Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  The world was full of loons.

  His worn leather boots thudded to a halt at seeing his father barely a few feet away.

  The earl startled at glimpsing him.

  Flexing his hands, Nathaniel taunted the earl with his presence by drawing closer. One of them would eventually break. And it wasn’t going to be Nathaniel.

  A man who had been conversing with his father stared and quickly approached Nathaniel. “Sir?” The gentleman hesitated, glanced up and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if just realizing he stood a whole head shorter. He swept a snowy-white gloved hand toward the entrance of the ballroom behind them. “If you please.”

  What a prick. Who ever knew rudeness could be delivered with such austere refinement? Nathaniel widened his stance. “Are you telling me to leave?”

  The man eyed him. “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Well, I won’t. I’m a guest.”

  “A guest?” the man echoed. “Sir, you are clearly—”

  “I am clearly Lord Atwood. And our host is none other than my brother-in-law. So lick it.”

  The man blinked.

  Another gent quickly approached.

  And then another.

  Three aristocratic men now stared him down.

  No matter where he went, no matter which part of the world he was in, people always wanted to fight him. “I take it you boys enjoy pain, to be coming up to me this way?”

  Pale yellow skirts assembled indecently close to him. A familiar, delicate waft of lilies poked at his nose as a pretty female face inquisitively leaned in to look up at him, thick blond curls swaying against her gathered coif.

  He turned abruptly to the woman peering in on him and froze, clamping his mouth shut in disbelief.

  Arched brows and large hazel eyes that had mesmerized him all but a night ago, stared up at him in equal astonishment.

  It was Imogene. And by God, did she look incredible.

  Her pale throat dripped with emeralds and the delicate white lace neckline of her silk evening gown was low enough for him to see that provocative and decadent plunge between her powdered breasts. He remembered those. When she had been all wet. Damn. She made his imagination trot wild with images of taming her. On the floor. Against a wall. On a field. In a lake. It didn’t matter, so long as she was bound and at his mercy.

  Her smooth face faintly tinged with a hint of pink. She lowered her voice as if she were afraid the world might hear. “I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

  He removed his mud-stained gloves, feeling suddenly aware that they were far too dirty to be in the presence of such a beautiful woman. When they were off, he offered matter-of-factly, “I’m socializing with a few friends. And you?”

  She pulled in her chin and glanced toward the four men. She lowered her voice again. “They don’t look happy to see you.”

  “Welcome to my life. No one ever is. I’m used to it.” Shoving his gloves into his great coat, he heatedly perused her gown and the way it clung to her luscious figure. “You look incredible,” he confided. “It makes me wish we were alone again. Only this time, I’d personally see to it something actually happened.”

  Her eyes widened. She edged away and glanced toward several aristocratic women who leaned toward each other, whispering.

  He’d forgotten the rules these aristos played by. Men weren’t supposed to be honest in public.

  “Sir!” The same huffy brunette he’d briefly met at Weston’s house lunged between him and Imogene, wagging her peacock fan up at his face as if it were a stiletto. “You aren’t even appropriately dressed to be acknowledging her. Now leave before I have every man in this room carry you out and deposit you into the rubbish bin where you belong.”

  Knowing this stiff fluff was Weston’s wife, Nathaniel bit down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something he’d regret. He usually didn’t give a damn for what others thought or said. He’d been through far too much to care, but knowing Imogene was quietly watching and judging this and him made him want to put a fist through every wall in the room. She probably now saw what everyone else did: absolutely nothing.

  Nathaniel shoved his way through those who had gathered and stalked through blurring faces. If he took the championship and the money, he would be more than nothing. He would be his own man again. He would be—

  “Nathaniel!” a female voice suddenly called out, skirts bustling after him.

  He swung around in jarred astonishment. Imogene remembered his name.

  Gasping whispers of “Who is he?” frilled the stuffy room, edging through the music still playing.

  Imogene hurried through the crowds toward him, her pale yellow skirts a-swaying from side to side. She alighted before him, grabbed up a card and a pencil hanging by a velvet string around her gloved wrist and breathlessly announced, “The waltz is set to begin.” She glanced up, her cheeks flushed and her bright, hazel eyes genuine. “Shall I write your name in for it?”

  He couldn’t help but be savagely pleased, knowing she saw more than a patched coat and unbrushed hair. She saw him for what he was: a man.

  Knowing Lady Weston would be bustling her way through the crowds after her at any moment, he lifted a brow. “I take it you’re out to hang yourself this fine evening?”

  “Are you? Coming in here dressed like that?” She glanced around and said in a bargaining tone, “I can show you what clothes to wear and how to conduct yourself in public. For you clearly need advice. Have tea with me. As my dear mama used to say, anyone who can learn to hold a teacup properly can learn to do anything properly.”

  He snorted. “I’m not looking to be that popular.” Although he was rather impressed by her boldness to engage him before all of London, he knew he had to save her from her own stupidity. “Here is a bit of advice—I’m the sort of man who will not only ruin your reputation but your life.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say you would ruin my life.”

  Something was wrong with her. He almost tapped her on the forehead. “I’m trying to save your pretty ass from getting spanked.”

