At His Lady’s Command Read online

  Denham nodded gravely, but his dark eyes gleamed. “A warrior fights with whatever they have to hand. Those who are innovative and unpredictable are harder to defeat.”

  “So says the captain,” she replied in confusion. Surely that hadn’t been a compliment? Men didn’t admire her daring. They handled their cocks at the thought of spending her enormous dowry.

  “Yes. Captain. If I had shown more innovation and unpredictability, perhaps I might have been promoted higher. Alas, I much preferred taking orders from salty types than becoming one. Still do.”

  Even in the bedchamber?

  The tantalizing thought refused to be shaken free. Obviously it was time for another visit to the extremely discreet, high-end London establishment where ladies could purchase sexual services for a few hours. Wearing a demi-mask and hair covering was a small annoyance in the pursuit of pleasure, and it had been far too long since she’d indulged. Younger men were best; they had no qualms about her taking the lead.

  “Well,” she said eventually, as the silence stretched between them, not comfortable but oddly tense. “We are coming up to the estate gates. Prepare yourself for battle, Denham.”

  “As always, my lady.”

  * * *

  Would this supper ever end?

  Randall politely refused a footman’s offer to refill his wine glass, and moved food around his plate so it looked as though he had eaten. Meals at Lady Portia’s townhouse were splendid, fresh ingredients expertly prepared in simple yet tasty ways. Lord Halstead’s chef loved cream and spices, and drowned nearly everything in heavy sauces. After twenty-five years in the army he thought he had a cast-iron stomach, but the damned sauces always kept him awake and thoroughly miserable for the rest of the night.

  Far worse than the food was the marquess’s self-adoration, his smugness at having two sons and now a third child on the way, complaints about the lower classes, the soup temperature, how he must return to London because parliament was back in session and the House would fall to rack and ruin without him. Halstead’s mother and wife weren’t an improvement, though. The dowager was the coldest woman he’d ever met, and Kitty the current marchioness had two topics of conversation—agreeing with her husband, and detailed stories of the nursery.

  “Pepper, Lady Portia?” Randall said loudly, holding up the carved silver pot.

  She rewarded him with a small grin. Bloody hell, he loved those. Her smiles were perfunctory aristocratic lip curves, but her grins revealed the lines at her eyes and either side of her mouth, the mature and wickedly daring woman who enjoyed defying society.

  “Very kind,” she replied, nodding graciously. “I—”

  “Dear me, Portia,” said the dowager. “Ladies do not consume pepper. Your manners have clearly eroded living away from the family.”

  Randall cleared his throat, before the older woman could set off down that track. “Perhaps, my lord, you might like to hear my report on Lady Portia’s activities in the past month?”

  “Naturally,” grumbled Halstead. “Tis the only reason I permit you to dine with us rather than the servants, after all.”

  Somehow, he managed not to scowl. The former marquess had seen Randall’s role as one solely of protection, and had treated him cordially and with respect for his skills. This young upstart just wanted another damned spy alongside Marie, the maid employed for Lady Portia. Alas, he remained a gross disappointment at that task.

  “Of course,” Randall said slowly. “Lady Portia continues to be a shining example for others with her charitable works, and was commended by both Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey for her sterling contribution to the most recent hospital fundraiser.”

  “Emily Castlereagh hosts wonderful parties,” said Kitty. “It is unfortunate she has neglected her duty to present the viscount with an heir, though. I will never understand why he remains so devoted to her in the face of such failure.”

  “Castlereagh’s a fool,” said her husband. “Don’t care what they say. Anyone could have done the business in Vienna.”

  Randall took a calming breath. It really did help to imagine the marquess screeching at pepper in his breeches or a dead rodent in his carriage. “Lady Portia also hosted a few afternoon teas, the attendees included her closest friends and members of Guildford society. She has gone to church, and visited London to petition several lords regarding further provisions in their parishes for the poor. In her leisure time, she went to the theater, the museum, and Hatchards’ bookstore, and lastly oversaw the schoolroom refurbishment at the orphanage she is patron of.”

