At His Lady’s Command Read online

  Disobediently, he started slow, smiling inwardly when Lady Portia smacked his shoulder in disapproval of his lazy thrust and withdrawal. In truth, he needed to regroup. Anything faster and he would come like a geyser, and he wasn’t nearly ready to leave the hot, wet haven of her cunt. “Something wrong, my lady?”

  Her nails scraped his back. “You are…oooh…being very bloody naughty…”

  “Do forgive me,” Randall replied, angling his hips so his groin rubbed directly against her clitoris at the end of each thrust.

  She gave a frustrated, desperate wail. “Faster, damn you.”

  “Does my lady need to come again?”

  “I do. At once,” she said. Then she cupped his cheek. “Make me come all over your cock, Randall.”

  Stunned at the tender touch, and hearing his given name from her lips, he could only stare. Thankfully his cock was governed by a far more primitive force, and withdrew before plunging brutally back inside. Lady Portia arched like a bow as he fucked her rough and hard like some sort of wild beast, and he barely had time to cover her mouth before she screamed his name, her whole body shuddering, her inner walls pulsing and rippling around him in the erotic rhythm of climax. He managed to thrust twice more, before yanking free from her cunt and spurting ropes of his seed across her lower belly with such force that a few pearly drops reached her breasts.

  Utterly boneless, he collapsed on top of her as he tried to catch his breath. Yet she didn’t push him away, or tell him he was too heavy. Instead, her slender fingers curved around the back of his neck and stroked his hair. A soothing and affectionate touch, the kind he’d yearned to receive from the woman he loved. Like this, he could pretend he wasn’t an illegitimate and penniless nobody, but a man deserving of warmth and laughter and light.

  All too soon, dawn would come and this magical time would be over. He had to cherish every moment before Lady Portia was snatched from him by her bloody brother.

  Just for a few hours he could revel in this heaven.

  Hell would come soon enough.

  * * *

  “My lady. It’s time to wake up.”

  Portia shook her head, and batted away the hand gently shaking her shoulder. No, it most certainly was not time to wake up. She’d been asleep five minutes at most. Besides, wild horses couldn’t drag her away from her current position: comfortably sprawled atop her huge and quite naked bodyguard in a cozy cocoon of linen sheets and embroidered quilt, after a simply marvelous night of erotic excess that had left her sticky and sore and sated beyond words.

  Well, all except a wild horse called Morning. But it couldn’t be dawn yet. Surely they had at least a few more hours before cold reality intruded.

  Her eyelids inched open, her heart sinking at the grim expression on Randall’s face. No. She mustn’t even think of him as Randall. If she accidentally behaved in a familiar way toward him in London, Halstead would probably lose his faculties and make terrible trouble. Destroy Denham’s reputation by accusing him of something vile. “What time is it?”

  “It’s just chimed seven.”

  “Botheration. I do need to return to my chamber. If Marie finds an empty bed when she brings my tea and toast, there’ll be hell to pay…and I need to choose my wardrobe for London…argh. I’m so angry at all of this I could cheerfully toss my brother from an upper window.”

  Denham’s arms closed around her, his lips brushing her forehead. Portia’s eyes burned at both the sweetness of the action, and the injustice of a world where a mature and modern-thinking spinster lady couldn’t simply live alone with a man, happily unmarried and childless with great friends and charitable causes and Society meetings. Equally unjust: a world where younger brothers held power by virtue of their sex alone. Halstead had the brains of a turnip, and yet solely because of his no doubt acorn-sized appendage, he had inherited everything. Controlled everything. The freedom of this townhouse had been an illusion. She’d been naïve to accept a lease instead of a purchase deed, but at the time had been too pleased to leave Butler House behind, thinking her brother had enough honor to respect Papa’s last wishes.

