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Forever a Lord
Lady Imogene Norwood
Lady Imogene Norwood lives a sheltered life of quiet respectability and routine…until she meets the wild and broken Lord Atwood. He is wholly unexpected among London’s elite, and the very shy English rose suddenly realizes that a little chaos might just be what her heart desires.
Lord Nathaniel James Atwood
Lord Nathaniel James Atwood doesn’t believe true love exists. Since scandal tore him away from his family at an early age, he has spent his life fighting for what he wants. That attitude has made him a rising star in bare-knuckle boxing, and now leads him back to London to reclaim the life that was stolen from him. But upon meeting the innocent Imogene, his beliefs are trounced…as guarding his heart against her proves to be the fight of his life.
Praise for the novels of
“Marvelle seamlessly weaves two distinct threads into a sizzling yet tender romance…satisfying and worthy of a cheer.”
—Publishers Weekly on Forever a Lady
“Marvelle adeptly explores the best and worst of social class divides in this unforgettable story.”
—Booklist on Forever and a Day (starred review)
“Marvelle not only crafts highly sensual novels, her innovative ideas and plot twists invigorate the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Not only is it intriguing and mysterious, it’s highly addictive.”
—Fresh Fiction on Forever Mine
“Showcases Marvelle’s ability to heat up the pages while creating a tender love story that touches the heart.”
—RT Book Reviews on Once Upon a Scandal
“Marvelle’s story of Radcliff coming to know himself, and Justine’s faith in him, is a quintessential romance.”
—Booklist on Prelude to a Scandal
Forever a Lord
Delilah Marvelle
Dear Reader,
We all carry secrets, be they small or large, and we all carry them for very different reasons. We do it to protect ourselves and/or others. Regardless, secrets aren’t meant to be kept forever. They are meant to be shared with someone we can genuinely trust, so that the burden of the shame we feel by holding on to our secrets can be taken away from our souls.
In Forever a Lord, welcome to the world of what happens when a secret goes too far and the burden leaches its way into everything. Here you will meet a bare-knuckle boxer who is on the path of learning that only one thing can save his burdened soul: the genuine love of a good woman. Imogene is my version of what the hero could never have imagined. Though Imogene has seen very little of the real world due to her overprotective brother and her illness, it doesn’t make her any less viable. In fact, it enables her to see our hero in a way few can. Our hero, in turn, who never thought himself capable of love, discovers that he is capable of something even better: true love.
I believe each of us has a soul mate waiting in the most unexpected of places and it is up to us to know when to cradle that one person who is meant to carry us through life with unwavering love. I hope you enjoy reading about what happens when two very different souls meet and discover that their differences are what saves them both.
Much love,
Delilah Marvelle
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my husband and children, who continue to support me through my writing career at every turn. I love you all.
Thank you to my marvelous editor, Emily Ohanjanians. Your incredible feedback pushes me to see beyond my own nose. And boy, do I ever need it. Thank you to Harlequin HQN for continuing to have faith that I have stories worth telling and selling. Thank you to my bow-worthy agent, Donald Maass, who nudged me away from being too vanilla. Heaven forbid!
And last but certainly not least, thank you to Maire Claremont, who has cheered me on through every sentence and every page. I adore you. Always.
To Jessa Slade, my incredible friend and critique partner, who asked one simple “what if” that not only blew my mind but made this story possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
PROLOGUE
The cries of “Foul! Foul!” now resounded.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
27th of September, 1800
Somewhere in New York City
A LARGE, WARM hand pressed itself against the closed lids of Nathaniel’s eyes, drawing him out of a deep sleep. The lingering, tangy sweetness of a cigar clung to his nostrils as the linen sleeve of a male shirt brushed his cheek.
It was him. Nathaniel didn’t dare move.
The hand slowly drew away. “Are you awake?” someone whispered in a heavy accent from beside him on the bed.
Nathaniel swallowed and opened his eyes, candlelight fingering its way through the shadows of the dank cellar. He couldn’t breathe. Nausea seized him. “I want to go home,” Nathaniel choked out, rocking against the ropes binding his hands to his waist. He didn’t care that he sounded pathetic or scared anymore. Being ten, he had every right to be pathetic and scared, didn’t he?
The golden glow of a lone candle revealed a young man with sun-tinted hair sitting on the narrow bed beside him. It was the same man who had lingered outside his family’s window all those nights in the shadows.
Amber eyes met Nathaniel’s for a somber moment. The man held up a wooden soldier whose military uniform had been painted red. He angled it toward Nathaniel. “For you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“If I untie you, and give this to you, do you promise not to hit me? Do you promise to be good?”
Nathaniel fisted his hands and tried to swing his arms up at that face, but his movement was cut short and burned against the tight ropes that bound each arm against his waist. “Why are you doing this?” he choked out.
