At His Lady’s Command Page 7

  She needed him immediately. To feel his hands on her body, his hard lips on hers, his thick cock stretching her wide.

  “Denham, take us to Manchester Square,” she ordered. “We must pay a visit to Lord and Lady Dare to…thank them for their kindness last night at the ball.”

  “At once, my lady.”

  Disgruntled at his even tone when she felt so on edge, Portia discreetly slid her hand under the light rug covering their laps and stroked his thigh. Only then did she discover the huge bulge straining against his trousers, and her breath catching, she trailed her fingertips across it.

  “Wait,” he growled.

  “Drive faster,” she replied, deliberately clutching his arm and rubbing one swollen nipple against it when they turned the next corner. If they didn’t find a room soon, she would lift her ruby-red gown and straddle him right here—safety, Marie, and those out walking be damned. She’d been starved of him, and now she needed to feast.

  After surely the longest journey in history, they arrived at the Dare townhouse in Manchester Square. Discarding all propriety, leaving Denham behind to assist Marie down from her seat at the back of the curricle, Portia near sprinted up the three steps and pounded on the front door.

  When the butler opened it, she gave him her most imperious stare. “I need to speak with Lord or Lady Dare. It is most urgent.”

  “Your name, madam?”

  “Lady Portia Butler.”

  Gratifyingly, the older man’s expression warmed into deference, and he ushered the three of them inside before hurrying away.

  “Lady Portia!” said a rich, male voice, and she glanced to her left to see Lord Ethan Dare stroll across the lavish entrance hall. “And Captain Denham. How wonderful to see you. Perhaps, Lady Portia, your maid would enjoy tea and cakes in the kitchens while we have a nice visit in the parlor?”

  Marie hesitated, but with three stern sets of eyes on her, curtsied and trotted off with a footman.

  Dare grinned. “Madeline and I are working on my book. She told me that if you and the captain should arrive looking wild and desperate, that I should not delay you, but merely point out that at the top of the stairs, second door on the right, there is a most comfortable guest chamber.”

  “Your wife is a treasure,” said Portia. “And chose well in a spouse.”

  The viscount nodded gravely, but his eyes twinkled. “I like to think so. Please try not to break the bed. Devilishly expensive things.”

  Would they even make it to the bed?

  “My lord,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, before grasping Denham’s hand and dragging him toward the stairs. Or perhaps they dragged each other.

  In all honesty, Portia would have been satisfied with a stable, as long as she could be alone with him. But the chamber was light and airy and grandly furnished. Well, what she saw of it before she flew into his arms.

  “I can’t bear it,” she gasped, between long, searing kisses, as her clumsy hands tore at his cravat and tried to peel his jacket off. “I need you so. Randall.”

  “Portia…” he said hoarsely, turning her around, his mouth a dream on her neck as he unfastened the gown buttons and eased the cord of her stays so she could wriggle free and place the garments, and her petticoat, over a chair. Too impatient to either get into bed or remove her chemise, shoes, and stockings, Portia leaned forward and rested her elbows on a small desk before bunching her chemise at the waist.

  “Fuck me.”

  Randall’s hands were reverent as they caressed her hips and backside, and she shuddered in an agony of anticipation, so wet that juices from her aching quim were trickling down her inner thighs. Yet he didn’t stuff her full with his cock. Instead, there was a soft thud as he dropped to his knees…a brief puff of warm air on her labia…and then his tongue, oh God, his tongue fluttering over her clitoris, lapping up her wetness and circling her back entrance, making her moan with a need so acute it left her trembling.

  “You’re soaked,” he said. “And delicious.”

  “D-Don’t tease. Fuck me. At once.”

  He laughed unsteadily, and she quivered as his next movement was to rise and curve himself over her, spread her thighs further with his, and rub the engorged head of his cock against her slick quim. “Sorry, my lady. It’s been too long since I had the taste of your sweet cunt in my mouth.”