  Ha. And now Halstead sought to rip away the only man she had ever fully trusted: Denham, her steadfast rock who supported and protected, and also just happened to be a lover beyond compare. It had taken time to appreciate his layers, the dry wit and reliability and willingness to take orders. She suspected there were some things she would never know, like his very worst days in battle or who his people were. Papa had gone to a Whitehall crony in search of a recently retired soldier to be her bodyguard, Captain Randall Denham’s name had been top of the list for his impeccable record and unflappable nature, and had hired him based on that.

  To lose her captain now…

  No. Absolutely not. She would make Halstead’s life a misery in London, fight him morning, noon, and night, the wretched bloody cretin…

  “Here, now. No rage watering the bloom in your cheeks.”

  Portia sniffled. “Only you understand that. Others will think I’m crying and I shall be forced to…to…”

  “Pepper their dessert.”

  “Precisely,” she replied, allowing herself one final weak moment where she clung to his chest like a barnacle on a rock. Then, more reluctantly than anything in her life, she slid off him and reached for her chemise and nightgown.

  “Shall I fetch you a cloth?”

  “No,” Portia replied, turning her head and attempting a smile. “I’ll order a hot bath after I return to my room. That will delay our departure at least an hour, and I can think about last night. It will sustain me until I can devise a way to foil Halstead’s schemes.”

  If anything, Denham’s expression grew even grimmer, and he shoved the sheets away and swung his legs over the other side of the bed. “Never in my life have I wished to be a lord, for I cannot stand peers. Selfish scum, the lot of them. Today…I would give all for a title. To have the power and money to free you from his authority. But I have nothing.”

  Portia stared at his back, frozen in shock. The depth of feeling in his words, the bitterness and anger toward peers spoke of a pain much older and wider than the annoyances of reporting to Halstead.

  Who had hurt him so terribly?

  Although many aristocrats held high ranks in the army, he rarely spoke unfavorably about any of them. And she knew he held Wellington in the highest esteem after serving under him in Mysore and Spain. A peer in his chain of command seemed unlikely to be at the heart of this. Perhaps someone before his army years? A landlord? An employer? Even…a distant relative?

  Her mind awhirl with questions, Portia rose to her feet and padded around the bed to stand between his spread thighs.

  “You insult me with this nothing foolishness,” she said, running her fingers through his hair and giving the short, silky strands a sharp tug to indicate her displeasure. “While you might wish for a title, I wish to be without one. For then I could make my own way in the world, have a handsome ex-soldier warming my bed each night because we choose to be lovers. We are both at the mercy of our birth. But we cannot change that. The only thing we can change is what happens in future.”

  Denham sighed and rested his forehead on her breasts. “It’s going to be difficult. I wager Halstead will order Marie to accompany you everywhere, no matter what you say, as a chaperone. Or worse, Kitty or your stepmother.”

  A snarl escaped her mouth. Indeed, she had no doubts Halstead had all manner of unpleasant surprises waiting for her in London. “They would do well to keep their distance from me.”

  “My lady is fierce.”

  “Do not forget that. Or that you are one of the few men I hold in the highest regard,” Portia replied, and unable to resist, she leaned down and kissed him lingeringly. “Now, if you would stand with your candelabra at this end of the passage until I am back in my chamber. I have no desire whatsoever to be trapped in the dusty dark and devoured by vengeful spiders.”

  Denham nodded. After donning his nightshirt,
he stoked the fireplace and added a piece of wood. When the flames rose high, he lit three candles and placed them in the candelabra, and also lit the single candle she had carried on her way here.

  Her lips tight, for she had to put a brave face on this despite the staggering pain knifing through her heart, Portia tugged open the panel door.

  “Hell, that’s narrow,” he said, peering down the passage. “And you navigated with a single candle. You are all that is brave.”

  “And reckless,” Portia replied. “I shall see you downstairs later, then.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She desperately wanted to kiss him again, but they really didn’t have time; gray tendrils of impending dawn were already creeping through the curtains at his bedchamber window. Besides. She might be reckless, but not kissing while holding lit candles reckless. And she still had to conquer this bloody passage again. With Denham’s candelabra a reassuring glow behind her, Portia scampered down the confined space, ducking and weaving to avoid the worst cobwebs. Her panel door opened thankfully easily and soundlessly, and she hurried over to her looking glass to attend to any suspicious matter in her hair or on her clothing, before climbing into bed. The chill of the sheets made her whimper, and she huddled under her quilt with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Not less than ten minutes later came the brisk knock at her door that indicated Marie’s arrival.