  Her brow creased. “You shouldn’t use words like that. Or tea is out of the question.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Unless tea involves you fully naked with your arms tied behind your back, I’m not interested.”

  She gasped. “No waltz for you, either.”

  “Good. It’s not like I ever learned how to dance. Now are we done with all these etiquette lessons? Or do you plan on teaching me how to play the harp, too?”

  She shook her head and stepped back and back. “You aren’t the same man I met two nights ago. He respected me. Whilst you clearly don’t.”

  His throat tightened, seeing the betrayal in her eyes. Why was he playing his defenses against this woman? And what was it about her that made him want to kneel every single time? “No one was watching us that night. Here, we have a full audience. I am trying to dissuade you from being seen with me. Now go.” He stepped back and turned away, trying to veer around a staring couple.

  Imogene jumped toward him and grabbed his arm the same way she had that night, which startled him into realizing just how much he wanted to be touched by her.

  He froze and glanced down at her. “What are you doing?”

  She angled him toward herself, then held the pencil against the blank space of her dancing card. “I misunderstood your intentions. For which I apologize. I am genuinely touched by your attempt to protect my reputation. But I don’t need protection, given I have no interest in taking a husband. That said…I would be more than happy to lead, seeing you don’t dance. Shall I write you in?”

  Every muscle in his body felt ablaze, fully aware of not only her but that everyone was watching them. “Why are you doing this?”

  She fingered her dance card, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Because something tells me you would do the same for me if you saw people banding around me and trying to push me out the door.” She glanced up. “Or wouldn�
��t you?”

  God. How he wanted to grab that beautiful face, lean down and tongue the breath out of her for what she just said. “For you, I would. Yes.”

  She half smiled. “I told you men and women could be friends.” She leaned in. “Now. Play the game I always do when there are too many people around and the panic sets in. They are but birds on the trees and their words are but whistles that matter only to the wind.”

  She couldn’t be real. Because her way of thinking certainly wasn’t. “Do we have to dodge their droppings, too?”

  She grinned, both cheeks dimpling. “I do it all the time.”

  He sighed, sensing that saying no to her would be like saying no to the moon and the stars. “You’ve already damned yourself, so we might as well finish this. Go ahead. Write me in for that waltz. Hopefully your brother won’t slap me with a duel for accepting.”

  “My brother is too much of a gentleman for that. Though he is not above yelling.” She sidled closer and adjusted her dance card, propping it against her gloved hand. “You never gave me your full name. What shall I write down?”

  “The name is Atwood. A-T-W-O-O-D with a Lord in front of it.”

  She glanced up and burst into laughter before clapping a hand over her mouth, looking more startled than he.

  It was obvious she was laughing at him. “What?”

  She lowered her voice. “You were being funny.”

  “No. I was giving you my name. Why is that funny?”

  “Your name? You mean you’re a peer of the realm?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “But I thought—” She stilled, arresting her merriment and glanced toward Lady Weston, who came to a rigid halt beside them after she had finally made it through the crowds.

  “Lady Imogene,” the woman said in a lethal, boarding-school tone. “You wouldn’t entertain Lord Seton or Lord Danford or any of the respectable men in the room who graced you with their presence tonight, and yet you dare entertain this—this—” She stopped trying to find a word. “We are going home. And you will explain your monstrous behavior to your brother. Is that understood?”

  Imogene bit her lip, then primly lowered her gaze back to her dance card and scribed his name in the empty space as if she were signing the United States Constitution. “I wrote you in for the waltz, Lord Atwood. Though I’m afraid it will involve quite a bit of physical contact. I hope you don’t mind.”

  A gruff laugh escaped him. He could learn to like this one. A lot. “I don’t mind physical contact. I’m a boxer.”

  Lady Weston narrowed her gaze and grabbed Imogene’s arm, hurrying them past.

  Nathaniel could tell by the way Imogene had winced the woman had grabbed her a bit too savagely.

  He sidestepped in front of Weston’s wife, bumping the woman hard with his own frame. “Let her go.”

  The woman’s startled dark eyes flicked up from his chest to his face, her face flushing.

  Gently taking Imogene’s arm, he drew her back toward himself, prying her free. “Don’t ever touch her like that again. Now step the hell away.”

  The woman scrambled back.

  “Atwood!” The Duke of Wentworth skidded in beside them, eyes wide and frantic. “I asked you to stay out of sight. This isn’t out of sight!”

  “Not to rile you, Your Grace,” Nathaniel casually explained, “but I owe this here lady a dance. Now excuse us.”

  Taking the soft warmth of Imogene’s gloved hand, he protectively led her toward the direction of the crowded dance floor. “You said you’d lead. It’s not common that I allow someone else to be in control, but in this case I’m holding you to that. Because I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.”

  Imogene glanced up at him. “I do believe my sister-in-law and His Grace are as speechless as I am.”

  “Just don’t make me look stupid. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Oh…well…first, we position ourselves. Stand right here.”

  He halted. “Here?”

  “Yes. Only turn to me. Full shoulders.”