  Then he thrust inside her. The pleasure was blinding and absolute as her inner walls melted around his thick length, attempting to keep him within but failing as he withdrew and returned, withdrew and returned, deeper and harder each time. Portia bucked in bliss, hips tilting and head thrashing as her body surrendered, climaxing in a rush of feverish ecstasy that only intensified as he pulled out to come on her back with a guttural roar, his hot seed lashing her sensitive skin like a whip.

  As it was with Randall…utterly unforgettable.

  * * *

  If he’d been able to move, Randall might have shaken his head at what they’d just done. Behaved like a pair of star-crossed, lusty seventeen-year-olds who had thumbed their nose at their parents and run away for a forbidden tryst. They’d not even made it to the bed to risk breaking it. Lady Portia, the daughter and sister of a marquess, bent over a desk in her chemise, shoes, and stockings, and him behind her with his trousers around his knees…

  She still hadn’t said a word, though. Had he hurt her? Been too rough?

  “Lady Portia?” he asked uncertainly, easing away and taking a clean handkerchief from his jacket to mop her back.

  “You called me just Portia before. I prefer that from you. Randall and Portia. Yes, that sounds right.”

  Relief swamped him as she pushed herself up from the desk, flexed her arms, and turned to grin at him. A soft, sated, impish grin that wound its way around his heart like an embrace.

  “Could I interest you in bed?” he rasped, his throat still scratchy from the force of his climax. Fortunately the walls were sturdy in the Dare townhouse, otherwise everyone in Manchester Square might have heard them.

  “Always,” she said, taking his hand and leading them both in a comical wobbly-legged, clothing-impeded shuffle over to the enticing-looking bed.

  After exchanging amused glances at their state of disrepute, they undressed fully, and crawled under the crisp sheets. Almost instantly Portia settled herself half-atop him, her head on his chest, one arm flung over his waist and one leg crossing his. Her unashamed queenly possessiveness warmed him to the soul—it seemed she would never willingly discard or leave him behind.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked curiously, tilting her head to look up at him.

  Randall hesitated, the truth too raw. “Er…how bloody ridiculous it is that two full-grown, unmarried adults had to run to their friends’ house to be naked for a stolen hour.”

  “Bloody ridiculous is far too mild a term. And all because my father failed to leave me my own portion. I am quite sure my stepmother’s influence is to blame for that, but Fairfield said he wasn’t impressed with my father’s decisions, and I must say I concur.”

  No. Do not speak of him. Please.

  Randall tried to remain calm, to suppress the dark, crushing emotions that accompanied any thought of the duke. But his entire body went rigid. “You must not let His Grace get under your skin. That is…stay away. He…he uses and discards without a qualm.”

  “I think,” Portia said, as she held him a little tighter, “you need to tell me why you feel the way you do about the Duke of Fairfield. I know I am not entitled to such information, but I want to understand why you refused his invitation. For it seems he has some hold over you that hurts you, and I do not like it.”

  “Because I belong to you?” he replied, only half in jest.

  She didn’t smile. “Yes. You’re my captain.”

  Randall tried to form the words. But his mouth felt as dry as a desert, and the rules of a lifetime were hard to break. “He…I…”

  Portia stroked his arm. “Was he your employer, perhaps? A
landlord?”

  “Nothing that simple,” he said bitterly.

  “Tell me. Please.”

  Randall took a deep breath and eventually blurted, “He’s my father.”

  A low cry tore from her throat, and Portia scrambled to sit up. “What? Oh God…I never even thought…but yes. You have the same eyes, the same height. I bet he had black hair as a younger man. That…that vile cretin. That weasel. What kind of monster doesn’t acknowledge his own son? Noblemen do it all the time. Royals do it! Even if you couldn’t inherit the title…Fairfield better start praying, for when I see him again I’m going to take that gold-topped cane and break both his legs.”

