Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  Nathaniel leaned against the top rail of the banister, bare muscled arms crossed over his broad chest.

  She almost choked.

  Since she’d last seen him, he’d removed all respectable clothing and was scandalously down to only trousers and black leather boots. Those trousers were also slung incredibly low on his narrow hips. So low, they showed the dip of his well-muscled lower abdomen that veered toward his…ehm.

  A small smile touched his lips as he observed her from above. “Enjoying the view?”

  Her heart skipped. “Given you are obviously done lifting weights, you ought to put a shirt on.”

  “Get used to it. This is what I will look like not only in the ring but in your bed at night.”

  Lovely. He would remind her of that.

  He lifted a dark brow. “Did you need me to oversee the trunks?”

  The thought that he’d been watching her verbally scold her trunks was rather embarrassing. She rubbed her still-burning palms into the sides of her skirts. “Yes, please. I have a horrible tendency to overpack.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” He unfolded his arms and descended the stairs, those piercing blue eyes never once leaving hers. “I’ll carry everything up to your room later.”

  “I’m assuming there are still no footmen?”

  He stopped on the last stair. “I’m afraid not. The housekeeper you hired apparently won’t have us fully staffed until next week.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I knew I should have hired a different housekeeper. Mrs. Langley came a little too cheap.”

  “We will more than manage, I assure you.”

  “We will have to.”

  He intently held her gaze and lingered. “How are you? Good?”

  A tingling heat unexpectedly rattled her body. Why did she feel as though he were suddenly trying to be…overly familiar?

  She lowered her gaze and fumbled to strip her gloves from her hands to keep herself occupied. “Very well, thank you. Tomorrow we officially commence your training sessions with Jackson. I’m rather excited to be part of this venture. It makes me feel useful.” She tightened her hold on her gloves, wondering if she should put them back on.

  Nathaniel jumped over the trunk that separated them and landed at her side with a thud.

  She almost jumped herself in startled astonishment.

  Holding her gaze, he reached down and tugged both gloves from her hands and tossed them toward the stairwell. “Talk to me. Not the gloves.”

  “Oh. I…” She nodded and was now very much aware of him and that bare and incredibly well-sculpted, muscled chest. Why did she want to keep looking at it and him? And why did he continue to silently linger?

  The pounding in her head matched the pounding of her heart, though she tried not to let on. “Is there something you wanted?”

  He pressed himself closer, his trouser-clad thighs indenting her full skirts if he wasn’t violating any key social rules. His hands skimmed her corseted waist. “Join me for supper. Before we retire for the night.”

  Imogene stood awkwardly frozen against the heat of those large hands which continued to penetrate the midsection of her stomacher. For some reason, retire didn’t sound like retire.

  His hands continued to skim her waist. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  She glanced up at him, her cheeks heating. “If you have to ask, you most likely are. A shirt would help.”

  “Now, now, be nice.” He edged back. “I will attempt to adhere to the conduct of a gentleman during supper. Though I can’t promise as to what my conduct will be afterward.” He extended a formal hand for her to take. “Is this how you aristos escort a lady to a table?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  He nudged it closer. “Take it.”

  She inwardly winced at the awkwardness between them and placed her bare hand into his bare hand, feeling more than her arm trembling.

  His large warmth curled possessively around hers and tightened. Tugging her around the trunks by the hand, he guided her down the empty corridor, past countless other rooms, until they approached a dimly lit room.

  Her eyes widened when they entered what appeared to be a dining area. The sweeping walls that had been painted a soft gold seemed to glow like the inside of a chalice and lit white candles scattered the entire length of the room.

  A white linen cloth covered a table that had been set for two, with polished silver, gleaming porcelain and crystal. Each set plate already had a more than generous amount of steaming roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. A decanter of red wine and two crystal glasses, which had already been filled, awaited in a celebratory manner.

  Although it was a simple meal, it was astoundingly lovely. And charming. As if he had gathered what few servants they had to have a meal made just for her.

  Releasing her hand, he strode toward one of the two chairs and pulled it out, his muscles shifting as he gestured toward it. Those blue eyes softly beckoned for her to take pleasure in the welcoming mood he had set.

  Knowing she had better sit before her legs folded, she hurried toward him, smoothed out the backside of her skirts and sat. “Thank you.”

  He shifted her chair closer to the set table. Though he had already finished positioning her chair, he continued to hold the back of it with both hands. “Our first meal together as business partners.”

  She set her chin and stared before herself, trying to pretend his presence didn’t wash over her completely. Even though it did. “Yes.”

  He drew away, rounding toward the other side of the table. He sat in the chair directly across from hers and, leaning forward, took hold of his filled wineglass and lifted it toward her in a salute. “To the championship and my patron, who is making everything possible.”

  Wanting to distract herself from those haunting eyes and that bare chest, she retrieved her own glass, lifted it in a return salute, then brought it straight to her lips. She sipped at the tangy wine and wondered how she was going to keep up the charade of not being nervous.

