Delilah Marvelle - Forever a Lord

—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

5:07 a.m.

The Weston House

IMOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.

Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.

The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!

Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.

Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.

The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.

Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the carriage. “Henry?”

Her brother, who was rising from his seat, yanked his coat over his head, burying himself in it before she could see him. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What—” Stumbling into the darkness of the upholstered seat, he roared, “Get back inside! You aren’t even damn well dressed!”

“Weston, sit,” someone gruffly commanded in a low baritone from within the shadows of the carriage seat. “And cease yelling at her. How is that helpful?”

Henry leaned toward that voice, still keeping himself buried within the coat. “I can’t have her seeing my face!”

“I understand,” that low baritone offered. “Cease yelling about it and let me get her inside for you, all right?”

Her throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.

A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.

Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.

Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.

Which she most certainly was.

Those dominating ice-blue eyes momentarily erased everything, including every last drop of cold rain. She blinked, realizing that the rain had, in fact, stopped. It was as if the heavens had cleared in the name of this man.

He leaned down toward her, holding on to the side of the open door with a large, scarred hand. “Weston had his first go at real boxing earlier tonight and lost. Miserably. You don’t want to see how miserably. Just know he and I are now good friends because of it. We actually spent most of the night talking and cleaning him up. Or at least trying to.” His voice was smooth, deep, and bore a surprisingly sophisticated accent given his rough appearance. “You really don’t want to see him in his current state. I suggest you retire, tea cake.”

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.