  He did. Full shoulders.

  As she turned to face him, that delicate scent of lilies sensually teased his nostrils again, making him not only pause but breathe in. Everything about her made him want to breathe in. Deep.

  Lowering his gaze to hers, a rush of pride punched him knowing this woman wanted to dance with him. Before all of London and whilst his father watched. It was like touching honor wrapped with silk.

  Other couples hurried past them with ruffled looks and left the floor.

  It was amusing. All of this was, actually.

  Imogene daintily took his hands, arranging one on her corseted waist and gripping the other with one of hers, then sweeping their clutched hands out to the side and into the air.

  He tightened his hold on that delicate hand.

  Setting her free hand on his shoulder, she primly brought the heat of her body closer to his own. “There. Now wait for the music to commence.”

  Fully aware that her full skirts were brushing up against his boots, trousers and thighs, and that her breasts were tucked right there before him, he dug his fingers into the smooth, soft silk of her gown. It was like sex. With clothes on. He hissed out a breath. “Are we supposed to be this close?”

  Without meeting his gaze, she shyly offered, “Why else do you think I wrote you in for the waltz? If I am going to suffer a scandal, I might as well make it worth our time.”

  He crushed her fingers against his hand and refrained from leaning in and licking her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Careful. I’m beginning to think you like me in the clothes-off sort of way.”

  A flush overtook her smooth cheeks.

  He slowly grinned. “You blush so easily.”

  “I’m not blushing.”

  “You most certainly are.”

  The music commenced.

  “To the left,” she announced in a harried tone, whisking them both across the waxed floor. She set her chin and held a rigid stance. “Follow my boxed steps, then turn and do it again. Can you keep up?”

  “Watch me.” Though he missed a few steps and even skidded, somehow he managed not only to keep up, but ensure his boots didn’t rip her gown off. He was, after all, a boxer who understood footwork. One had not only to move fast, but learn fast. “We’re too close to make this look pretty. You do realize that, yes?”

  As they swept across the dance floor she eyed him and offered, “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

  “You’re letting me touch you. What is not to enjoy?”

  In between steps and turns, her hand tightened on his shoulder and hand, making him all the more aware of not only her touch, but just how much he wanted to rip her clothes off. It had been far too long since he had allowed himself to play this game. Far too long.

  After a turn and another, she asked, “Are you really a peer of the realm?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is it I never heard of you before and that you are parading as a boxer by the name of Coleman?”

  He avoided her gaze and focused on steps. “It’s a lot more involved than I care to admit.”

  “But you are, in fact, a boxer?”

  “Yes.”

  “An incredibly good one?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “One capable of winning the title of champion if given the chance?”

  “If I answer that, I may come across conceited.”

  She tightened her hold on his hand and his shoulder. “Henry mentioned that you are known for skipping out on investors. Is that true?”

  “I’m not one for commitment. No matter what it is.”

  “That seems to be the dilemma.” Her face betrayed a sudden seriousness as she seemed to think something through. “But you and I will resolve that.”

  He couldn’t help but smirk. “I prefer keeping things unresolved.”

  Her steps suddenly faltered. She swayed against him and staggered. “I…I must tak
e leave of the floor.” She leaned heavily into him, drawing him to a halt with both hands. “Before I faint.”

  Faint? Oh, Christ, no. Not that again. Jerking her tightly by the waist against his side to ensure she didn’t tip, he quickly escorted them off the floor, ignoring all of the blurring faces.

  He glanced around. There were no chairs. Nothing but walls and people standing in a crush. Hell. “Lean against the wall. Until it passes.” Ushering her to the nearest wall, he gently draped her against it. Removing her fan from her gloved wrist, he scrambled to open it. “I’ll ensure you get some air. Just breathe.” For some reason, the damn thing wouldn’t unlatch. He tugged on it harder.

  Her hand jumped out, stilling his hands.

  He glanced up.

  “Not like that,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to the fan. Her gloved fingers effortlessly unlatched the peg at the end, freeing the fan into unfolding. “There.”

  It was obvious he wasn’t used to dealing with female aristos and their little fans. Angling toward her, Nathaniel waved it at her flushed face and throat, trying to ignore the fact that half of London was watching him play servant. “Whatever you do, tea cake, don’t faint on me. Because I already look ridiculous enough fanning you.”

  She leaned back her head, momentarily closing her eyes, and smiled. “I doubt you’re worried about looking ridiculous,” she murmured. She paused and added, “I feel better. It passed.”

  Thank God. “I’m glad to hear it.” His fanning slowed with each wave as he found himself staring at that incredibly seductive pose she held against the wall. Her head was tilted far back, throat fully exposed, her blond curls grazing those flushed cheeks. It was like she was waiting to be stripped.

  He paused, realizing he had stopped fanning. “Did you need me to keep fanning?”

  She shook her head and reopened her eyes. “No. Thank you.” Leaning toward him, she took the fan. “I appreciate you tending to me.” She scanned a few passing individuals who were trying to listen in on their conversation. “Will you take tea with me this Thursday? At four. So we can talk in the privacy we deserve?”