Forever a Lord Read online

  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?”

  He stiffly stepped back. “I’ve clearly said too much.” He sounded agitated. “I should go.”

  He probably thought she was judging him. And she couldn’t have that. Not when he was about to change her life and Henry’s.

  She grabbed his biceps, yanking him back and held him in place. “No. Stay. We probably should get to know each other.”

  He stilled, the muscle beneath his clothing hardening beneath her fingers. “Know each other?” His chest rose and fell in deep takes as he intently held her gaze in the soft shadows. “You mean you want to take this upstairs, to bed?” A slow smile spread across his lips. “Did my talk of tying you up intrigue you?”

  She quickly retrieved her hand, fully aware of his pulsing warmth and gawked up at him. “Uh…no, that wasn’t what I was… I…I was merely…” She winced and tried not to panic lest it bring her stutter on. In truth, she was surprised it hadn’t reared its head yet, being in the vicinity of this daunting man. “Are you a boxer?”

  He paused. “I am. Yes.” He appeared incredibly surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”

  It was like meeting one of those shirtless men inside Mr. P. Egan’s book, which Henry kept in the study. The boxing book she had been reading ever since Henry had commenced looking for a pugilist for them to invest in. Her heart pounded knowing that gritty world of swinging fists, which was only permitted to men by men, was standing before her. “Are you any good at it?”

  He smirked. “I’m not one to brag.”

  She tightened his coat around her shoulders. “So you are good at it?”

  “As I said, I’m not one to brag. So don’t make me.”

  Imogene bit back a smile. She rather liked him. She felt like whatever he said, he meant. “Do you still have all of your teeth?”

  A cough of a laugh escaped him. “Yes. Though I have come close to losing them many a time.”

  “Ah.” She tried to come up with another question. Boxing. Something to do with boxing. “And do you…box often?” Oh, now, her brain was turning into wine jelly.

  “Not as often as I’d like. I give lessons over at Cardinal’s and have even taken a few matches since coming into London, but nothing worth my time. It barely pays anything. I’d need a patron for that, and though your brother has offered, I’m still not particularly fond of being owned.”

  “Owned? Oh, no, no. Henry isn’t like that. He would never—”

  “There is no need to defend him. ’Tis how boxing investments are conducted.”

  “Oh.” The particulars of the investment itself were something she and Henry had never fully discussed. “So…how would an investment be conducted if…well…my brother were to invest?” She didn’t want to scare him off by saying she was the investor.

  He hesitated. “You seem incredibly interested in boxing. For a woman.”

  “I am. But it has nothing to do with me being a woman.” Gad. That sounded moronic. “I just want to know. What do you mean by being owned?”

  He eyed her. “Your brother would basically control every aspect of my life both in and out of the boxing ring until the championship. Everything from who I associate with to who I fight and what I eat and how I train.”

  She blinked. She would get to control this man like that? Completely? How utterly fascinating. Henry never told her any of that. “I didn’t realize it was so involved.”

  “Everything involving the title for the Champion of England is. Aside from the prestige, we’re talking millions of pounds in bets placed throughout the land. Of which, of course, I would only see a fraction. But a fraction of millions is still staggering and beyond impressive.”

  “It most certainly is.” She dug her fingers into the palm of her hand. Still feeling awkward, knowing that she was actually talking to the man who was going to change everything, she randomly blurted, “You have a most unusual accent. British, yet not. Were you born in London?”

  “No. I was born and raised in Surrey.”

  “Surrey. So where are you from now?”

  “New York.”

  “America? How exciting. Is it nice there?”

  “When you close your eyes.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you cared for it.”

  “It was a place to live. Nothing more.”

  “I see. And do you plan on going back?”

  “Does it sound like I plan on going back?”

  Her brows came together. This man certainly didn’t elaborate much. She asked, he answered. That was all. It was as if he was a wall tolerating their conversation. He was clearly bored. Not that she blamed him. Everything about her life was as mundane as staring at her medicine. Her investment scheme with Henry was the only exciting thing to have ever happened to her. Which was pathetic.

  She stripped his great coat from her shoulders and held it out. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

  “You aren’t keeping me.” He took the coat and shrugged himself into it, adjusting it around his large frame. “I always have time to entertain a beautiful woman.”

  An odd giddiness poked at her knowing he thought she was beautiful. Her. She pressed her fingers nervously into her thighs, shifting the wet material of her robe. Maybe she should say something more. “Fortunately it stopped raining. So your walk home ought to be pleasant.”

  “Is that your way of telling me to go?”

  “No. I…I’m trying to make conversation.”

  “Are you?” Amusement tinged his voice. “Might I point out, you’re not very good at it.”

  She cringed and shifted against the wall. “I know.”

  He shifted closer, the heat of his body drawing unnervingly close. “How old are you?”

  She pressed herself harder against the wall, until she felt the plaster beneath the silk embroidered paper. “Old enough. Why?”

  One hand and then another pressed against the wall beside her head, caging her in with his muscled frame. “Old enough for what?”

  Her breathing shallowed. “For anything.”

  Another slow smile teased his lips. “If I tied your hands behind your back or above your head, would you be amenable to it?”

  A strange fluttering overtook her stomach as he hovered above her in dominating silence. “Am I supposed to answer that?”

  He cocked his head, still watching her. “Let me give you some advice based
on what I’m seeing here. Never let a man you don’t know this close to you again. There are a lot of assholes that prey on women like you. Consider yourself fortunate I’m not one of them.”

  Assholes? She blinked.

  His voice grew husky. “Are you warm yet? I can take off my coat again. In fact, I can take off whatever you want me to. All you have to do is ask.”

  She felt the foyer sway and locked her knees together to keep herself from sliding down the wall. Something about the way he had said it made her want to drape herself against him.

  His right hand left the wall and trailed to her shoulder. He gently curved his palm in and brushed past her throat, making her suck in a sharp breath.

  Rough padded fingers nudged her face up toward the fuzzy outline of his own face. “You’re very pretty. Do you know that?”

  Why did she sense this man was going to change more than her finances? She swallowed, feeling his lips hovering above hers. Should she let him kiss her? It wouldn’t be a sin, would it?

  The heat of his breath tickled her mouth.

  She grew faint. Very, very faint.

  He released her and pushed away from the wall. “I have to go.” Turning, he stalked toward the entrance, his boots thudding against the marble with what appeared to be a determination to not only leave but never be seen again.

  A long breath escaped her. He was leaving? After all of that talk of him doing whatever she asked and his strange quest to bind her hands? What happened? Did she suddenly cease being pretty?

  Stumbling away from the wall, she glanced up at the stairwell, thankful it was empty, and hurried after him. “Mr. Coleman?” she whispered so no one would hear.

  His large frame paused, still holding the entrance door open as he kept his back to her. “Coleman is my boxing name. It’s not my real name.”

  “Oh. I beg your pardon. What is your real name?”

  “Just call me Nathaniel. Now what do you want?”

  Imogene brought her hands together in an effort to remain calm. Unlike all the blurred aristocratic faces she’d met this past week in countless ballrooms that had sent her into a cringing, stuttering panic, he had brought everything into focus and made her realize what had been missing all her life: a genuine strength to be more than her illness. “You didn’t say goodbye.”