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  Her fiancé grinned. “I’ve no doubt you would have leaped, my lady. But may I suggest a rather less deadly way, down the hallway and stairs, and out through the kitchens. Halstead really needs better locks on the doors.”

  Oh, but this was delightfully brazen, a midnight escape right under their noses. Gathering her reticule, donning sturdy shoes, and a warm pelisse over her nightgown, Portia then removed a candle from the elaborate candelabra to light their way. Randall took her hand and led her to the bedchamber door, motioning to step where he did. Hmmm, it seemed the clever man knew exactly where the creaky floorboards were.

  The candle offered precious little light, and her heart remained in her throat the entire time, but they successfully navigated the hallway and stairs, and entered the kitchens.

  Botheration.

  “Oi!” said the lone footman, putting down the currant bun he was furtively eating. “Captain? You’re supposed to be—”

  “Goodnight,” said Randall, as he knocked the man unconscious with one blow to the jaw, and stepped over his inert form.

  “Jolly good punch,” Portia whispered. “You need to teach me.”

  He shook his head, and led her to the back door that opened outside to a small enclosed garden. The moon offered enough light to see where they were going now, as did the oil lamps in the street beyond the wall. Silently, he crouched down and cupped his hands for her to step into, so he could boost her up and over the six-foot high wall. Portia grimaced at the sound of tearing fabric when her pelisse snagged a piece of rough stone on the way down, but that was a tiny price to pay for freedom.

  “Where are we?” she said, peering around when Randall landed lightly next to her. “I’m a little disorientated.”

  “At the end of Harley Street. Don’t worry, our transportation is just over there.”

  Portia looked up to see a carriage with four footmen perched in front and four in back. A carriage with a distinctive ducal crest. “Fairfield?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive him for abandoning me,” Randall replied. “But he…wants to atone. I’m giving him a chance because it means I can be with you forever. And that is worth it.”

  “Very well,” she said crisply. “As long as he knows I will break both his legs if he hurts you again.”

  And in perfect understanding, they walked to the carriage to begin a delicious new future.

  Together.

  * * *

  If someone had told him two years ago that he would be in the Duke of Fairfield’s drawing room while Charles Manners-Sutton, the Archbishop of Canterbury, wed him to Lady Portia Butler, he would have thought they were drunk. Or quite mad.

  Yet here they were.

  Randall gazed down at Portia in awe as she repeated her vows in front of the kindly archbishop. She wore a beautiful sapphire-blue gown she’d borrowed from Susanna Fenton, her hair in her preferred smooth and practical chignon, the fussy curls no more than a memory now. He wore gray trousers, a gold embroidered waistcoat, fine linen shirt, and black jacket from his father’s wardrobe, and from the way Portia’s eyes had glittered when she saw him, the expensive clothing might not last the wedding night.

  Everyone they cared about most was here, too. His father’s secretary had been busy; sending a carriage to Surrey to collect Beatrice and Amelia from their cottage, and writing notes to Ethan and Madeline Dare, Joseph and Susanna Fenton, and Clayton to invite them to today’s ceremony. A row of high backed chairs had been set out in the drawing room, surrounded by silver and white satin ribbons, and red hothouse rose petals, for Portia would not countenance pink. His father sat on the end, resplendent as usual, but with suspiciously bright eyes. Next to him, balanced on its own chair, was his mother’s portrait. Then Ethan and Madeline, Beatrice and Amelia, and Susanna, Joseph, and Clayton, their faces wreathed in smiles, clutching each others’ hands.

  They had all found love and acceptance, friendship and erotic bliss through the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society. And now he and Portia had, too. Yes, they were older than the others and it might have taken them longer to find their happy ending, but as he’d once said to Clayton, a good campaign takes time.

  “Now you, Captain Denham,” said the archbishop, nodding encouragingly.

  Randall took Portia’s left hand, and slid the emerald-set gold wedding band onto her finger as he repeated the necessary words. The ring he’d just purchased from Rundell, Bridge and Rundell was lovely indeed, although the green jewels would always pale in comparison to her eyes.

  And just like that, they were married.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said his new wife, with a very wicked grin. “I am Lady Portia Denham, and am now officially your problem.”

  “Then I am the luckiest man in England,” he replied, and despite their audience, he leaned down and kissed her thoroughly.

  “Yes! Hold that pose,” called Clayton. “I’m sketching.”

  They both laughed, but more than happy to comply, kept kissing until Fairfield thumped his cane on the floor and told them to take a damned breath or they would turn as blue as the bride’s gown. Soon after, Keith and a procession of footmen entered the room with trays of champagne and platters of food: meats and cheeses, lobster patties and fresh fish, apple tarts sprinkled with sugar and nutmeg, berries and clotted cream, pastries, and candied fruit. This was merely to tide them over until a formal dinner in the early evening. Fairfield had promised six courses, and knowing his father, there would be at least eight, each more extravagant than the last.

  The duke rang a bell for silence. “Good morning, one and all. I bid you welcome to my home. First, we remember those who God took from us too soon, but whom I’m sure are looking down and blessing this happy occasion. Miss Joanna Denham. Baby Hannah Denham. Jonathan, the former Marquess of Halstead, and his beloved first wife Miranda, the marchioness. Please raise your glass to those gone…but never, ever forgotten.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Portia fiercely, her eyes glistening. “Much loved and never forgotten.”