  His eyes burned at her indignant fury on his behalf. Christ. He was going to break down in front of her. To think he’d seen all manner of horrific things in battle and managed to remain calm and steady for his men, yet talking about his damned father ripped him open and left him vulnerable and barely coherent. Humiliated at his weakness, sure Portia would despise his tears, Randall sat up and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “I just…uh…”

  “Don’t you dare turn away from me, Randall Denham. This is his shame, not yours,” she said fiercely, and in a lightning-quick move, she straddled his thighs, tucked his head against her neck, and wrapped her arms around him. But when her fingers threaded through his hair in that firm, disciplinary way that he loved, words began to spill from his lips. A trickle. Then a waterfall.

  “Fairfield met my mother at a house party. She shouldn’t have even been there, it was one of those private bawdy masquerade ones, but she went to win a wager. I don’t know what Mother was thinking bedding him…the duke had recently married, so couldn’t offer for her even if he wanted to. But she fell pregnant and her family disowned her. Fairfield purchased a cottage for her in the country, and continued to visit. Then she had me.”

  Portia stroked his back. “Go on.”

  “The duke was delighted. Gave her money, brought gifts. Later, I started attending the village school, but he thought it inadequate and arranged for a tutor as well as lessons in horse riding, dancing, and fencing. Everything a young gentleman should know. Then he and my mother began to fight. His wife had not conceived, and blamed his affair. He needed a legitimate heir, so he returned to the duchess. But he couldn’t give my mother up completely, and every so often they met in secret. She would leave me at the cottage. Leave happy, and return in tears. Every time. I began to hate him.”

  “Randall. And the duchess never had children.”

  His stomach churned at what he was about to reveal. The very worst of his nightmare. “No. This went on for years. So many damned years. My mother fell pregnant again. But…but the birth went badly, and…she and the babe died. I saw it all, so much blood and agony, and decided there and then I didn’t want children, that my woman would never suffer so.”

  “What about your father?” Portia asked softly, as she rocked him.

  “Fairfield departed and never returned. He left me behind.”

  She went rigid. “But you couldn’t have been more than a lad!”

  “I was twelve,” he whispered, and the tears he’d been fighting itched a path down his cheeks. “I went to an orphanage. Not like the one you are patron of. They…did not treat me well. I dreamed of joining the army and leaving England forever. But a commission costs money. Even though I hated him more than life itself, I wrote to Fairfield. He never replied, but his secretary sent a bank draft, and an instruction to send a progress letter each quarter. Twenty-five years I served, and I wrote every fucking quarter. Occasionally I got a brief note from his secretary, but never from my father. Not until…the invitation this morning.”

  “Do you know the duke had his man at Whitehall recommend you to Papa because of your record and excellent character? That’s what he told me when we danced.”

  An old familiar pain knifed through his heart. “He never told me. Mama did. Sometimes my superior officers. But never him. Not once. My world collapsed, and he abandoned me without a thought. Like I was worthless. Nothing.”

  “You are everything.”

  “What?” he said, his vision so blurry he could barely see her face.

  Portia cupped his face as she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “You are all that is good. Strong and brave, calm and kind. I respect you because you care and protect, never oppress or belittle. And knowing what you lived through, so much hurt and grief, and yet still you marched on…it only makes me want you more.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “You…you do?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Show me,” Randall whispered. Even though she had him cradled against her, he needed to be closer. To replenish his strength in her fire.

  Portia leaned back and licked her lips. “With pleasure, my captain. With pleasure.”

  * * *

  Somehow, she had to keep her composure.

  If she thought about Randall’s childhood, how Fairfield had abandoned him to an orphanage after the death of his mother and baby sibling, or later, when the duke had asserted his power by insisting his son write while never replying, she would be apocalyptic with rage. Fairfield had disapproved of her father’s decisions, all while knowing he had done infinitely worse, the gross hypocrite.

  So typical of most peers. Do as I say, not as I do.

