Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  Yardley jabbed a thumb toward Imogene’s top hat. “And what if someone knocks off your top hat and exposes all that hair?”

  “Then I have all of you to protect me from whatever chaos will ensue.” Imogene adjusted the heavy top hat on her head, hiding her knotted hair under it, and smoothed her high collar, making sure it wasn’t crooked. “At worst, we get booted and the ton talks about it for years.”

  The duke shifted in the seat with a grunt. “I’m surrounded by rebels. First Georgia, now you.”

  The horses whinnied as the carriage came to a complete halt well outside the sprawling field lit with countless torches. In the distance, an illuminated elevated wooden stage was roped off with posts.

  Nathaniel stood against the corner of one of those posts as several men gathered on each side of the stage.

  The ring.

  Just outside the carriage window loomed endless pushing crowds of men heading toward that elevated stage.

  Imogene’s pulse hitched as she leaned toward the window. “That there is a lot of men.”

  Henry pulled the cloak around himself. “Stay at our side at all times. At worst, you have my walking stick. Use it.” Leaning toward her, her brother chided, “And if you so much as start sauntering about the field like a woman, you’re on your own.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I won’t saunter. I promise.”

  The carriage shook, announcing all of the footmen were stepping down. Imogene drew in a deep breath and pushed it back out. Lifting her chin to keep the starched tips of her high collar from pinching her skin, she gripped the head of the walking stick tightly. This was it.

  The carriage door swung open and the driver swept out a hand for them to step out toward the pavement dimly lit by surrounding lampposts.

  One by one, the duke, Yardley and Henry stooped to keep their top hats from hitting the narrow doorway as they stepped out of the carriage.

  Imogene stood and was about to ask her brother to assist her down, when she realized that tonight, she wasn’t restrained by the rules of a woman. Or to a corset for that matter. A very strange yet liberating feeling. Even if she was being choked by a collar and cravat.

  Bowing her head slightly, to keep her top hat from being knocked off, she hopped down onto the gravel walk, omitting the last step the way her brother always did. She straightened and consciously widened her legs in case hopping down like a man wasn’t convincing enough.

  Henry, Yardley and the duke wordlessly squared around her, fencing her in with their bodies, and together they made their way in through the crowds.

  The rumbling noise of endless conversations drifting into the night air infused her with a sense of pride, knowing she and Nathaniel had made it to the championship.

  The duke, Yardley and Henry eventually paused from their moving stride to place their tickets into a bucket.

  Noting that the young ticket collector was staring at her as he held out the bucket, she offered a formal nod as men often did to each other.

  The man blinked at her in the hazy, yellow light of the torches filtering toward them. It was as if he was trying to decipher what it was about her that didn’t sit well with him. He uncertainly gave a curt nod and swung the bucket toward another group of men.

  Henry pointed toward the elevated stage. “That way. There is an area beside the stage reserved for us. And be sure you don’t let Atwood see your face until after the fight.”

  She wasn’t about to argue with Henry on that. Nathaniel most likely would stop the championship altogether if he knew she had muscled her way into seeing the fight.

  Walking through the pushing crowds, the strong, tangy smell of endless cigars permeated the air.

  “Bets!” someone called out. “Is anyone making bets? Here, here! Place any and all! Last call! Last call!”

  Her eyes darted over to a balding man dressed in a well-tailored black buttoned coat as he held up his hand toward others coming in.

  Sensing various men were watching her from under bushy brows, Imogene inwardly cringed and stayed as close to her band of protectors as she could.

  When they all finally made it toward the stage, she bit back her relief, knowing she was officially in. The duke, Yardley and Henry fenced her in again with their frames, keeping anyone from pushing in too close.

  Shouts resounded through the fields.

  Eventually, the milling of the crowds settled as everyone waited for the fight to begin.

  She could see Nathaniel stripping his linen shirt and tossing it toward his assigned second. From between Henry’s and Yardley’s shoulders, where she was tucked, she watched her husband roll his head from side to side and bounce in muscle preparation.

