At His Lady’s Command Read online

  Her friend waved a hand. “Don’t thank me, thank your troublesome hem. And Denham. We spoke briefly, and he told me what Lord Halstead did. Oh yes, and be reassured that your soldier is also trying to think of a plan. Something to halt this nonsense.”

  Portia’s lips twitched at Madeline’s impression of Denham’s low, gruff tone, even as her heart leaped at the news he hadn’t forsaken her. The past few days had been hideous; having him nearby but not being able to talk to him, touch or kiss him, and combined with her brother, sister-in-law and stepmother all asserting their power in various petty ways, she stood ready to tie her bedsheets together and swing herself out a window. She would never forgive Halstead for this damned ball, this damned dress, and the jewelry that simultaneously felt like it would crush or choke her. Nor for the blatant way he’d offered her up for sale like a bloody Tattersall’s thoroughbred, murmuring about her dowry and bloodlines to peers of all ages who had three things in common: an ancient title, empty nursery, and pockets to let.

  “I thought my age and eccentricities would be enough to halt this nonsense,” Portia said with an irritable sniff.

  Madeline rolled her eyes and smoothed one of her wayward red curls behind her ear. “Hardly, dear. Unmarried women are a threat, you know that. Good grief, even as a widow I was regarded as an issue to be resolved by the family. But you are a spinster with a substantial dowry, which makes you both a threat and an irresistible attraction.”

  “Men.”

  “Most men. I feel fortunate every day that Dare and I found each other. A lover who understands you, lifts you up, makes you laugh at the dining table and moan in the bedchamber is a great and glorious thing…why, Lady Portia, your cheeks are even pinker than your gown. I wonder why that is.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture, Lady Dare.”

  Her friend grinned. “No, we leave that to Clay. By the by, I don’t think he and the Fentons have emerged from their townhouse since returning to London. They will quite wear out that new ridiculous-sized bed.”

  “Don’t tell me that, or how happy Beatrice and Amelia are in their cottage. Not when I am forbidden to—”

  A rap on the wall interrupted them, and Madeline hurried to stand behind her, as though helping with the clasp of her necklace. Seconds later, Kitty and the dowager marched through the powder room door.

  “What is the matter, Portia?” said her stepmother sharply. “Do you require a seamstress?”

  “No, this necklace felt a little loose and Lady Dare kindly assisted me.”

  “Wonderful. Then there is no impediment to you returning to the ballroom and dancing with one of the many gentlemen clamoring to do so. We are quite delighted with the success of the evening thus far.”

  “Delighted,” echoed Kitty, looking smug. “Halstead will have offers by the dozen in his library tomorrow.”

  Madeline smiled sweetly. “Thank heavens your husband cares deeply for his sister’s happiness and would never entertain an offer from a fortune hunter.”

  The dowager inclined her head, her gaze icy. “Portia is indeed lucky to have such a loving family. Now, ladies, the ballroom awaits.”

  Knowing she would have to dance at least once or suffer worse retribution, Portia smoothed her horrid pink gown and fussy coiffure, and swept from the powder room like an empress. Denham waited outside, and she pretended to stumble just so he might take her hand and steady her, a brief, reassuring touch to calm and strengthen before she rejoined the mass of titled milksops.

  “Thank you, Denham,” she said graciously.

  “My lady,” he replied, his face expressionless yet his fingers burning through her glove.

  Somehow she managed to walk away from him, back to where her brother stood surrounded by a large group of well-dressed bachelors.

  Halstead clicked his heels together. “Ah, sister. Hem all fixed I trust.”

  “Indeed,” Portia replied coolly. “And the music beckons.”

  As one, the peers surged forward. Sickened by the greed and calculation on their faces, she let her gaze sweep over them all, trying to select the least repulsive option. Until she met a pair of dark eyes regarding her not with avarice, but impatience.

  Good heavens. The Duke of Fairfield.