  “Thank you, Denham,” said Lady Portia. “A most detailed account of my whereabouts for the past month. Although you did neglect to specify my wardrobe choices, which is regrettable. I received several compliments on my new pelisse, one gentleman informed me I was a magnificent partridge, although he may have been referring to my dowry.”

  At her lighthearted comment, her brother, stepmother, and sister-in-law exchanged meaningful glances, and the back of Randall’s neck prickled. What now?

  “About that…” said Halstead.

  “You have a personal family matter to discuss,” said Randall swiftly. “I’ll step out for a moment.”

  “No. This concerns you, Captain.”

  Lady Portia stilled, a little color leaving her cheeks. “Halstead?”

  The marquess sat back in his chair. “I have decided—”

  “Resolutely decided,” said the dowager.

  “Yes, quite. I have resolutely decided that the expense of the Guildford townhouse, servants, and overly generous allowance is too great a burden. So I have cancelled the lease. You will return to reside under my roof by the end of the month, sister.”

  “What?” gasped Lady Portia. “You know that was not Papa’s wish!”

  “Father is dead,” said Halstead coldly. “I am the marquess. My wishes shall be your command. And I say you must return to us until you marry. It is an embarrassment you haven’t yet wed and done your duty. A stain on the family name.”

  “Such a stain,” added Kitty. “Our year of mourning is nearly over, Portia. You should embrace this chance at happiness.”

  “I am happy,” snapped Lady Portia, her face now parchment pale. “Deliriously so. In my own home, enjoying the company of friends, and attending to my charitable causes.”

  Halstead shook his head. “Nonsense. A lady cannot be happy on her own. This is for your own good. Women are frail creatures who lack the wit of men, and require a husband’s guidance. Father indulged you to your detriment, I shall remedy that. And as you’ll be under my protection, a bodyguard will no longer be required.”

  “No!”

  Lady Portia’s sharp cry echoed in the large dining room, her chair thudding onto the floor as she leaped to her feet. How Randall managed to stifle his own feral growl, he couldn’t say. Halstead thought to separate them, and his reason was complete horseshit. He could easily afford the Guildford townhouse lease and a few servants. No, this was about controlling his older sister. Forcing her to conform to his notion of a lady.

  “My lord,” said Randall, as he valiantly resisted the urge to embed his fork in the marquess’s forehead. “Perhaps—”

  “The opinion of a servant is not required,” said the dowager, dabbing her chin with her linen napkin.

  Lady Portia glared at her. “Don’t you dare speak to Denham like that. He was a captain in His Majesty’s army.”

  Her brother slapped his hand on the dining table, causing several dishes to rattle. “Sister. Your tone is most unbecoming for a lady. Mother is correct, your manners have declined living away from us, although it is fair to say they weren’t perfect to start. Your own mother failed you, allowing your head to be filled with subjects best left for boys when she should have taught you decorum. Now I wonder what the children at that demmed orphanage are learning. I may recommend closure to the parish clerks.”

  “That would be best,” said the dowager. “Then Portia could concentrate on do
ing her duty and starting her own family.”

  A faint hiss sounded and Randall glanced furtively at Lady Portia. Did Halstead and his mother know how close to death they were, taking away her townhouse and then threatening her orphanage? And that he would in no way impede her efforts if she took the silver pepper pot and proceeded to disembowel them with it?

  Kitty tsked. “Halstead, your cheeks are flushed. Why don’t you retire to your library? Portia may go and think on her appalling behavior. It will be my great pleasure to instruct her on ladylike qualities when she comes to live with us. We’ll attend soirees and musicales. Host a ball and invite all the eligible peers in London. All will be as it should be.”

  Lady Portia just looked ill. Very, very ill. She needed privacy to regroup, think of a new strategy and tactics, something he had every faith she could do. They still had two weeks until the end of the month, after all.

  Randall rose to his feet. “My lady, shall we take our leave?”

