At His Lady’s Command Page 8

  “We do.”

  “A-ha! There are my new favorite lovebirds,” said an amused feminine voice, and they both turned to see Madeline standing in the entrance hall, looking very pleased with herself. “You left the bed intact, I trust?”

  Portia shook her head. “Destroyed.”

  “In at least twenty pieces,” said Randall.

  Madeline giggled and twirled a curl around her finger. “Outstanding effort. My young scholarly husband will be delighted to learn that age slows neither lust nor love. Tea?”

  “We can’t today,” said Portia regretfully. “I would adore a proper visit, but my wretched stepmother only permitted us an hour out in the curricle. An hour! After a morning of entertaining thirty avaricious peers in the drawing room.”

  “Good grief. No wonder you both looked so wild-eyed on arrival. Dare was concerned.”

  “We are very grateful for your kindness and hospitality,” said Randall, bowing.

  “Anytime, Captain. Now, I shall fetch your maid, and you can be on your way back to prison.”

  Portia’s shoulders slumped as Madeline hurried away. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Neither do I.”

  But they didn’t dare say another word, not with Marie’s imminent return. When her maid arrived in a flurry of skirts and cake crumbs, they did indeed trudge out the front door and down the steps like condemned men marching to Newgate. At least it was still cool and overcast outside, and hadn’t started raining.

  “Denham, you filthy bastard! Abducting my sister!”

  Horrified at the barked insult, Portia turned to see her brother advancing on them, his fists clenched, with eight footmen in support. “Halstead! How dare you—”

  “Whore.”

  Randall snarled, and she just managed to halt a murder in Manchester Square by placing a restraining hand on her lover’s arm.

  “Not in public, Halstead,” Portia hissed. “At Butler House. We’ll see you there.”

  Her brother glared at her. “I think not. You’ll come with me. Denham may go straight to hell.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Randall bit out.

  Halstead smiled cruelly. “You’re dismissed. Without pay or reference. And you, my dear sister, have a wedding to prepare for. If you decline my selection in a husband, I will have your orphanage closed tomorrow and commit you to Bedlam, until you are more amiable. We have been far too soft, I see that now.”

  Ice slithered down her spine. Another revolting power that men held—locking away troublesome women as ‘mad’. “No. I won’t…”

  Halstead motioned to his footmen, and two grabbed her arms. When she landed a solid kick to her brother’s shin, he ordered the footmen to take her to his carriage. Randall leaped forward, obviously intending to snatch her back, and the remaining six footmen attacked him.

  “Portia!” he roared, as he deflected punch after punch. “Portia!”

  “Randall!” she screamed, struggling violently against her captors. But they shoved her into the carriage, and when at last Randall fell and the footmen left him in a bleeding, crumpled heap, she could only pound on the window in despair as the carriage sped away.

  Halstead had won. Again.

  Chapter 6

  Randall had sworn never again to do a deal with the devil, because the cost was too high.

  Yet for a chance of heaven with Portia, he would slay any beast, complete any quest, travel to the ends of the earth…or put his pride in his pocket along with decades of sorrow and hurt, anger and loathing, and ask his father for help. Because she was worth it, and more. The way she’d held him, raged for him, shown that at his most broken she wouldn’t forsake or belittle but comfort and bolster…there would never be another woman for him. Not ever.

  Gritting his teeth, he approached the imposing St. James’s Square townhouse and rapped on the polished brass knocker. Shortly afterward the door opened to reveal an immaculately dressed, silver-haired butler, who momentarily lost his composure and gaped.

  Randall winced. He did look a fright, despite the Dares’ best efforts to clean him up. A swollen eye, cut and bruised face, and torn jacket was never the ideal way to present oneself at a duke’s door. “Er…good afternoon. I am—”

  “Captain Denham,” said the butler, bowing low. “Please do come in, sir. You are most welcome.”

  Startled, he followed the older man into the vast and ridiculously lavish entrance hall. “What is your name? And how do you know who I am?”