  What was he doing in this melee? The duke must be eighty at least, his hair entirely silver and the lines on his face pronounced, yet his bearing remained rigid, his height undiminished, his perfectly tailored clothing immaculate. Halstead thought he held power, but Fairfield embodied it. It was whispered by many that he’d been the force behind the throne for decades, advising kings and prime ministers alike, and he was also well known for his icy hauteur and arrogance.

  However the duke was also a childless widower…which meant he could loosely be considered a suitor. Her brother wouldn’t be able to say a word, and she might be able to avoid dancing with the others.

  Portia curtsied. “Ah, Your Grace. I believe I promised you this waltz.”

  Fairfield raised a brow at the blatant falsehood, but amusement flickered in his eyes as he held out his arm to escort her to the floor. “Indeed, Lady Portia. Shall we?”

  The opening bars of a waltz sounded, and he began twirling her around.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said gratefully.

  The duke fixed his sharp gaze on her. “Minx. I agreed only because I wanted a word.”

  “A word?” Portia echoed, startled. What on earth could he have to say to her?

  “I am not impressed with the decisions your father made.”

  She nearly missed a step. “Excuse me?”

  “Your mother was a worthy woman, may she rest in peace. But then Halstead, may he also rest in peace, not only married that twit, and sired a twit who married a twit, but neglected to leave you with your own funds. So now you are at your brother’s mercy in missish pink and a vulgar diamond waterfall. A sad state of affairs.”

  Surprised at his bluntness, and the accuracy of the statement, she could only stare at the elderly man as they danced. “I…ah…”

  “Cat got your tongue, gel? Thought you had fire in your belly. I’m not seeing it much this evening, though. Very disappointing.”

  Her temper sparked. “Do forgive me for offending your delicate sensibilities, Your Grace. Perhaps one day you will know what it is like to be thwarted without recourse.”

  Fairfield’s laugh was a rusty bark, the sound of a man who didn’t laugh often. “If you think I’ve never experienced defeat, terrible defeat, you’re a fool. I’ve heard you have a mind, so use it. I know you’ve a trustworthy bodyguard. Use him.”

  Portia tilted her head, her gaze narrowing as the duke maneuvered her around a young couple. “You know Captain Denham?”

  “I had my man at Whitehall recommend him to your father. With Denham’s record and his excellent character, I decided he’d be just right for the infamous Pistol Portia. As usual, I was correct.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Fairfield smiled blandly. “What question was that, gel? Forgive me, my memory isn’t what it used to be. And the waltz is finished. Allow me to escort you back to your half-brother.”

  All she could do was rest her hand on his sleeve as they made their way back across the ballroom. The duke didn’t say another word, and he wouldn’t either, the wily old fox. Clearly, he’d said all he intended to, and yet her curiosity had been piqued. Did Denham know he possessed a supporter in the almighty Duke of Fairfield? How had that come to be? They lived in two completely different worlds.

  If she could just get her bodyguard alone for a few minutes, she would ask him.

  After an orgasm or two, of course.

  * * *

  The scent of flowers hit him like a punch to the stomach as he descended the stairs for breakfast.

  Randall scowled. The entrance hall of Halstead’s townhouse looked like a bloody florist, but none of the bouquets, whether delicate posies or elaborate arrangements of hothouse blooms, wo
uld impress Lady Portia. She didn’t like flowers; thought them an annoyance as they wilted quickly, required upkeep, and eventually had to be disposed of. That tidbit hardly mattered, though. The men hadn’t really sent the flowers for Lady Portia. After the ball the previous evening, they were an indication to her brother that the sender was most earnest in his desire for an alliance with the Butler family.

  Damn every one of those peers to hell.

  Especially the Duke of Fairfield.

