Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  He stared, his blue eyes intently studying her face. “I usually know what a woman is going to say. Yet with you, I never do.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I’ve yet to decide. But I sure as hell know how I want to proceed.” He continued to hold her gaze. “Here are the terms. You get everything you want from me, including complete control over my boxing career for four months, under the simple proviso that you physically submit to me—and nobody else—whenever I want you to.”

  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)

  WITH 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

  IMOGENE 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.