  “I am Keith, sir. Because of His Grace’s portraits. May I offer tea or something stronger? Do you require a physician? A constable?”

  Randall frowned. Portraits? “Tea would be welcome. Thank you.”

  “At once, sir. If you would wait in the library while I inform His Grace? He…he will be so delighted to see you.”

  That remained to be seen, but Randall followed the butler across the entrance hall and down a painting-lined hallway to the ducal library. It fitted Fairfield’s persona, with dark paneled wood, leather-bound books, burgundy walls, and thick Aubusson rugs on the floor. Elegantly intimidating, expensive and heartless.

  Yet…perhaps not entirely. For behind an oversized oak desk piled high with papers, were the portraits Keith had been referring to.

  Unable to halt his curiosity, Randall moved closer. Shockingly, there were several of him, the most recent when he’d been promoted to captain, for he wore full dress regimentals. Also one of him as a smiling boy atop a pony, another as a lad with a sailboat he’d proudly fashioned. But next to that…

  A boulder lodged in his throat. “Mama,” he choked out, one reverent finger reaching to touch the expertly painted canvas. A beautiful dark-haired woman beamed back at him, her green eyes glowing with love, her smile serene and yet mischievous too, as she cradled a swaddled infant in her arms.

  “That is my favorite of Joanna.”

  Randall froze at the baritone voice behind him. Still familiar after so many years, setting off an avalanche of agonizing memories that threatened to bury him. All the times Mama had cried. The hideous day of her death, and the aftermath when he’d been discarded like old boots. But aggravatingly, other memories, too. Father and son fishing in the river near the cottage. Approving nods when he mastered a new skill. The rare and brief hair ruffles. “I am surprised, Your Grace…” he said rawly, “that you display your dirty secrets so openly.”

  “This is my library, I’ll display who I damned well please. Besides. I like having them there. Now, are you going to turn around, or must I continue to converse with your back? Keith is bringing tea.”

  Oh, yes. That was the Fairfield he knew. Arrogant and unrepentant to the end.

  Slowly, he turned and looked at his father. As when he’d seen the duke at Halstead’s ball, the resemblance startled him. Portia was correct. They did have the same eyes, height, and bearing. And yet…Fairfield looked hesitant. Someone who didn’t know his icy ruthlessness might mistake the expression for regret.

  Randall Denham wasn’t so foolish. “You’ll be wondering why I’m here. In truth, I wouldn’t have come, unless…”

  “Something dire happened,” said Fairfield, walking around his oversized oak desk and settling into his padded chair. “Why don’t you sit and tell me about it? I presume it is related to the Manchester Square brawl?”

  He didn’t bother asking how his father knew. The Duke of Fairfield had so many spies, he practically heard about things before they happened.

  “Yes,” he replied, reluctantly sliding into a high-backed chair opposite him. Bloody hell this was difficult, remaining composed when he wanted to hurl the contents of the desk onto the floor. Rage at the man who had caused him such pain.

  “Well, go on then. I’m not getting any younger.”

  Swirling emotions sparked into fury. “Tell me one thing. Are you even the slightest bit sorry for what you did?”

  Fairfield went very still, his piercing gaze shuttering. “A man doesn’t reach the ripe old age of eight
y without a few regrets, boy.”

  “My birth? Or abandoning me?”

  His father glared, clearly affronted. “Never your birth. You were my firstborn, my Joanna’s gift to me. I couldn’t have been more pleased to have a son.”

  “And yet you left me behind,” Randall said, gripping the arms of the chair. “A child.”

  “Not a child, a grown lad.”

  “I was twelve. My mother had just died. Because of you.”

  Fairfield drooped, and suddenly he appeared every one of those eighty years. Weary. Haggard. Even frail. “You think I don’t know that? I carry the burden every day. All the money, all the power in England couldn’t save your mother and baby sister from a bad birth. Grief nearly killed me. I couldn’t bear it…or to see her smile on your face.”