“You are his son. Are you not?”
Tears blinded Nathaniel, realizing the man wasn’t about to let him go. “Perhaps my father misunderstood. Send him another missive. Please.”
The man lowered his gaze to the wooden soldier he held. “He understood. He chose to ignore it.”
A sob escaped Nathaniel. “No. He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t!”
“We think we know someone until they betray us. That is…how do you English say?…the lesson.”
Nathaniel shook his head and rasped, “Send a missive to my sister. Augustine. She…she will come for me. I know she will. Or my mother. Ask them for whatever you want and they will ensure you get it. I know they will!”
“No.” The man fingered the wooden soldier but didn’t meet his gaze. “To involve anyone but your father would only see us all hanged.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
Nathaniel swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?”
The man’s mouth quirked. “I am a good many things, but I am not a murderer, little friend. In Venezia, even when we are angry, we do things with…honor. Nothing like you British.”
Nathaniel swallowed again. What had his father done to this man? He dared not fathom.
Holding out the wooden soldier, the man propped it on Nathaniel’s chest. “I bought him for you.”
Nathaniel tilted his body just enough to get that soldier off his chest. It thudded onto the mattress between them. “I prefer to go home to my sister and my mother. My father may not love me, but I know they do. They will want me back. I know they will.”
“They are no longer your family. I am.” Hovering, the man drew in close. So close, Nathaniel could make out the stubble on that youthful face, and the glint of a ruby pin tucked into that meticulously knotted cravat. Sharp, amber eyes intently searched Nathaniel’s face as if deciding on something.
Nathaniel pressed himself hard against the linens, digging his entire body into the mattress. Though the man hadn’t touched him or hurt him in any way, except to bind him with ropes after Nathaniel repeatedly swung at him, something chanted that, if provoked, this Venetian was capable of more.
The stinging smell of cognac mingling with cigars penetrated Nathaniel’s nostrils as the man breathed out, “I have many books in English. What would you like to read?”
Nathaniel stared up at him, inwardly quaking. It was like the man was trying to befriend him. “I’m not telling you anything.”
The man tapped Nathaniel hard on the forehead with a scarred finger, then leaned back and rose to his full height of almost six feet. He bent his head to prevent hitting the low timbered ceiling. “Food will be delivered in the morning. Eat.”
Head still bent, the man veered out the narrow door with heavy steps that eerily echoed in the small space. The door slammed shut and a loud clink of the key being turned in the rusty lock broke through the silence, signaling Nathaniel had been sentenced to solitude again for not cooperating with the man’s request they be friends.
Nathaniel choked out an anguished sob that burned his throat. He tried to sit up, to use his body or his head to move, but couldn’t budge in any particular direction. He sobbed again, forced to stare at those dank, shadowed walls that felt inhabited by evil entities about to reach out clawed hands and strangle him.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe knowing there wasn’t even a window in the small cellar to tell him the hour. He glanced frantically toward the lone candle set on the small side table set against the wall. It flickered hauntingly, the dripping wax well below its stub.
“Let me fall asleep first,” he whispered to it, not wanting to be left alone in the darkness.
The candle wavered. It then stilled and flicked into a mere glowing dot as the flame dissipated into a stream of curling smoke, leaving him in pulsing darkness and silence.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wailing helplessly until he felt like his body was swaying on a vast ocean set to drown him. His sobs and the darkness eventually lulled not only his body but his mind.
No one was coming for him.
Not his father.
Not his mother.
Not his sister.
No one.
CHAPTER ONE
To those, Sir…who would not mind Pugilism,
if Boxing was not so shockingly vulgar—the
following work can have no interest whatever.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
New York City—Gardner’s wharf
13th of June 1830, afternoon
OVER THE COURSE of a rough life filled to the brim with gambling, drinking, swearing and boxing, Edward Coleman had taken residence in eleven different parts of the city in an effort to avoid three things: the creditors, his wife and his mother-in-law, who were all determined to bleed him dry.
Not having heard from any of them in too many years to count made him wonder if perhaps he’d mastered the art of the moonlight flit a bit more than he’d wanted. But then again, fate had never liked him all that much. He didn’t even know why he was astounded at glimpsing his mother-in-law pushing through the dust-ridden male masses just beyond the milling fence at the match.
The woman had aged considerably since he’d last seen her, but that bundled coif and pert little nose remained the same. A gaggle of young men in grey wool caps, coats and trousers, whom he knew to be Jane’s brothers—and my, how they’d grown—strategically wove through the packed boxing crowd behind her.
Mrs. Walsh had only ever sought him out when she needed one of two things: money or money. The United States government could make use of a woman like that.
Coleman swung back toward the fence. “We should go.”
His friend, Matthew Joseph Milton, leaned toward him. “Go?” Those dark brows rose a fraction, causing the worn, leather patch over his left eye to shift. “What about your fight? You’re up next.”
