Forever a Lord

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.