Forever a Lord. Delilah Marvelle
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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