in? Or do I have to carry you in?”

Her heart skittered. Something about this man made her world pulse. And she couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

He paused. “You’re putting on quite the show.” Raking his gaze over her breasts, he swiped the corners of his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “Not that I mind—they’re incredibly lovely, but you may want to go inside.”

Her eyes widened as she slapped her hands over the front of her robe. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Cupping her hands harder against her breasts, she felt her puckered nipples well-outlined against the wet material sticking to her palms. Her heated face pricked against the cold wind.

He lowered his stubbled chin as if to get a better look at her face and extended a bare, scarred hand toward the entrance. “Are you going in or not?” He spaced out his words as if she were mentally incapable of understanding. “Because I can still see everything. Even with your hands in place.”

She gasped, completely mortified, turned and dashed past the portico and back in through the open door of the house, her slippers clicking and sliding across the marble. Skidding out of sight, she scrambled into the darkest corner of the foyer, setting herself against the farthest wall where no one could see her.

In a daze, she flopped against the wall, breathing hard. He’d seen everything.

She stared up at the mahogany stairwell that led up to an open landing above. After a blurring week of every aristocratic socialite fawning over the way she walked and danced and breathed, this was simply too much.

Male voices and heavy steps drifted into the foyer.

She froze, holding her breath.

“Remind me to never bring you home with me again,” Henry said in a riled tone, hidden just beyond sight. “Did you really have to comment on her breasts? In my circle, we don’t talk to women that way.”

“I got her inside for you, didn’t I?” that baritone casually provided. “Consider it a compliment I thought your wife’s breasts attractive enough to even comment on.”

She almost choked.

“That wasn’t my wife!” Henry staggered toward the stairwell, the coat still pulled over his head. “That was my sister, Coleman.
My goddamn sister!
”

“Consider it an even bigger compliment.”

“Weston?”
A female voice bloomed throughout the foyer like a horn. “Who is…whatever are you— Why are you hiding under a coat?”

About time you noticed something amiss,
Imogene thought. Her gaze jumped up to her sister-in-law standing at the top of the staircase, which was barely in view from the dark corner Imogene was tucked in.

Wrapped from shoulder to toe in a clinging, gold silk robe whose train splayed down part of the stair, Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston reminded Imogene of a Roman princess lounging about a palace. All the woman needed were the grapes. Sour grapes.

“
That
is my wife,” Henry grumbled almost inaudibly from within the coat. “And though she and I aren’t on the best of terms, I will mind you not to comment on her breasts, either.”

“No worry in that,” came the stage-whispered response. “They’re not as impressive.”

Imogene stifled a disbelieving laugh against her pressed hand. Now
that
was funny.

The tall, broad back belonging to this “Coleman” appeared in view at the bottom of the staircase. “Let me help you up.” Taking Henry’s arm and draping it over his midsection, he guided him up the stairs. “Go slow.”

Imogene could practically hear her brother wincing as he staggered up each step.

Mary bustled down the stairs, trying to grab Henry’s other arm. “I am
never
letting you go to another boxing exhibition again. ’Tis a waste of whatever is left of your face. A true gentleman would never watch such filth, let alone participate in it.”

Henry yanked his arm away from hers. “Yes, you know all about real gentlemen, don’t you, Mary?”

She sputtered, following Henry up the remaining stairs. “How can you treat me like this?” She waved toward Coleman. “Bringing in some vagrant from off the street to see me in my robe!”

“He isn’t a vagrant. And unlike Banbury, he isn’t here to see you,” Henry coolly obliged. “He was assisting me home, given my condition.”

When they had reached the landing, Henry grabbed Coleman’s shoulder, the coat swaying lopsided over his head. “My driver will take you wherever you need to go.”

“Uh…no,” Coleman provided. “The ride over was daunting enough. I’ll walk. Now go. Get some rest. And call in a doctor, will you? You may have to get that eye lanced.”

Imogene’s lips parted.
Lanced?

Henry pointed at him. “My offer still stands. Think about it until I see you at Cardinal’s next week.”

“I’ll let you know by the end of the week.”

“Good. See you then.”

Cardinal’s? That was one of the milling coves Henry frequented in the hopes of finding— Her eyes widened. Her brother had found a boxer. Upon her soul. This was their boxer! The man who was going to change their lives.

When Henry and his wife’s frantic, pitchy voice disappeared farther into the house and silence drummed, Imogene intently watched as this Coleman jogged down the remaining stairs.

His long-legged stride echoed as he strode through the foyer. To her astonishment, he didn’t head for the entrance door. But toward…
her.

Her damp robe still clung to every inch of her skin, making her feel like a seal at the menagerie about to get its first visitor.

He veered toward the space of the darkened corner she was tucked into.

She must have been breathing too hard.

He paused before her in the fuzzy darkness. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” The crisp scent of fresh air tinged with the smell of leather drifted toward her, the faint outline of those broad shoulders lingering close. Long, wet hair framed his shadowed face. “How are you?”

Her mouth went dry. She’d never heard a male voice dip like that before. Not in a way that made her stomach dip along with it. It was like he wanted something from her.

“Is there a reason you’re standing in the darkness alone?” he inquired. “Were you waiting for me?”

It sounded like he was hoping she was.

Imogene stared up in the direction of that deep voice and tried to decide if he intimidated her or not. His voice was incredibly debonair and didn’t match his gruff appearance.

He hesitated. “I can hardly hear you breathing. Is everything all right?”

She trembled against the increasing cold that pinched her skin and knew it was time to go before she made an idiot out of herself. Quickly rounding the man, she leaned away to ensure she didn’t brush up against him and only hoped he wouldn’t follow her up to her room.

He sidestepped and blocked her from leaving. “Wait.” He removed his great coat from long, muscled arms, exposing the frayed linen shirt beneath. “Come here.”

Her breath hitched as she scrambled back and bumped into the wall behind her. “What are you—”

“You’re soaked and you’re cold. Now come here.” He yanked her forward with a firm hand.

She froze.

He draped his coat around her. “There.” Large calloused fingers bumped her throat as he positioned and adjusted the coat into place around her. “Warm up.”

The soothing warmth of his coat, which his body had heated well, sank into her moist skin. The rough wool nestled around her body smelled like musty leather and smoky wood from a blazing fire that mingled with the scent of coal and the ocean. She had no doubt it smelled of all the places he had been to and seen.

Large hands stilled at the collar of the coat he had been adjusting around her throat. His hold tightened on the wool and he leaned in. “You smell good.”

Her pulse danced against his fingertips, which still clung to the coat. She probably did smell good. She had stupidly spilled perfume on her robe earlier that night.

“Do you have a name?” His tone was patient. “Weston called you Gene. Is that your name?”

Her breaths now came in jagged takes. Why did everything about this man make her panic
and
melt at the same time? It wasn’t right.

His hands fell away. “How is a man supposed to get anywhere with a woman who doesn’t talk?” He shifted toward her. “Do I scare you?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands. “No. Though I…I was a bit unnerved by what you said to me outside. It was uncalled-for.”

He paused, his voice unexpectedly softening. “I’m afraid I’m a bit rough when it comes to women. I’m not accustomed to small talk. And if I’m ever feeling amorous I usually tie them up.”

She glanced up, astounded, and met his shadowed gaze. It was like he said everything that was in his head. She had never met a man who did that before. “You…tie women up?” she rasped in disbelief. “What do you mean by that?”