“I know.” Coleman knotted his shoulder-length hair back with the twine he’d yanked off his wrist. “But something came up. As such, I can’t stay.”
“Something came up? Whilst we were standing here?”
“Yes and yes.”
Matthew lowered his stubbled chin. “I may have one eye, but that doesn’t make me stupid. What is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, I—” Blood sprayed from the ring past the fence, covering the front of the only great coat he owned. Coleman hissed out an agitated breath and scanned what remained of the fight. “Amateurs. They can’t even keep the blood within the boundaries of the fence anymore.”
Matthew snorted. “You never do.” Still watching the fight, Matthew froze. “That bastard is going down with my dime!” Matthew hooked a rigid right fist. “Feck!”
“I told you not to bet on him.”
The well-muscled youth, whose lacerated features had been disfigured by the unrelenting blows of eighteen 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 that nose and mouth toward the crowd. The youth collapsed onto the wood boards laid out on the flattened sun-burned grass.
Several men groaned in disappointment, hitting the fence as the youth was dragged off to the side.
Coleman glanced back again, gauging how much time he had. Mrs. Walsh was still pushing through the crowd and didn’t appear to have noticed him. Yet.
He propped up the collar on his great coat to better hide his face and tossed out at Matthew, “I’ll see you tomorrow. If Stanley comes looking for me, tell him I broke my hand.”
“Broke your—” Matthew caught his arm. “Coleman. We need money. Or we’re back to robbing shipments at the docks for the next two weeks. Hell, I know our troop is called the Forty Thieves, but do we really have to live up to our name?”
Coleman unhooked his arm from that hold. “If I stay, we’ll lose whatever I take from my fight.”
“What do you mean? To who?”
A rolled newspaper bounced off the back of Coleman’s head. “Thought you’d up and disappear on me, did you?” a woman belted out from behind.
Coleman didn’t even bother shielding his head. He deserved it for having ever married Jane. “To her,” he told Matthew.
Matthew swung toward the aggressor and shoved the rolled newspaper back and away. “Where is your sense of refinement, woman? A paper is meant to be read. Not mangled on the heads of others. Now put it away.”
Coleman grudgingly turned and eyed all nine Walsh boys gathered at varying heights behind their elderly mother. Their wool caps were adjusted in every possible direction but the one they were designed for.
Coleman hesitated. Each wore a black band on the arm of their wool coats. His gaze jumped to his mother-in-law, whose plain gown had been stitched of bombazine.
Someone had died. And he knew full well Mrs. Walsh had no living husband or relatives.
His pulse drummed. “Mrs. Walsh. Jane didn’t…?”
Tears glazed those dark eyes. “Aye. She did.” Drawing thin lips together, she set her aging chin. “Poured too much laudanum into her whiskey barely a week ago. Never woke up. I wasn’t there when it happened, but that’s what the coroner is sayin’. She was with a—” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “She was with a friend when it happened.”
Meaning a man. The very last of several hundred, no doubt. Not that Coleman had been any more loyal. God bless poor Jane. She had her men and he had his women and that was why it had fallen apart. Neither of them were capable of monogamy.
Coleman shifted his jaw and looked away, knowing he should have felt something in that moment. Anything. Remorse. Sadness. Bitterness. But the truth was, he knew it was going to end like this. He had done everything to keep Jane from mixing laudanum into her whiskey. But there were some things a man couldn’t box.
Mrs. Walsh hesitated and added, “Someone told me you’d be millin’ today. I don’t want to be a burden, but we need seven dollars to bury her. I won’t have her dropped into a dirt hole.”
He swiped his face. He didn’t have seven dollars.
Matthew leaned in. “Coleman. What is this? Who is she talking about?”
Coleman’s chest tightened. Christ. He had spent years crawling away from a past he didn’t want to remember, and now, everyone was about to know his business. Of course, if there was anyone he knew he could trust to know his business, it was Matthew. Though only Matthew. “My wife,” he eventually muttered. “She died.”
Matthew grabbed his coat. “What? You’re married?”
“Yes. I am. Or rather…I was.” Eyeing his mother-in-law, who had grown quiet, he sighed. “Mrs. Walsh. I can only offer five if I go in and fight. The prize is for ten and I have others depending on me. Will that be enough?”
She half nodded. “We can do without the wreath and flowers. And I can dress her in one of her old gowns.” She brought her hands together, fingering the newspaper she held. “There be another matter pertainin’ to Jane.”
Coleman folded his arms over his chest to keep himself from fidgeting. He had never learned how to say no to a woman. Not even when it came to his damn mother-in-law. It was a curse. “What is it?”