  Watching the man he hated most in the world dancing with Lady Portia had been excruciating, keeping him awake until dawn. Halstead, Kitty, and the dowager had probably been in transports when Fairfield accepted their invitation, thinking they were moving even further up in society. Never guessing for a moment that the duke thought of them as he did anyone beneath his lofty notice—not at all. No, Fairfield had attended for one reason alone, to taunt Randall Denham with his presence, and remind him that the demons of the past were never really far behind, no matter how far or how long you ran.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  He nodded at the footman waiting at the door of the breakfast room, and went straight to the row of warming dishes set up on the sideboard. Hopefully his stomach wouldn’t growl too loudly; after the routine of early breakfasts and suppers in Guildford, he’d had a hard time adjusting to the typical meal times here. The sight of most of the dishes swimming in butter and parsley cream sauce made him wince, but he piled his plate high with toasted bread and berry preserve, some sliced ham, and a spoonful of coddled eggs. When he sat down at the dining table a second footman stepped forward to pour him a cup of tea, and he sipped gratefully at the hot beverage. Another thing his bones didn’t enjoy—the damp, cold London mornings that even roaring fires couldn’t quite assuage.

  “Good morning, Denham.”

  Randall stood as Lady Portia entered the room, took a plate and added some ham and a small portion of sautéed potato, then took a seat opposite him. There were so many things he wanted to say, and yet with three footmen loyal to Halstead standing at attention and no doubt instructed to report any conversation to their employer, all he could reply as he sat was, “My lady.”

  “Did you enjoy the ball last night? I must say, I am very hungry. And I did have toast in my chamber.”

  He nearly smiled as he took a bite of ham. Lady Portia ate like an ensign after a day’s march, and despite Kitty and the dowager’s disapproval, continued to do so. A small rebellion he heartily approved of. “It was quite an occasion. How nice to see Lord and Lady Dare.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she replied, her eyes softening. “Madeline passed on all manner of tidbits which both delighted me and relieved my mind greatly.”

  “My lady,” he said hoarsely, his hand tightening on his fork. “I…”

  “Good morning, you two!” said Kitty as she strolled into the breakfast room, the dowager and Halstead in her wake. “Portia, you must be thrilled. Did you see the flowers? All for you!”

  “I saw,” said Lady Portia shortly.

  The dowager smiled. “So many men vying for your attention. I do declare, it reminds me of my younger years before I accepted dear Halstead’s proposal. I made him so very happy when I said yes. Portia was cross at first, after having her father’s attention for so long, but we became such a close family. And you can imagine my husband’s joy when I bore him a son. A longed-for heir at last. Soon, you’ll know that fulfillment also, Portia, when you are a wife and mother.”

  Taking a deliberate sip of her tea, her stepdaughter said nothing.

  A footman tapped at the door. “Excuse me, but I have a note from His Grace, the Duke of Fairfield—”

  “I told you!” Halstead burst out excitedly. “I told you, Kitty. We are further on the rise.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord, but the note is for Captain Denham. And the runner is awaiting a reply.”

  The room went silent, and three pairs of eyes turned on him with shocked resentment, one pair with curiosity, as the footman delivered the note. But Randall took no joy or satisfaction in being the recipient. He wanted nothing to do with whatever malicious chess game Fairfield might be playing, first attending the ball, then sending a missive. For the duke did nothing by chance.

  Handling the thick, expensive cream parchment like a rotting carcass, Randall opened it and read quickly. Then he shook his head at the footman. “Alas, I am unable to attend His Grace today or any other, as I have prior commitments. Please convey my regrets.”

  “Are you mad, Denham?” spluttered the marquess, the sound of his fork clattering onto his plate equally jarring to the ears. “You won’t have a position here soon, and Fairfield’s patronage would open every door in England.”

  That might be true, but he would accept assistance from the devil himself before asking Fairfield again. The duke’s gifts came with so many strings attached they may as well be marionettes, and he enjoyed the power of bestowing and collecting favors. Almost as much as he enjoyed discarding those who were no longer useful. The only thing he hadn’t been able to control was his wife’s barrenness; when he eventually cocked up his toes the dukedom would pass to a cousin.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Randall said steadily. “But some patronage is not worth the cost.”

  He regretted the words as soon as he said them, for Halstead muttered about the daftness of soldiers, Kitty and the dowager exchanged a look of well-bred disdain, and Lady Portia stared at him with an expression he knew all too intimately: that if she got him alone, he would be subject to an interrogation worthy of any barrister.

  Eventually, when the silence grew uncomfortable, Lady Portia cleared her throat. “So. What is on the schedule for today? I’m sure it will be…delightful.”