  Her heart thundered in her ears, realizing at that moment that he was hers. Hers. Always.

  On the side of the stage a very large, well-muscled man with piercing black eyes and thick side whiskers stood solidly unmoving as he stared Nathaniel down with a calm that exuded lethality. It was Benjamin Enfield. And much like Nathaniel, the man hadn’t lost a single fight. According to her brother, the man was also known for breaking jaws. Every single jaw the man had ever hit had been fractured from the skull. And though most of the men had survived said broken jaws, one hadn’t.

  She could feel the skin beneath her collar beading with sweat. Her hold tightened on the cane she held.

  The umpire eventually pointed to the visibly chalked square in the middle of the wooden stage that was illuminated by the nearby torches impaled into the ground. Still pointing, the umpire yelled out, “Take your place on the chalk, gentlemen! The bout for the title is about to begin!”

  Cheers roared, pulsing against the night air.

  Nathaniel casually strode toward his side of the chalked square and snapped up both fists, the muscles on his chest and broad back tensing.

  Enfield did the same, still staring Nathaniel down.

  This was it. She lowered the cane to her side and felt a numbing flutter overtake her, knowing that no matter what happened she was here to support Nathaniel. He had come this far and had been through so much, he deserved this win and more. And above all, she wanted him safe.

  Shouts amongst the masses grew steadily louder. Cheers and laughter rumbled out every now and then.

  Tucking herself closer against the side of her brother’s arm, she watched the umpire’s arm swing down between both men and heard him boom, “Set to!”

  Enfield jumped forward with unprecedented speed and smashed a hit against the side of Nathaniel’s head.

  Imogene winced as Nathaniel also jumped in and swung out a quick hook, viciously hitting Enfield’s exposed side.

  Imogene flinched as the men brutalized each other over and over, punching flesh and skull and anything within reach. Blood now sprayed and it took a moment for Imogene to realize it was Nathaniel’s. His nose had officially been christened by the blows. Trails of glistening red liquid beaded across his sweat-sleeked skin as he hammered out more swings that made his opponent stagger.

  The surrounding shouts seemed to blur and all that remained was the pulse of her heart and the pulse of each movement Nathaniel made.

  Rounds were called out and new ones commenced as both Nathaniel and Enfield took falls on the stage, bringing rounds to an end over and over again. An hour later, she was beginning to see that not only Enfield was exhausted—Nathaniel was, as well. Nathaniel staggered about the stage, and his features, though taut and determined, were bloodied, swollen and looked more and more dazed.

  Tears stung her eyes as she sensed he was having trouble standing. She inwardly chanted that he remain upright.

  Nathaniel, whose lacerated features had been disfigured by the unrelenting blows of what was now thirty rounds, attempted to stagger up off his knees, bloodstained trousers barely clinging to narrow hips. Another bare-knuckled fist bounced off his sweat-soaked head as more blood splattered from his nose and mouth. Nathaniel collapsed onto the wood boards and stilled.

  The umpire counted o
ut.

  Nathaniel’s second jogged out and shook him. Nathaniel didn’t move.

  A silent scream seized her as she shoved against her brother. “Dearest God!” she choked out, trying to move past his solid frame. “Henry, let me pass. I must go to him! I must!”

  Henry, Yardley and the duke each grabbed her and held her firmly in place to keep her from going to the stage.

  “Quiet,” Henry ordered down at her. “He will rise. You needn’t worry in that. He always uses every second of a fall to rest.”

  A sob escaped her as the umpire counted out the last fifteen seconds. She stared past tears, praying and hoping. To her astonishment, Nathaniel suddenly rolled onto his side and shoved himself up onto booted feet. He staggered back to the chalked line as the last two seconds were counted.

  Her lips parted as she glanced up at her brother.

  Henry grinned, leaned in and drawled, “I told you. The man is fighting for my right to a divorce and a quarter of a million. Forget about you. He won’t let me down.”