  “Whatever your needs may be,” he said in a smooth voice that dripped of some sort of innuendo, “I’ll see to it they are all met on my end. All you have to do is ask.”

  She set her wineglass next to her plate lest her sweaty hands cause it to slip. Trying not to be bested by a man who clearly knew more about what was going to happen to her than she did, she obliged, “I wouldn’t offer up such generosity. I might take off to France with your full quarter million and marry Henry off to a French woman. I hear they know how to love a man. Which he needs.”

  A low rumble of a laugh floated toward her. “I’ll be sure to keep you in view at all times and take everything I want from you now.”

  She wasn’t even going to ask what a man who came to dinner without a shirt wanted from a woman. Plucking up her napkin, she spread it neatly and daintily onto her lap. Taking up her fork and knife, she lowered her eyes to her plate and ate. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

  “Imogene.”

  She paused and finished chewing her food. She was beginning to wonder why she’d really been invited to dine with him. “Yes?”

  He shifted in his chair and leaned toward the table. “I met with Dr. Filbert whilst I was waiting on our license and terminated all of his services. The man’s only explanation as to why you needed to take your daily tonic was to ensure you didn’t lose your voice. In his medical opinion, he thinks it possible after all the lye you had been exposed to. It made no sense to me, Imogene. None. And considering you suffer from unexplained fainting spells, I think it time we get you off his filth. I’m beyond riled knowing your brother, a seemingly intelligent fellow, had sold himself into this. Why did neither of you connect your condition to the tonic you were taking?”

  Imogene’s startled gaze flew to his. Whilst she was anything but fond of Dr. Filbert’s quack juice, it had helped her survive the incident and had kept her in good health for years. “Is this why you and Henry aren’t particularly fond of each other at the moment?”

&nbs
p; He lowered his eyes, slid his long fingers around the base of his wineglass that sat on the table and swirled the red wine within. “Yes.” Nathaniel stilled his glass. “As a boxer, I know a few things about tonics and their effects. I’ve learned to stay away from them. You need to trust me in this.”

  Imogene returned her eyes to her plate, irked knowing Nathaniel and her brother were quibbling over something she should be making a decision on.

  She eyed him. “I am not at all pleased with you or my brother for mistreating each other based on something I should be deciding. I ask that you let me decide what will be done with Dr. Filbert.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “And what is your decision?”

  “You told me all but a breath ago. You don’t expect me to decide whilst chewing on my meal, do you?”

  He shifted in his chair in what appeared to be agitation. “You will make a decision tomorrow. In the morning. Before we leave for Jackson’s.”

  She blinked. “I will make a decision when I come to it. It may be tomorrow or it may be next year, but you will not treat me as my brother did. For you are not my brother. And lest you forget you are my husband only in name.”

  He shifted in his chair again, but otherwise said nothing.

  She returned to eating her meal in awkward silence. Why did she feel like she had just slapped him? She sensed he was trying to help. She had honestly never connected her medicine to her fainting spells. She had been drinking it for far too long to have ever made such a connection. But what he said was possible.

  She retrieved her wine, her gaze momentarily wandering across the table toward Nathaniel.

  He wasn’t even attempting to eat.

  His full plate sat untouched.

  With a half-empty wineglass still in hand, he leaned farther back against the chair, staring at her.

  Her pulse jolted, realizing he’d been staring at her the whole time. She looked away and instead of grabbing her wineglass, which would only further blur her senses, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Are you not hungry?”

  “No.” He lifted his glass to his full lips, still watching her from above its rim. After a lingering taste, he lowered the glass again. “Are you done eating? Because I want you to be. So finish.”

  She fisted the napkin in her lap in disbelief. Did he really think he could command her to eat at whatever pace pleased him? When she was paying for their meal?

  Swallowing the last of her food, she dragged the napkin from her lap and set it onto the table. “I will see you in the morning. I am retiring alone this evening. Good night.” Pushing back her chair, she stiffly rose and left. Gathering her skirts, she hurried out of the dining room and back down the corridor toward the main foyer. The sooner she got into her room and locked the door, the better.

  The jogging steps of Nathaniel behind her made her eyes widen. She skidded into the foyer, turning toward the stairs, ready to outrun him.

  “Imogene,” he called out. “For God’s sake, if you have something to say, fucking say it. We’re either partners in this or we’re not. Which is it?”

  She winced and stopped short of the staircase, where all of her trunks still sat. He was right. If they were going to survive these next four months and get him to be the best he could be to win that championship, they had to use words. Lots of them. And she cringed at the idea of all the stuttering ahead of her. Letting out a shaky breath, she turned and waited for him.

  Nathaniel slowed his jog and drew close, blocking the expanse of the hallway. “What is it? What did I do now?”

  “Commanding me about at the dinner table as to how fast I am to eat, when I am the one providing the meal, is humiliating.”

  He huffed. “Dealing with women isn’t really a forte of mine, all right? I usually only bed them. I don’t befriend them.”

  Imogene jerked her gaze up to his husky face. “Have you never had a female friend? Truly?”