  “Good morning, my lady,” said her maid. “Here’s your tea and toast…my goodness. Your hair is a mess, and your cheeks are pale. Did you not sleep well?”

  Portia shook her head. “Not at all. I believe the only cure to be a hot bath.”

  “Of course, ma’am. I’ll tell the footmen to fill the copper tub,” Marie said, bustling away.

  Shoulders drooping, Portia’s gaze roamed around her chamber. To think, this might be the last time she spent here. But she couldn’t waste time being melancholy or angry. A plan was needed to defeat her brother once and for all, regain her freedom, and keep her captain.

  A woman of her wit and daring could think of something.

  Surely.

  Chapter 4

  Cavendish Square, London

  To assist in her ‘happiness’, Halstead had wasted no time whatsoever in shoving his sister onto the marriage auction block.

  Barely concealing his disgust, Randall let his gaze travel the full and noisy ballroom in Butler House as more guests flooded in. The marquess had changed his mind, deciding that having a bodyguard raised the family prestige, and retained Randall’s services for a few more weeks. To remain close to Lady Portia, he had accepted.

  But events like this were a security nightmare, for the cavernous space boasted many pillars and alcoves, several large street-facing windows, extra hired servants coming and going as they pleased, and four doorways to watch. Far more troubling, Lady Portia stood in the receiving line, her lovely face like stone. It seemed her family were determined to break her spirit, for her hair had been arranged in a fussy style of created loose curls, she wore a pale pink silk gown, and so many diamonds glittered at her throat and wrists that she resembled a damned chandelier. The unwed peers around her were salivating like a pack of hungry dogs, both at such an ostentatious display of available wealth, and at the thought of taming the notorious Pistol Portia. In his mind he had already inflicted broken jaws, blackened eyes, and more than a few dismemberments.

  It had all begun two days ago, the morning after they arrived.

  The dowager had presented her stepdaughter with the first of her schedules. As he’d feared, Lady Portia’s freedoms had been severely curtailed: her clothing had been replaced with a wardrobe selected for her, she had to be accompanied at all times by Marie, Kitty, or the dowager as well as himself, the bracing strolls she enjoyed so much were forbidden entirely, and she could only attend balls, soirees or musicales personally approved or hosted by her brother.

  Randall was only able to touch her by way of assisting her in and out of a carriage, and he didn’t dare allow himself anything more than the briefest of finger squeezes to convey his support and affection. After the unforgettable evening in his Surrey bedchamber, the hot, rough fucking, the tender embraces, the shared laughter and open conversation…their present circumstances couldn’t be worse. It proved, as always, the power of bloody damned money. With it, you could rule the world. Without it…you just had to take the blows.

  “Excuse me, Captain.”

  Randall glanced down at the unknown footman in Halstead livery. “Yes?”

  The lad smiled apologetically. “His lordship says…er, requests…um…that you smile.”

  “What?” he said incredulously.

  “I’m sorry, sir. His lordship said he would tell you himself, but he is busy with the receiving line. He wishes you to…er…behave in the spirit of the joyous occasion, the potential betrothal of the Lady Portia, not…um…look like a man at a funeral.”

  Fury burned through him. Halstead remained a petulant child even when he held the upper hand. The marquess had already expressed his displeasure with Randall’s plain attire of gray breeches, white shirt, and black jacket earlier in the evening, demanding to know why he wasn’t wearing his dress uniform. Very patiently, he’d explained that soldiers only wore their regimentals when on active service, or they died. Also, as a bodyguard his role was to blend in with the crowd, not make himself an easy man to identify.

  “I shall endeavor to accommodate his lordship’s wishes,” Randall bit out.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the footman said with a gulp, before scooting away.