  She shoved her brother in exasperation and fixed her gaze back on the stage where Enfield and Nathaniel were already back to thudding fists into each other’s flesh.

  It was relentless.

  They both were.

  It was as if they were equally matched.

  What if—

  Nathaniel and Enfield suddenly thwacked each other in the head at the same time. Both reeled back in unison and instantly collapsed onto the wooden stage.

  She gaped.

  Neither moved.

  Both had knocked each other out.

  Stunned silence pierced the night air as the umpire hesitated. “Both men down! Unprecedented! They have thirty seconds to rise and stand at the chalked line!” The umpire snapped up a hand and dutifully commenced counting out, “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven!”

  What now? Imogene frantically grabbed Henry’s arm and shook it, trying to understand what was happening. “What happens now?” she rasped. “If they are both out, what happens?”

  Henry stared out at the stage in what appeared to be complete disbelief. “I have never seen a double hit like that. By God, it could damn well be a draw. The very first in the title’s history.”

  She shook his arm again. “A draw? And what does that mean?”

  “They would have to meet and fight again.”

  Her gaze darted back to the stage, dread seizing her. She didn’t want Nathaniel going up against Enfield again. It would only double his chances of getting hurt. And he was hurt enough.

  She leaned against her brother and focused on Nathaniel’s body, which still lay on the stage opposite Enfield’s. “Get up,” she whispered, placing a hand against her belly buried beneath her coat. “This is yours, Nathaniel. Get up. End this. Do it for Auggie. Do it for your mother. Do it for our babe. Do it for everything you ever wanted to fight for. Just do it.”

  Men roared, drowning out her words.

  As if hearing her, Nathaniel suddenly staggered to sit up, calling out to his second. His second darted forward and helped him rise, guiding him to the chalked line as the rules allowed. Nathaniel waved the man away and slowly held up his blood-slathered hands and waited, swaying slightly.

  Enfield’s own second desperately tried to do the same, only Enfield couldn’t even sit up.

  “Thirty!” the umpire boomed as he pointed a finger at Nathaniel. “And this ends this incredible fight! I proclaim Atwood to be winner of the title of Champion of England! May all of England bless this here man for representing our nation so well!”

  Nathaniel dropped his hands to his sides and closed his eyes.

  Imogene screamed in disbelief as the endless cheers and shouts of a field full of men drummed against her head and soul. He did it! He did it!

  Henry whipped toward her, eyes wide, and grabbed her, jumping up and down as if he were a rabbit on fire. “Gene!” he roared, still jumping up and down. “Jesus Christ, he—” Henry spun away and punched the air around him as if he had taken the title himself. “Take that, Banbury! You and Mary are going down! I’m taking that money and— Yes!”

  It was obvious London was going to be swept by scandal. A choked laugh escaped her as the duke and Yardley joined in on punching the air as if that was the only way men knew how to celebrate.

  Biting back a grin, she wedged herself between her brother and Yardley and announced, “Whilst you all punch the air, I’m going to congratulate my man.”

  Henry froze and grabbed her. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. You’re going home. Do you have any idea the scandal this would bring if anyone knew a woman had come to a fight? And dressed as you are!”

  She pointed up at him with the reprimanding head of her cane. “I’m not the one getting a divorce. That is going to create a scandal. Not me coming to a fight. Now excuse me.” Darting past, she pushed her way through toward the stairs leading to the stage and scrambled up past the ropes toward Nathaniel, thankful her belly wasn’t large enough for anyone to notice.

  A large bucket of water was poured over Nathaniel by his second, drenching his black hair and sloughing blood off his face and bare chest. Nathaniel let out a laugh and took to shaking the hands of men now surrounding him.

  “Ey!” a man yelled, popping out both arms and stepping in front of her. “Where do you think you’re going? This stage is reserved for chroniclers, the opponents and the committee, sir.”