  Her flashing green gaze swept around the table. “Indeed. Stepmother. Halstead. Kitty. Until next we meet.”

  His lips twitched. Only Pistol Portia could make a farewell sound deadly.

  She might have lost this battle, but the war would be another matter entirely.

  * * *

  The three of them—Halstead, Kitty, and her stepmother— could officially go straight to the bowels of purgatory.

  Portia took several deep breaths, but her vision blurred with angry tears ready to fall at any moment. If they spilled down her cheeks before she and Denham reached the relative privacy of the carriage, she would be mortified.

  The day she’d always dreaded had come.

  Her spoilt, foolish cretin of a brother tearing away her freedom, punishing her for not adhering to society norms, all under the laughable guise of expense. Halstead knew very well he could lease every blasted building in Guildford, hire all the townspeople, and it wouldn’t make a dent in his fortune. To make matters worse, Kitty and the dowager thought to break her with a Season of soirees and musicales, propriety and rules…with marriage her only escape.

  Truly no choice at all.

  There was no good reason for this nonsense. They weren’t the royals, with Princess Charlotte the only legitimate heir to the throne. Halstead had two sons and a third child on the way; she was not the last remaining hope for the title. The three of them merely enjoyed the purse-string power they held over her. If only there had been a bequest from her mother’s side, or Papa had settled money and property on her in his will, rather than just an enormous dowry. Portia strongly suspected her stepmother’s hand in that particular travesty, to ensure her own son inherited everything.

  Damn them all. If they didn’t expect vengeance for this injustice, then they didn’t know her at all. Peppered breeches and dead rodents would be the least of their troubles.

  “Mind the step, my lady.”

  Denham’s voice remained a measure of calm in the storm, and she nodded as she scrambled into the carriage. Unfortunately, as soon as he settled himself on the opposite seat and the carriage began to move, her eyes turned into twin waterfalls.

  “Here,” he continued, holding out a neatly folded square of plain linen.

  “I’m not crying,” she choked out, even as tears dripped onto her bodice, and trickled an itchy path down the side of her neck.

  Denham nodded solemnly. “I know. You are—now what is that phrase—rage watering the bloom in your cheeks.”

  Portia stilled. Some time ago, she and Beatrice, Amelia and Madeline had discussed the annoyance of tears falling not because of sadness or hurt, but anger. They had all agreed it was a grievous betrayal by their bodies, and thus the term had been coined. Denham had heard and remembered. And recognized it now.

  Warmth curled around her heart, halting the pithy reply she had been about to make. Instead she looked him in the eye as she dabbed her face with the handkerchief, and said simply, “Halstead has won this round.”

  “Perhaps. But he hasn’t the wit to realize a fight comprises of many rounds. Or that his opponent is infinitely more intelligent, and forever willing to use pepper, rodents, and treacle.”

  A watery laugh escaped. “I have so many relying on me. Without money, I will let them all down. And if Halstead fabricates a charge of mismanagement and has my orphanage closed…I…I couldn’t bear that. Other orphanages do not meet my exacting standards in comfort and care. Or education.”

  Even in the low light of the carriage oil lamps, she saw the pain that flashed across her bodyguard’s face.

  “No,” he said quietly. “They don’t. Often they are cold and dark places without affection or hope, where the child counts the hours until they may leave.”

  Shaken to the core that he might have personally experienced such a horror, Portia could only gape. Denham, an orphan? Good heavens. And yet it explained so much. His taciturn, watchful nature. His extensive fighting skills. Perhaps he’d been forced to learn those long before the army. “Quite. But children often overcome difficult beginnings and grow into the very finest of people. Strong and steadfast and brave.”

  Denham turned away and stared out the window at the pitch-black night. “We won’t let Halstead win. He might be able to take back your townhouse, but you are not without friends. Didn’t the Fentons just say at the Society meeting that they would happily contribute to your causes? They have a large fortune. And the ear of the Prince Regent. If Prinny bestowed his royal favor on the orphanage, then your brother couldn’t close that, at least.”