  “My goodness, Denham. What did he do to invoke your displeasure?”

  Randall turned, and for the first time since arriving back in London, he could actually smile at the welcome sight of a familiar redheaded beauty. “Lady Dare. What a pleasure to see you. And you have just solved the crisis. The lad informed me on behalf of the host that my unsmiling expression offended him.”

  Madeline Dare, the former Wicked Widow now wed to the Ancient Egypt scholar Lord Ethan Dare and one of Lady Portia’s closest friends, wrinkled her nose. “When gentlemen tell me to smile, my heels crush their toes. As a mere woman, I am helpless to control the impulse. But I did not realize gentlemen also told each other to do so.”

  “I did not realize it either. But it is a happy surprise to find you here. I wasn’t aware you and Dare had come to town. Or that you and Halstead ran in the same circles.”

  She shrugged. “My husband looks forward to undertaking his parliamentary duty. And negotiations are progressing with the publishing contract, so he is a shiny penny in Lord Halstead’s eyes. Also they are of a similar age, if complete opposites in beliefs. But Denham…what have they done to Lady Portia? She is wearing pale pink. And aren’t you afraid someone will abscond with her for the jewelry alone?”

  Randall hesitated, then sighed. “Lady Dare, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to, er, inspect that gold urn?”

  Madeline’s gaze sharpened. “I would be delighted, sir.”

  With a little more distance between them and the rest of the ball attendees, he sent her a grim look. “Matters have become rather dire. Halstead cancelled the lease for Lady Portia’s townhouse, she must now reside in London with her family. Unless she marries, of course. He also threatened to have her orphanage closed down.”

  She gasped. “No! That vile weasel. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied in acute frustration. “They are treating her like a wayward schoolroom miss, we cannot stroll or speak alone, she is chaperoned at all times, and they replaced her whole bloody wardrobe. It’s hell. For both of us.”

  “Oh, Denham,” Madeline said, briefly resting her gloved hand on his wrist. “Something happened after the meeting, didn’t it?”

  He clamped his lips together, but heat raced across his cheekbones. Eventually he nodded curtly. Nobody needed to know exactly what that ‘something’ entailed, especially when the memory of it kept him awake at night
, yearning for the woman who might be a single floor above him, but may as well be a thousand miles away.

  Pity in her eyes, Madeline bit her lip. “I see. Well. Should I manage to rescue Lady Portia from the fortune hunters sniffing at her skirts, is there anything you would like me to tell her?”

  “I know she will be trying to think of a plan, but mention I am also. Something to halt this nonsense.”

  “Of course…oh, look. I do believe I see a little space around Lady Portia. I shall whisk her away to the powder room to repair a, um, torn hem. And be assured that Dare and I will render whatever assistance we can. Anything at our disposal. Truly. We’re in town for the duration, Manchester Square.”

  Randall swallowed hard against a rush of unexpected emotion at the firm expression of friendship, and bowed over her hand. “My thanks, Lady Dare. This means…this means a lot.”

  “We shall speak soon, Captain,” Madeline said, with a graceful curtsy, before hurrying away to place herself between Lady Portia and the peers staring lustfully at her diamonds.

  Keeping his eyes on the women to ensure no one followed them with ill intent, Randall discreetly made his way across the ballroom and stood outside the powder room door while they were inside. Under no circumstances would he risk Lady Portia’s safety. However elegant their attire, there were men attending this ball who were so deep in debt they would sacrifice a limb for the diamonds she wore. Nor would he allow some pox-ridden aristocrat to try and force her hand by dragging her away into a compromising position. While both Halstead and the peer would be delighted, it would be a gross dereliction of his duty.

  And he would never let Lady Portia down.

  Not now. Not ever.

  * * *

  Portia leaned against the coolness of the powder room wall and smiled gratefully at Madeline as she took long, slow breaths to calm her anger.

  “Thank you for this respite. I fear I will lose my mind before this evening is over.”