That bundled grey-brown hair, which was sliding out from its pins, bobbed as she unraveled the rolled newspaper. She took apart page after page, tossing it to the ground. “Apparently she contacted these men before she died. I can’t read it.” She fumbled to fold and refold a page and pointed at what appeared to be an advertisement. “Heaven only knows why, but they came to my door askin’ what she knew. I wasn’t able to answer. Maybe you can?”
“I doubt it. Jane and I haven’t spoken in years.” Coleman took the newspaper and read it.
INFORMATION WANTED
A British boy by the name of Nathaniel James Atwood who disappeared in the year 1800 under suspicious circumstance is being sought out by his family. Information pertaining to his disappearance, his whereabouts or his remains shall be well rewarded. Please send all inquiries to His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth, or his son, Lord Yardley, who will both be residing at the Adelphi Hotel on Broadway until further notice.
A pulsing knot seized his throat. He knew he should have never told Jane spit.
Coleman crumpled the paper and tossed it at the ground. “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to dirk them for money. Did you ask her?”
“She was already dead.” A strangled sob escaped Mrs. Walsh. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, those features twisting.
He winced. He shouldn’t have said anything.
Every single Walsh boy now stared him down, their youthful faces hardening to an age closer to his own. One of them flicked out a razor and rounded his mother.
Matthew yanked both pistols from his leather belt and pointed each muzzle. “Don’t make me go click, razor boy.”
Mrs. Walsh popped out both arms, to shield her boys, who all scrambled back.
Coleman dragged in a breath. “Put the pistols away, Milton. He’s just a boy.”
Matthew grunted and shoved them back into his leather belt. “A boy who ought to learn some manners.”
The crowd around them dinned.
Coleman heard his name being called.
Knowing his designated fight was set to begin, Coleman flexed his hands and glanced toward the milling fence. A burly dark-haired man stepped into the fenced arena and stripped. Throwing large bare hands into the air, Vincent the Iron Fist, as he was known throughout the ward, yelled at the crowd to cheer as the umpire repainted the fighting line with broken chalk.
It was time to spray blood and earn ten dollars.
Leaning in toward his mother-in-law, he squeezed her arm. “Stay here.” Stripping his coat and yanking his linen shirt up over his head, Coleman bundled them and tossed everything toward the only man he’d ever entrust his clothes to: Matthew. “For God’s sake, don’t let her watch,” he said, gesturing to Mrs. Walsh.
Matthew caught his clothes and slung them over his own shoulder. “I’ll turn her the other way.”
“You do that.” Ducking beneath the crudely nailed planks that divided the crowd from the fight, Coleman entered the grass-flattened area.
Hordes of men gathered closer to the fence, making the planks sway.
“Fist the piss out of him, Vincent!” someone hollered. “He’s a Brit!”
“Brit or no Brit,” another joined in, “I’ve got fifteen dollars riding on him. You hear that, Coleman? Fifteen dollars. So don’t let me down!”
It was pathetic knowing his name was only worth fifteen. But then again, it was better than the half-dollar he was worth years ago.
Rising shouts filled the humid summer air as he stalked toward the chalked line, the piercing heat of the sun pulsing from the sky against his bare chest and face.
Massive shoulders and heavily scarred knuckles headed toward the opposing chalked line. Vincent the Iron Fist brought two beefy fists up to his unshaven round chin, widening his stance.
Widening his own stance, Coleman squared his bare shoulders and snapped up both fists. Tightening his thumbs around his knuckles, he waited for the umpire’s signal, his chest rising and falling in slow, even pumps.
Cheers and shouts rippled through the air.
The umpire lifted his hand and swung it down. “Set to!”
Vincent darted forward and whipped a fist at his head.
Coleman jumped away, boots skidding, and jumped back in, determined to rip out every last thought of poor Jane. Gritting his teeth, he rammed a shoulder-powered fist beneath those exposed ribs, hitting the expanse of flesh with a crunching sting that jarred the swinging arm.
Coleman knew the son of a bitch was going down.
Staggering against the hit, Vincent stumbled back toward the fence and onto the ground, chest pumping.
“To the line!” The umpire pointed to the chalked marking. “Half a minute to get to the line. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!”
Coleman jogged back over to the line, keeping both fists up. “Come on, Vincent,” he called out as the umpire kept counting. “Get up. Give me and the crowd a fight. You’re making us both look bad.”
Vincent set his jaw, scrambled up and jogged over to the line before the last ten seconds.
The umpire raised a hand between them. “Round two, gents. And…set to!”
Vincent darted forward and shot out an unexpected side sweep that cracked into the side of Coleman’s head, causing him to stumble against the searing blow. His focus wavered as a blur of hits assaulted his drifting senses. Blood now tinged his mouth and dribbled from his nose as Coleman dodged and blocked only those blows that were necessary in an effort to conserve strength.
The sequence of knuckled fists quickened, cracking down onto and into Coleman’s shoulders and arms.
