At His Lady’s Command Read online

  At His Lady’s Command

  Nicola Davidson

  Nicola Davidson

  AT HIS LADY’S COMMAND is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  AT HIS LADY’S COMMAND © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: January 2019

  Edited by: AuthorsDesigns

  Cover design by: Dusean Nelson at AuthorsDesigns

  Stock art: Period Images

  Formatted by: Tamara Gill

  Contents

  AT HIS LADY’S COMMAND

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Standalones

  About the Author

  AT HIS LADY’S COMMAND

  After twenty-five years in the British army, Captain Randall Denham thought he’d seen it all. Yet nothing prepared him for Lady Portia Butler, the fiercest, most exasperating, and amusing beauty he’d ever met—or how hard he would fall for her. Randall yearns to be at her command in the bedchamber as well as out, but a match between a highborn lady and a penniless ex-soldier of dubious birth is impossible.

  Quite content to be unwed and childless, Portia cherishes her friends, her charitable causes, and outwitting the ton. She shouldn’t be having erotic fantasies about her bodyguard Denham…and definitely shouldn’t engage in a wicked secret affair with him. But when her family dictates she must cede her independence and marry a peer or face dire consequences, Portia faces her sternest battle yet: defeating the wealthy patriarchy to win the greatest prize of all—love.

  Dedication

  For the ladies standing up to inequality and discrimination—all praise and much love.

  Also

  Sherilee Gray and Tamara Gill for coaxing me through the hardest parts.

  Prologue

  Guildford, Surrey, November 1814

  Life would be infinitely simpler for Captain Randall Denham if he wasn’t completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with Lady Portia Butler, the highborn tempest he was paid to protect.

  There would be less silver in his jet-black hair, although at age forty-four that was probably inevitable. He’d have fewer lines etched into his forehead, a calm stomach rather than one that roiled at the thought of anyone harming a hair on her head, and arms that didn’t strain to hold her close. But men like him, ex-soldiers of dubious birth and no fortune were lucky to even be in the presence of women like Lady Portia. They didn’t dare wish for anything more. Not love. Not affection. Not marriage.

  Certainly not to be the man she commanded in the bedchamber as well as out of it.

  Randall silently counted backward from ten as he glanced around Lady Portia’s lavish gold parlor, the favored location for the monthly Surrey Sexual Freedom Society meetings. Anything to distract from the fact that she’d just turned full field marshal, flaying him alive with her razor-sharp tongue in front of the other Society members, and now his cock was so hard it hurt.

  “Well, Denham?” said Lady Portia, hands resting on slender hips, perfect small breasts rising and falling in magnificent ire, a five-foot-four-inch storm in stays. “You were hardly subtle in publicly chiding me for recklessness, and now you have nothing to say?”

  “No, my lady,” Randall murmured, irritated at himself for the earlier show of angry frustration he hadn’t been able to suppress. “I…forgot myself in concern for your wellbeing.”

  Indeed, two years he had protected the infamous Pistol Portia. Two tumultuous, exasperating, amusing, and awe-inspiring years with the bold and fiercely intelligent woman who could be reckless or practical, cutting or tenderhearted, at any given moment. Two years of concealing his devotion and being no more than the bodyguard her late father, the previous Marquess of Halstead, had hired, and now her younger half-brother, the current marquess, continued to pay, for an unwed heiress like Lady Portia would forever be a target of ransom or forced marriage plots. But Halstead didn’t need to know that his sister also placed herself in harm’s way with her secret crusades to rescue women and children from violence, and deliver educational materials to the poorest and most dangerous parts of London. Nor did he need to be informed of the scandalous meetings on all matters erotic that she hosted in the guise of a literary salon.

  Lady Portia pursed her lips, then sighed. “The others are much younger and greener than us. If they knew of all my activities they would only fret, and those who are unaware cannot be made to confess. Few are as cool-headed under pressure as you.”

  Randall swallowed hard at the rare compliment. Lady Portia’s experiences had taught her to distrust men, to revile and even fear them. To be praised, even mildly, was no small feat. “Quite. You, er, might wish to bid the Society members farewell. They are very diplomatically tip-toeing out the parlor door rather than watch us argue.”

  She spun around, her cheeks pink. But today’s meeting had come to a very abrupt end; Miss Beatrice Irving, Miss Amelia Tilton, Lord Ethan and Lady Madeline Dare, Mr. Clayton Irving, and Lord Joseph and Lady Susanna Fenton had obviously all decided to forgo the sumptuous afternoon tea and the promised reading from a French courtesan’s erotic memoir, to instead strategically retreat from the battleground.

  “Botheration,” Lady Portia muttered, her dismay evident. “I will make it up to them. Stay right there, Denham. Do not move a foot.”

  “Not even an inch, my lady,” he replied gravely.