  He shifted closer, his gaze wandering from her eyes down to her nose until they paused on her lips. “No. I’m not interested in that.”

  A knot rose in her throat and the air between them grew hot and unbearable. It was obvious what he wanted.

  And annoyingly, she wanted it, too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Where now are all my flattering dreams of joy?

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  IMOGENE’S BREATH HITCHED as she waited for him to lean in and kiss her.

  Instead, Nathaniel glanced away and appeared to be more interested in flexing his right hand.

  She blinked. Why was it when she wanted him to do something, he didn’t, and when she didn’t want him to do something, he did? Without thinking about the consequences, she quietly asked, “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

  His gaze snapped back to hers. “Do you want me to?”

  Her shoulders fell. “Maybe not.”

  He yanked her against himself with an aggressive tug of her hips, causing her to gasp, and crushed the velvety, hard feel of his naked torso against her. “Let me.” With the dip of his head, he captured her mouth, his hot, wet tongue overtaking hers.

  She almost fainted. And she knew it had nothing to do with her condition.

  He swung them toward the stairwell, causing her to choke against his mouth. Still engaging her mouth with the rapid rotation of his hot tongue, he leisurely stretched himself out onto the stairs, lowering her onto his body as he positioned her legs to straddle his thighs.

  It was heart-poundingly thrilling to lean over him and kiss him and touch him in the way she wanted.

  He sucked on her tongue, slowly pulling it deep into his mouth. Releasing his hold, he circled his tongue on the inside of her mouth while his large hands roamed down her skirts.

  Pressing his mouth harder against hers, he dug into the fabric of her gown with his fingers and he crushed her body even harder against his. The urgency within that tense, muscled body grew as he ground himself into her and rolled, ground and rolled.

  As one of his hands held the back of her head, dominating her by keeping her in place, his other hand shoved up her skirts and slid beneath the muslin fabric, smoothing up her naked thigh.

  She stiffened, but he only pressed his hand against her head harder, his tongue moving harder against hers. His other hand slipped between her thighs, which were ajar from straddling him. Her eyes popped open when his fingers slid between her wetness.

  She tore away from his mouth and tried to shove down her skirts. His free hand jumped around her waist, locking her in place against his thighs, while the other still rubbed her wetness, causing her to gasp against sensations that had no right to be there.

  He held her gaze, his chest heaving. “Trust me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Her cheeks flamed as his fingers, which were buried beneath her skirts, continued to flick and rub her, rippling stomach-twisting sensations up and down her entire body. She swayed and grabbed his shoulders hard, trying to steady herself against what he was doing.

  She held his penetrating gaze as she rode his hand right there with him draped beneath her on the stairs. She rode harder, torn between wanting the sensations to increase or altogether end.

  Curiosity and a mingled haze of everything she felt for him physically in that moment made her not only bold but stupid. She slid her hands down the smooth length of his hard chest, down, down and touched the rigid line pushing against the flap of his trousers right where his hand was savagely fingering her.

  He hissed out a breath and slipped a forefinger fully into her wetness.

  She froze from the violating aggression that pinched, but his thumb slid and rubbed, slid and rubbed against the nub that caused those incredible sensations, erasing the discomfort.

  His finger quickened.

  An unexpected torrent shook her body and she gasped against it as pleasure unlike anything she thought possible overtook her breath and her entire world. She collapsed against him.

  He slipped his hand
from beneath her skirt, his chest heaving, and dug his shaven chin into her hair.

  The rush of cool air drifted against her lips, she realized he had long ceased kissing, and for a few passing moments, she couldn’t even bring herself to open her eyes let alone move. All she could do was focus on their heavy breaths and how his large warm hands now firmly held on to her arms.

  “We finish upstairs,” he said in a low voice, slowly releasing her. “The way I want it.”

  She opened her eyes, shifted to sit up against his thighs and blinked down at him. “Finish? But I thought…” She thought they were done.

  Still laid out on the stairs, he stared up at her with a set jaw that told her he was far from done. “What just happened wasn’t even admission to ringside seats.”

  Her entire body blazed at the thought of her own hand going into his trousers. “You don’t expect me to…to put my hand into your trousers, do you?”

  He rolled his eyes and eased out from under her. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t force myself on women. But when you’re feeling particularly generous, let me know, will you?”

  Rising, he grabbed her waist and yanked her up off the stairs with a single turn. Without meeting her gaze, he adjusted his trousers against the rigid line of his erection still pressing against the flap. “We should settle your trunks into your room so your lady’s maid can organize all of this for you.”

  Stepping around her, he leaned over and grabbed both sides of the trunk. Heaving it up with one sweep, he straightened and made his way up the stairs.

  Imogene stared up after him as he disappeared to deliver it into her room. Lifting a trembling hand, she covered her still-swollen mouth, which burned from the heat of his lips. She could still feel the way his hips had ground and rolled against her and the way his fingers had penetrated her into oblivion.

  No wonder people got married.

  Nathaniel jogged back down the stairs toward her. “You left the table because of me. Did you want to finish your meal?”