  Sir? How nice that she looked that convincing. “I’m actually here to see my husband. Lord Atwood. I’m his wife and his investor. And therefore part of the committee.”

  The man gaped, stepping back.

  Stripping off her top hat, which released her bundled hair and sent it cascading down and onto her shoulders, she flung it toward Nathaniel to get his attention. “Nathaniel!”

  Nathaniel paused in between handshakes from the men that surrounded him and stared, his wet, swollen features appearing about as stunned as swollen features could be. “Imogene?” he yelled out, shoving his way frantically through the men toward her. He scanned her appearance as he shoved his way closer. “What are you doing here? And what the devil are you wearing?”

  She grinned and rushed toward him. “I couldn’t miss it. You were amazing!”

  Nathaniel seized her by the arms and scanned her again, shaking her. “Jesus. You shouldn’t be here. Not in your condition.”

  Still grinning, she grabbed his waist, to ensure she didn’t touch anything that might hurt, and shook him in turn. “You, my lord, just took the title for the Champion of England whilst your wife proudly watched. What now? Are you taking on those bulls in Spain like you promised me we would?”

  Nathaniel let out a riled laugh. “Hell, we buy all of Spain! Imogene! We did it!” Grabbing her face, he leaned in and kissed her lips soundly. Then winced. “We kiss later,” he rasped down at her. “Once I have regained my ability to.”

  “Regain it fast, my lord,” she teased. “Patience is supposedly a virtue, but I don’t think I have it.”

  He searched her eyes, still cradling her face and whispered, “I can’t believe you are actually here. I can’t believe you are actually standing here with me. Breathing in this moment with me.”

  She smiled and whispered back, “Know that I am here to breathe in every moment with you, Nathaniel.”

  He searched her face. “Forever and always?”

  She leaned up and gently kissed his chin. “Forever and always.”

  EPILOGUE

  Few, if any, can boast of such patronage as our hero—who, if reports speak true, may now smile.

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  Ten years later

  Christmas evening at the Wentworth House

  “AGAIN! Show us again!” they all piped in resounding unison, bobbing up and down whilst sending short trousers and above-ankle skirts and little polished boots and slippers shuffling and swaying within the large receiving room.

  Those a little less able to focus o
n the excitement merely crawled around said trousers, skirts and boots in the opposite direction, babbling their way toward the candlelit Christmas tree where scattered, ransacked boxes, dolls, wooden horses, balls, books and other countless toys layered the floor.

  Nathaniel lifted a debonair dark brow toward the large group of young spectators. “Dare I?” he challenged.

  “Yes, yes! Again, again! Again!” A riled group of nineteen children—four of which were Imogene’s and Nathaniel’s, three of which were Henry’s and his French wife Orphée’s, five of which were Robinson’s and Georgia’s, and seven of which were Matthew’s and Bernadette’s—herded past crawling tots and skidded toward the evergreen-draped hearth.

  Nathaniel remained steadfast before the hearth on one trouser-clad knee theatrically demonstrating how he had single-handedly won the title of Champion of England ten years earlier.

  With both hands behind his back.

  And one eye closed.

  Imogene tsked and called out from where she lingered beside Georgia, Bernadette and Orphée, “Years are fading that memory of yours fast, Nathaniel dear. Do you want me to take over and tell them how it really happened?”

  “You weren’t there, tea cake!” he called back with a quirk of his mouth.

  “Wasn’t I?” Imogene called back.

  Nathaniel smirked and angled himself toward his captive audience. “Can’t a man glory in what little remains of his fighting years?”

  She tsked again. “Once a boxer, always a boxer. He may have retired from putting up those fists but he didn’t retire from thinking about it.”

  Georgia leaned toward Imogene. “At least yours remembers how you two first met.” Georgia puckered her lips and thumbed toward Yardley, who sat cross-legged on the floor with his youngest in his lap. “He remembers everything but that.”

  Imogene burst into laughter. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain then, should I?”