  She snorted before hurrying over to the departing guests. Randall could only watch, transfixed by the sway and bounce of the lush backside she hated but he dreamed of constantly. Christ, the dreams. He’d never thought of himself as a creative man, but when it came to Lady Portia, his mind ran riot with explicit fantasies that had one theme in common: his total sexual submission. Kneeling at her feet. Obeying her every order. Worshipping her body with his mouth. Unfortunately they always ended the same way, him waking alone in bed, forced to come in his poor, overworked palm. Yet he couldn’t visit a courtesan or take a mistress to gain relief from an avid mouth or hot cunt, because his bloody foolish heart had settled on its mate, and that was that.

  Just as quickly, Lady Portia returned. Out of sorts, for she absently patted the immaculate chignon from which not a strand of brown hair dared to escape.

  “They were very gracious,” she said abruptly. “Said there were important matters we needed to discuss. I shall visit them all next week.”

  “But you won’t tell them what happened in Cheapside.”

  Lady Portia stiffened, her gaze darting away. “Nothing happened.”

  Randall frowned. “No, nothing. Except two men taking exception to your scolding them for beating their wives and not allowing their children to attend school, and trying to gut you with a rusty knife.”

  “I wasn’t afraid of them. Besides, you dispatched the pair with little effort. They will have the cuts and bruises to show for it.”

  “And if his lordship hears of the incident? I’ll be dismissed and you’ll be marched back to London to live under lock and key inside Butler House. You know that.”

  She paled, but lifted her chin, her green eyes flashing with defiance.
“My dear brother won’t hear a thing. Not unless you tell him. Would you betray me like that, Denham? I will be more watchful in future.”

  The question infuriated him. Betray? He had an impeccable twenty-five year record in the service of His Majesty; had never once contemplated turning his coat in the face of Mysorean rockets, or rifles and cannons on the Spanish and Portuguese plains. Then he’d been a damned oak door standing steadfast between her and harm, escorting her wherever she wished to go. Hell, he’d even attended the scandalous Society meetings and put together displays of dildos by size, and cock rings and nipple clamps by color. Yet she still thought he might betray her?

  “Have I ever told him?” Randall growled, folding his brawny arms so he didn’t pick up a plate of cream cakes and hurl it at the wall. “About any of it? The books, the meetings, the pleasure toy displays, the money you give to unwed mothers, the time you dressed up in a wig, jacket, and breeches and fleeced those peers in a gaming hell because they refused to donate to your orphanage?”

  Lady Portia blinked. “No, you haven’t…but even good men can falter. I see it often.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “As men go, you are tolerable I suppose. There. Happy now?”

  Randall froze as she patted his arm, the brief and impersonal touch burning him like a brand. Damn it all. He would lay down his life for her, pleasure her in any way she desired…and she thought him no more than tolerable. Like an adequate wine or nondescript pair of shoes.

  How much longer could he put himself through this most diabolical of tortures—long days with the woman he loved, basking in her fire, seeing her smile, witnessing her uncommon acts of courage and kindness—and yet be forbidden to touch her, hear her moans of ecstasy…sleep with her in his arms?

  “Delighted,” he bit out, stepping back. “Do excuse me. I have to…go and clean my pistols.”

  “Oh. Of course. Well, do not get yourself covered in powder, we are going to Halstead’s estate for dinner, remember. The carriage must leave no later than six o’clock.”

  Bloody hell. Just what the day needed. Bowing and scraping to her brother, the spoilt dandy who owned a good portion of Surrey and never failed to remind everyone of that fact, and his perpetually pregnant wife.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  With a curt bow, he left the parlor. Feeling her gaze on him the entire time, but refusing to look back lest she see the truth in his heart.

  That must remain a secret.

  For his sake. And hers.

  Chapter 1

  “As men go, you are tolerable I suppose.”

  Even hours later, the words made Lady Portia Butler wince and shift uncomfortably on the luxurious leather carriage squab.

  Everything she said to Denham sounded awkward or shrewish lately, yet she had no idea how to regain her equilibrium around him. All because a few months back she’d glanced out the music room window to see him training footmen in the enclosed garden. Bare-knuckle boxing. Fencing. Wrestling. Throwing daggers. But he’d been shirtless. And in one blinding moment, Captain Randall Denham had ceased to be just her calm and steadfast bodyguard. Now she saw a six-foot tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, deliciously brawny man with broad chest, powerful thighs, and dexterous hands. For heaven’s sake, she’d even started having fantasies about him. Torrid dreams of his erotic submission that left her wet and needy and thoroughly bloody annoyed.

  For she wasn’t some starry-eyed ingénue who didn’t know how the world worked. Men never voluntarily ceded command; they desired to conquer and rule, to own and oppress. Denham only followed her instructions because he was paid to. No doubt in his free time he preferred young and shy buxom blondes who meekly offered their bodies for his pleasure…

  Characteristics that Lady Portia Butler would never possess.