  Randall’s hands curled into fists, aching to tear something apart, anything to dull the agony clawing at his insides. “If you’d just left her alone...”

  “Could you leave Lady Portia alone?”

  He hesitated. Could he? “I—”

  “Not so b-black and white, is it boy?” said the duke, thumping his fist on the desk, his tone uncharacteristically shaky. “In a perfect world, I would have met your mother first and married her. But life is not always fair or just. Six m-months! I’d been wed only six months when we met at that house party. One wink from that bold little minx and I knew Joanna Denham would be the great love of my life…”

  A knock sounded at the door and his father’s lips clamped shut as Keith bustled in with a tea tray and apple tarts. After pouring for each of them, the butler quietly retreated. They both sipped at the tea, seemingly equally grateful for the respite.

  “So,” Fairfield said at last, leaning back and tapping his fingertips on his chin, his face once again cool and expressionless. “Something dire happened to bring you here. I’d wager to do with that hellion you guard.”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  His father blinked. “You misunderstand. I mean it as a compliment. I have a special fondness for hellions with fire in their bellies and a brain in their heads, even if they do create mayhem. Tell me the situation.”

  Surprisingly, the words fell unhindered from his lips. Everything from the cancelled Guildford townhouse lease and the thirty suitors, to their curricle escape to Manchester Square. Then the confrontation with Halstead, his threats of Bedlam, and the footmen attack. “So that brought me here.”

  “I’ll have that impertinent pup’s hide for such insults. What is your rescue strategy?”

  Randall rubbed his jaw. “I’m not sure.”

  “Nonsense. You cannot tell me you didn’t learn your terrain. Every alcove and window and door. You are far too good a soldier—and bodyguard—for that.”

  Irritated at the warmth the praise provoked, Randall replied, “I may have some idea. But that doesn’t matter. If Lady Portia runs away with me, she loses everything. Halstead will find a way to withhold her dowry, and close down her orphanage, which will devastate her. We’ll be without funds or a home. I can’t ask that of a lady.”

  Fairfield snorted. “You aren’t penniless, nor will you be homeless. If you’d had the sense to accept my invitation, you’d have seen the documentation. Unfortunately not a dukedom or the entailed properties…but a fortune I insist you accept.”

  “You insist?”

  The old man drooped again. “Take the money. I know it doesn’t begin to atone for the past…but it will ensure your future. A love match is what Joanna would have wanted for you. Please, Randall. Do it for her. You don’t…you don’t have to speak to me in future. Unless you choose to.”

  Christ.

  The all-conquering Duke of Fairfield actually begging, and calling him by name. And yet he spoke truth. Mama would have adored Portia, and as a practical woman, scolded him for hesitating over the money. He hated to take it, but wealth offered choices. A man of means could purchase property, offer a special marriage contract where his wife retained all freedoms and distributed her dowry as she pleased…

  “Very well,” Randall said at last. “I accept.”

  * * *

  How many sheets did one require for a second-floor escape attempt?

  Portia peered out into the darkness and gulped. It would be a wretched thing to leap to her freedom, only to find herself dangling ten feet off the ground. Or worse, have the sheets rip and plummet her head first onto the footpath. But two things were true. The first, that her revolting cretin of a brother had locked her bedchamber door, and there were no helpful hidden passages. The second; she had decided to marry Randall Denham, and it had to happen quickly.

  After so many years disdaining marriage as a hammer of the patriarchy, it did feel odd even contemplating it. But in this case, it would be the tool to set her free, and one couldn’t ignore facts just because it didn’t suit an argument. There were a few good society marriages, ones where husband and wife were equals, not master and supplicant. Madeline and Dare enjoyed such a union, Susanna and Fenton also. Even her own parents had been happy. With a man like Randall as her husband, someone who knew her faults, foibles, and beliefs yet didn’t seek to change or control her…life just might be rather excellent.