  Halstead glared at her. “I have an appointment with my banker.”

  The dowager leaned forward. “With Portia residing here, she really doesn’t need her own account. You should instruct your banker to close it. No doubt her future husband will open a new one for her, it will surely be only a matter of weeks after all.”

  “That is true, Mother. Good thinking. I’ll be transferring the dowry payment to her husband anyway. Right and proper for men to take care of such matters. Finances are simply too complex for women to understand.”

  “Poppycock,” said Portia. “One day we will all mind our own affairs. Perhaps even vote.”

  Kitty gasped. “Vote? Oh no. How silly. We don’t need that, our men look after us.”

  “Ha. Most men look out entirely for themselves.”

  “Portia. Really, dear. No ugly reformist talk at the table. We must go and dress in preparation for being at home to callers, I am sure we’ll have a full house today. Come along, I shall instruct Marie to curl your hair again. It looked so fetching last night.”

  Randall exchanged a glance with Lady Portia, and he stifled a smile at the glint in her eyes. It seemed his lover had plans for the unwitting men about to come calling.

  She rose to her feet. “Denham, you’ll stay to keep the peace?”

  Randall bowed. In truth, he feared for the lives of Kitty and the dowager, not to mention the peers who would darken the doorstep in a matter of hours.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Chapter 5

  “I regret, my lady, we may not suit after all. Good day.”

  Portia nodded sadly at the older peer as he bowed and scurried out of the drawing room. All she’d done was talk about the Ancient Romans, how could she have known the man might turn green at hearing a tale of blood sacrifices and orgies with whips and dildos as they took a turn about the room?

  Prospective husbands these days. No backbone whatsoever.

  And yet she could feel herself wilting, after managing thirty of them.

  THIRTY.

  How were there so many unmarried peers in England? A small army ranging in age from twenty-three to sixty, had descended on Butler House for the sake of her dowry. She’d had to be creative in her dissuasion: to a jaded rake
, she had described her nightly two-hour prayer ritual. A viscount with a pink nose and watery eyes departed after hearing about the vast menagerie of beloved pets who slept in her bed, a notorious penny-pinching earl decided they might not be a match because she so loved gambling and buying a new bonnet or gown every other day. Horrifying the youngest hopeful had been almost too easy—halting in the middle of a conversation to wet a lace handkerchief and scrub at his chin while cooing what a good boy he was. She had scolded habits and hobbies, given lectures on women’s rights, criticized politics and tailoring, and effusively praised the Prince Regent…and yet despite all of that, ten bloody lords had still kissed her hand, told her she was charming, and they would return.

  Damn their empty bank accounts, and her wretched family.

  Thankfully Denham stood beside the drawing room window all stern and deadly, watching every single peer—plus Kitty and the dowager—like a hawk watches a mouse, so she hadn’t resorted to pelting them with raisin pastries. But finally, finally, the last lingering lord took his hat and cane and left the townhouse, and Portia sank into a chair and rubbed her temples. Hours and hours of dismantling the worst examples of male entitlement and backward thinking did take its toll.

  “Lady Portia requires some fresh air,” said Denham. “Perhaps a short ride along Rotten Row. Or a turn in the curricle.”

  Kitty frowned. “It is chilly out. I’m not sure—”

  “Lady Portia requires some fresh air,” repeated Denham sternly. “For her health.”

  “One hour,” said the dowager. “In the curricle and Marie accompanies you.”

  “As you wish.”

  A half hour later they sat ensconced in the curricle, Marie perched on the back in the groom’s seat, the wind blessedly cool and relatively fresh after the stench of flowers, perfume and sweat that had hung like a shroud in the room. Each time they turned a corner or Denham navigated around another vehicle their shoulders and thighs rubbed together, and Portia bit her lip to halt a whimper of fierce arousal. Her nipples were chafing against her chemise, her quim damp and throbbing, and even the thought of Denham’s fingers destroying the foolish curls and massaging her scalp to ease the hurt of the unnatural style almost made her orgasm.