  Portia braced her hand on the carriage wall as it rocked and swayed on the road away from the estate, almost speechless. How did he know exactly what to say to offer true comfort? Most men would have patted her hand and told her not to worry her pretty head about it. He pointed out facts. And he’d said we.

  “We?” she repeated, as her tears dried and a far different emotion surged through her entire body. An emotion that made her blood fizz, nipples harden, and quim throb with longing.

  Her bodyguard turned back and tugged on his cravat. Then he cleared his throat. “I am at your service. Anything you need.”

  “Anything?” she asked boldly, so very tired of pretending he wasn’t the most attractive man she knew, that she didn’t want to cover him like a blanket and feel those hard, sensual lips on hers. Especially when a future without him at her side loomed, bleak and empty.

  “Anything,” Denham repeated firmly, and the air in the carriage seemed to disappear as his gaze locked with hers. For the first time not benign, but hot. Hungry. Scorching through her green-striped gown, stays, petticoat, and chemise, caressing her bare skin and sparking a flame of acute need inside her.

  A rush of moisture between her legs made her squirm on the leather squab, but a glance down at his trousers confirmed the moment wasn’t one-sided. Indeed, if that splendidly large bulge announced anything, he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  “I find myself wondering,” Portia said as her spirits soared, “what your mouth might taste like.”

  Denham’s lips twitched. “My lady is direct.”

  “If it is coyness you seek, you’ll not find it here. Only a great deal of salt.”

  “How fortunate I am well used to and appreciative of salt, then.”

  Oh.

  Hurling caution to the wind, Portia pounced on him, settling one knee either side of his powerful thighs as her fingers threaded through his hair and her tongue flicked at his lips to demand entry. And Captain Denham, the gruff, handsome devil, surrendered immediately.

  Good heavens.

  How could she be a lady of experience and yet never have experienced this? Her mouth tingling from the firm pressure of his. Her mind awhirl in the scent of Sandalwood and clean linen. Reveling in erotic authority as Denham allowed her to rub her taut nipples against his chest and her pulsing clitoris against his fully erect cock, but made no move to take control apart from light, steadying hands at her waist.

  As though he
liked her taking charge and practically riding him.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned, thoroughly intoxicated by his taste, the uncompromising strength of him underneath her as she kissed him again and again. Why were they both still fully dressed? Her gown should be rucked up about her hips, his trouser buttons undone to allow that thick cock deep into her wet quim. “More.”

  “Lady Portia,” he said raggedly. “I…we can’t. The townhouse. We’re nearly there.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. It was about eight miles between Halstead’s estate and Guildford. They couldn’t have been travelling for an hour. And yet when she peered out into the winter gloom, the street lamps revealed familiar buildings.

  Botheration. Yet again, she had made a reckless mistake. Of course a carriage wasn’t the place for their first sexual interlude, they needed a bed. Privacy. Time to explore and pleasure one another. Not to be gossiped about by servants, Denham would hate that.

  Shaking her head in annoyance, Portia climbed off his lap, and sat back down on the other side of the carriage. “I apologize.”

  His whole face shuttered, the lusty rake of a few minutes ago vanishing. “I understand. You have regrets. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. And no one will hear a word from me.”

  What?

  Her body screamed in protest. But before she could inform the blasted man that he had misunderstood her entirely, the carriage came to a shuddering halt outside the townhouse.

  A bloody awful end to a bloody awful evening.

  Chapter 2

  After a night spent tossing and turning, he looked haggard. Defeated.

  Randall winced at the mirror in his bedchamber as he tied his cravat into a simple knot.

  He could survive on little sleep. Had done so on many occasions while on campaign—when battles raged into the night, tactics were discussed, discarded, and discussed again, or he stood watch over his men as they succumbed to sheer exhaustion after a day’s march to the rain-lashed hills of Mysore or across the dusty Spanish plains.