  Anyway, as the spinster daughter and sister of a marquess she couldn’t just publicly take a lover, anything long-term with a man had to be marriage—and her brother Lord Halstead would never, ever approve of a penniless captain, no matter how fine his character. More to the point, she absolutely disdained marriage. Not for the world would she be someone’s property, forced to live at her husband’s mercy in the confines of foolish and antiquated societal norms, only permitted the funds and freedoms he decided upon. Lady Portia Butler was a thirty-eight year old woman who cherished freedom above all. And while she liked children just fine, would fight to the death for them to be safe and educated…maternal urges had never once stirred in her heart, and she remained quite content with her childless state.

  So no reason to wed whatsoever.

  Of course Portia experienced moments of loneliness, sometimes agonizingly so, especially when she saw happy couples like Beatrice and Amelia, or Madeline and Ethan, and the uncommon but no less successful ménage of Clayton, Joseph, and Susanna. It would be agreeable to have a lover who knew just how to please her in bed, a companion to laugh and share adventures with, someone who wholeheartedly supported her charitable endeavors. But that remained an impossible dream. A husband would wrest control of her life and expect heirs and conformity to his will. Which would never, ever do.

  “You are going to wear a hole in the squab.”

  Portia froze as Denham’s low, gruff words startled her from her thoughts and rasped across her nerve endings, making her nipples tighten. Blast it, even his voice aroused her now. But he felt nothing in return, and sat still and calm across from her in the carriage, his expression respectfully polite in the low light of the oil lamps.

  Forever bloody calm.

  While he disliked being questioned about his affairs or listening to ribald discussions in the Society meetings, she’d only ever seen him lose his composure once, and that had been during the incident at Cheapside. The way he’d pummeled those two men who had tried to hurt her, his handsome face twisted with fury, his huge fists inflicting all manner of injuries…

  Resenting yet another unwelcome surge of lust for her bodyguard, Portia sent Denham an irritable look. “This leather has survived many a visit to my brother. I’m sure it will survive another.”

  “You are more uneasy than usual.”

  “Nonsense,” she lied.

  Denham raised an eyebrow, which only made his distinguished features more pleasing. “I’ve already said Halstead won’t hear anything from me about the attack, my lady.”

  “Incident,” she corrected. An incident, she didn’t have to think about. An attack was something else entirely. “And it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  The carriage jolted as it hit a rut in the muddy road, allowing her a moment to gather her thoughts. “It is nearly a year since Papa died, and I don’t wish to discuss that with my stepmother or half-brother or his wife. I prefer to grieve privately. To visit Papa’s gravesite and then Mama’s and tell them how I miss them terribly. Not…not be forced to take part in an elaborate mourning production. When Papa knew he wouldn’t recover from his illness, he said, Don’t you dare shroud yourself in black and lilac, poppet. Not your colors. Nor may you hide away, for those without a voice need you. Be bold and march on. He knew me. Understood me. And…and…”

  Portia swiftly pressed her fingers to her lips. Good heavens. Any moment now she’d be a watering pot, and she loathed crying in front of other people.

  “Your father was a fine man,” said Denham softly. “A great one, taken too soon. As great people often are. I will always be indebted to him for employing me, there aren’t many opportunities for retired soldiers.”

  “I am also grateful he did,” Portia blurted. Then quickly, she added, “If they mean to mark the anniversary of Papa’s passing with some vulgar monument or public occasion, I shall be tempted beyond measure to liberally sprinkle their dessert with pepper. Or worse.”

  “Just so there are no misunderstandings, my lady, do you wish me to stay your hand, or gather extra pepper?”

  Ack. Why did he have to be so…appealing? When he said things like
that in a tone so grave and a face so expressionless that people didn’t even realize he’d made a jest…it made her tingle. For she understood, he knew that she understood, and it almost became a private moment between the two of them. Rather like the kind the other Society members shared with their lovers…

  Portia gritted her teeth. No. She needed to stop such foolish thoughts. Denham had never so much as twitched a finger inappropriately in her direction, so he clearly felt no secret lust for her. Not to mention Halstead would have violent palpitations if he suspected anything. Unlike their father, her younger brother was a stuffy prude who had very fixed ideas on women, and didn’t approve of her living in Guildford on her own. So far he’d had the decency to respect Papa’s wishes on the matter, but he controlled the purse strings and could change his mind at any time. Halstead already disliked her being patron of an orphanage, and only tolerated her other fundraising efforts because the projects were championed by some very prominent leaders in the ton; nothing meant more to him and his wife Kitty than further elevating their social standing.

  “Best stay my hand,” said Portia eventually. “Although I shall add the caveat that my decision could change at any moment depending on how ghastly the three of them decide to be at supper.”

  “Duly noted. Dare I ask…has pepper on dessert been an effective weapon in the past?”

  Her cheeks heated. Even with Papa’s will, her brother had needed a little…persuasion to lease her townhouse. Less enlightened observers might have called her methods gutter tactics. “It might well be, I haven’t tried it. But I can confirm that pepper sprinkled in breeches garners results. As does a deceased mouse in a carriage, and a cane smeared with treacle.”