  But Randall didn’t need her righteous fury right now. And the aching sympathy she felt for the terrible loss he had suffered might be construed as pity. What he needed was affection. Healing. A physical reminder that she desired him above all others, and that his revelations had strengthened their bond, not damaged it.

  Settling Randall on the pillows, Portia slid sinuously down his body until her mouth rested level with his cock. “You know,” she said idly as she teased his thick length to hardness with her fingertips, “I really cannot decide which part of you I like best. It changes by the minute.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean, I adore your brawny arms when they are around me, and yes, fighting off drunks. Your mind, for the intelligent conversation and jests that make me laugh. But then there is your tongue. I daresay it is the most wickedly expert in England.”

  “I do try,” Randall said, smiling faintly.

  “Such talented fingers. And then there is this magnificent beast, that I adore to ride,” she continued, giving his cock a loving squeeze.

  He coughed. “You aren’t going to give it a name…are you?”

  Portia grinned as she swirled her tongue across the swollen, damp head. “Mighty steed? Or perhaps rampant stallion?”

  “If you commission a miniature saddle, I’m leaving.”

  “Now that would be a shame. I shall have to prevent such a travesty.”

  “How?” he asked gruffly.

  “Like this.” Circling the base of his cock with her fingers, she took as much as she could into her mouth. Sucking him. Licking him. Swallowing his salty, earthy essence as it dripped onto her busy tongue.

  “You…you don’t have to.”

  “I enjoy sucking your cock,” Portia said, after pausing briefly in her ministrations. “Seeing your face, hearing you moan, feeling you grow thicker and harder in my mouth because I am pleasuring you just how you like it. It reminds me that I know what my captain needs. That you are mine. And it makes me very wet.”

  Randall sat up. “Ride me, Portia. Please. I need to feel you all around me. Your cunt gripping my cock, your breasts against my chest, your nails on my back, your lips…”

  Giving his cock one last lick, she moved up again. Then she took his pulsing erection in hand and fed it into her greedy quim. “Is that better?”

  “Fuck,” he whispered, his breaths harsh, shuddering pants as he leaned down to suck her taut nipples.

  Portia whimpered as each rhythmic tug of his lips and flick of his tongue sent a sizzling jolt straight to her quim. Bracing her hands on his broad shoulders, she rocked against him, circling her hips, using her inner mu
scles to tease and torment. Unlike their deliciously rough, chaotic fucking over the desk, this was slower, more sensual. Loving. As though they had all the time in the world, like a couple at home who had decided that a lazy afternoon in bed would be just the thing. In the haven of his arms, she could almost believe in a happily ever after. But as though reminding them this was indeed a stolen hour, the clock in the corner of the room chimed faintly.

  “Not yet,” she said, pressing closer to Randall, abrading her nipples against the hair on his chest, biting his neck, scratching her nails down his spine.

  “Yes,” he rasped in her ear. “Mark me as yours, Portia.”

  Fierce as an Amazon, she rode him hard. All too soon came the familiar tightening, the crashing waves of overwhelming sensation, and she buried her mouth in his shoulder to muffle her orgasmic cry. Only then did she pull herself up and off his cock, before reaching down to stroke him to a bucking, spurting, gloriously messy completion.

  Sated and breathless, they clung together for one long precious moment before letting go.

  “We have to return to Butler House,” said Randall, as he left the bed and fetched his handkerchief so she could wipe her hands. “And think of a new strategy. Clearly, there are ten peers Halstead approves of who would marry any woman, probably even Medusa herself, for that dowry.”

  Portia snorted. “I look like Medusa with these awful curls. I only wish I had her ability to turn men to stone. Then I could have a nice row of peer statues in the garden for the pigeons to decorate.”

  “A most appealing thought.”

  They dressed, helping each other with buttons, and smoothing fabric, until at last there was no reason to remain in their temporary sanctuary.

  “We owe the Dares a great debt,” said Portia, glancing one last time around the beautiful, tranquil room, before they reluctantly made their way back down the stairs.