  If she could just get to him, all would be well. The Fentons would surely lend them money for a special license, and if they could evade Halstead until she and Denham wed, her brother would be helpless. It wasn’t like they were under the age of twenty-one and required parent or guardian consent. Yes, they would have no funds until her dowry got transferred, but they had friends with guest chambers. If Halstead challenged the validity of her marriage and withheld the money, she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She could learn to sew or cook. And as Randall had suggested, if Prinny bestowed his royal favor on her orphanage, it would be quite safe from Halstead’s games…

  Portia turned and walked back to her bed. Now was not the time to fret about the future. First and foremost, she had to break out of this luxury cell.

  “Thank you for your sacrifice to the greater good,” she murmured, yanking back the quilt, and tugging the sheets away from the mattress. Fortunately, the linen felt of reasonable quality, and by the light of her candelabra, she tied two ends together in a sailor’s knot Papa had taught her. “A good start. Now, I…oooffff…”

  Panic flared as a large hand clamped over her mouth, and another clasped her hard against a large and unyielding male body. Until she recognized the familiar scent and shape, and the familiar voice who whispered, “It’s me, Portia.”

  She choked down a cry of joy, wriggling free so she could throw her arms around him, and bury her face against a surprisingly fine jacket fabric. “Ah, Randall…whose clothing are you wearing?”

  “It’s a long story. One I will tell you only when we are far away from Cavendish Square.”

  Portia nodded, reaching up to cup his injured face, a hiss escaping at the damage Halstead’s footmen had done. “I can appreciate that. I do have one question though.”

  “How I got into your bedchamber?”

  “Very well, two questions.”

  “What was the first?”

  She took his hands in hers. “Randall Denham, will you marry me?”

  Randall sucked in a breath. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m glad you asked. Thrilled. Knowing how you feel about marriage, I didn’t know quite how to offer without it sounding foolish.”

  “Am I sure that my captain is mine and I am his? Yes.”

  A slow smile formed, one that lit up his face. “I must confess…I fell in love with you the day after we met. I think I took a day to recover from the initial impact of your fire and affinity to a runaway cart. I’ve always wanted to marry you, but I was your bodyguard. And I know how you feel about rules and the law. I’ll sign whatever must be signed. I don’t want control of you or your money, just for us to be together, always. If marriage means we cherish and support each other, laugh and love together, and never have children as long as we both shall live, then my answer is a
resounding yes.”

  Portia sniffled. And sniffled again. But her heart was too full, and tears spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks. Randall truly was her perfect match.

  “I’m not rage watering,” she sobbed. “That was the m-most romantic thing anyone has ever s-said to m-me. It took me so long to realize. I found it nearly impossible to trust, when I’ve had so m-many bad experiences. And the others in the Society found their person. Or people. I thought I never w-would. But you stayed. You showed me. And let me m-make it very clear that you are the only m-man I will ever love. Certainly the only man I would ever agree to stand in front of a c-clergyman with.”

  “How about ten o’clock tomorrow morning? I’m afraid all that could be arranged is the Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the ceremony,” Randall replied, wiping her tears with his thumbs, his dark eyes so warm and tender in the candlelight she would soon turn into England’s most prolific watering pot.

  The Archbishop himself? No one would ever be able to challenge their union!

  “I suppose he’ll have to do,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “However we need to escape immediately. I want to hear this long story of yours. Like how you are wearing fine clothing, and managed to procure not only a special license, but the archbishop.”

  “It might…it might have something to do with a certain duke who possesses power far beyond most mortal men.”

  “Good heavens. A very, very long story then.”

  “Indeed,” he said quietly. “Will you still love me if I tell you I’m no longer a penniless soldier but a man in possession of a fortune?”

  “I suppose so,” she teased, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Now, move, Randall! Did you climb a tree? Do we need my sheets after all? I am rather adept with a sailor’s knot, if I do say so myself. I was planning to break the glass with a chamber pot, leap out the window with the sheet tied around my waist, and then come and find you. Hopefully without having broken too many limbs.”