  Fairfield nodded approvingly. “And to Randall, my son, and his bride, Lady Portia, who I welcome into the family with open arms, let us raise a glass to health and happiness.”

  “To health and happiness,” the guests chorused.

  “Now, eat, drink and be merry. I insist.”

  “No!”

  Everyone in the drawing room halted at the furious yelp, and Randall clenched his fists at the sight of Halstead barging through the door, smacking at the Fairfield footman trying to stop him. Portia made a growling sound, and all the Society members advanced into a semi-circle of militant support right behind them.

  Only Fairfield looked unperturbed. “Halstead. A trifle early to be paying a call. But you are just in time to join us in celebrating the marriage of Randall and Lady Portia.”

  The marquess turned purple. “I’ll not allow it!”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Alas, dear brother, you missed the call for any objections. You have no power over me anymore.”

  “And I take grave exception to anyone distressing my wife,” said Randall with a deadly glare to the pompous young lord.

  “But…but…” Halstead spluttered. “Mother won’t approve. She’ll give you the cut direct. As will Kitty. You’ll be a penniless pariah. And I’ll have that orphanage closed.”

  Portia stalked forward until she stood nose to nose with her brother. “I care not what you or Kitty or your bloody mother think. I am a Denham now, and if you do anything to interfere with my happiness, anything at all, I shall ensure you are the sorriest marquess in England. No, the entire world. Do you understand, turnip-brain? I have vengeance on my mind, and am a most creative woman.”

  Applause rang out from the Society members, and the duke thumped his cane on the floor.

  “On your way, pup,” said Fairfield, gesturing to the door. “I’ll add that I would look most unfavorably on any behavior toward my daughter-in-law that wasn’t the height of civility. You thin
k you have real consequence? No, you do not. But I do. Every door could close. Remember that.”

  Randall almost laughed. No one did arrogant hauteur quite like his father. And although he would like nothing better than to rearrange Halstead’s nose for ordering the footmen to attack, there was no need. He and Portia had won. They were married, they had their friends around them, she would continue her charitable works and Society meetings, and any further contact she had with the Butlers would be her decision entirely.

  “Good day to you, Halstead,” he said instead. “Give our regards to your mother and wife. Perhaps stay away from us in the near future, though. For your own wellbeing.”

  “I concur,” said Portia, her wide smile more than a little frightening.

  Halstead visibly gulped, inclined his head the smallest fraction, and disappeared from the drawing room as though pursued by rabid hounds.

  “Wretched bully,” said Amelia, cuddling closer to Beatrice. “Apply a little pressure in return, and they crumble like dry toast.”

  “As always,” added Susanna. “How will you draw him, Clay?”

  “As a chicken,” said Clayton with a grin, his arms around both her and Joseph. “With oversized jowls.”

  “And peppered breeches,” giggled Madeline, resting her head on Ethan’s shoulder.

  The Society members exploded into laughter, and Fairfield looked at them, one eyebrow raised. “Care to explain?”

  Randall’s lips twitched. “My wife has rather unique ways of waging warfare.”

  Portia returned and curled her hand around his arm. “I do. Let it be known that anyone who hurts my captain will suffer most dreadfully.”

  The duke nodded, his eyes gleaming. “I knew it. Knew you were a hellion through and through, just as my Joanna was. Ah, Randall, what a life together you’ll have.”

  Yes. It would be exciting and glorious and no doubt hair-raising on occasion, for Portia would always live as fiercely and fearlessly as she loved.

  And he wouldn’t have her any other way.

  Epilogue

  Guildford, Surrey, one year later

  The current state of her parlor could only be described as pandemonium.

  Portia shook her head at the chaos around her. In one corner, Susanna, Joseph, and Clayton were stacking bolts of fabric and boxes of trim they had donated to her orphanage. Every girl would receive a new dress, and every boy, trousers and shirt for Christmastide. In another corner, Beatrice and Amelia were assisting Mrs. Theresa Berkley, the madam from the White House in London’s Soho Square, who had brought a range of her favorite disciplinary devices for an instructional talk. So absorbed were they in their task, they hadn’t noticed that one of the floggers had fallen onto the floor and was currently being mauled by Mittens, the striped ginger tyrant who had sauntered into the cottage one day and adopted Beatrice and Amelia as her servants.

  “I see Mittens has a new toy. Just as well cats have nine lives, I swear that one has already used up at least four. Amelia says if one more vase is shattered, or cushion torn to pieces, the feline will be locked out for good.”

  Turning, she grinned at her husband. “They could try. I suspect Mittens is much like you, no lock is sturdy enough to keep her out. Although when Mrs. Berkley sees the state of her flogger, a fifth life will definitely be extinguished.”

  “I blame the name,” said Fairfield irritably, as he thumped his cane. “What sort of nonsense is Mittens? Should be called She-Devil. Or Hellcat. Do you know the ill-mannered creature piddled on my shoe?”

  “Now, Faffy,” said Portia, giving her father-in-law a stern look. “What have I said about that bloody cane? If you wake the babies, there will be trouble.”

  Fairfield scowled, but placed his cane flat on the floor. He did not appreciate the combined diminutive of his title and father, something that provoked her to use it whenever he misbehaved. Which was often.

  “I won’t wake them,” the duke grumbled. “Dare promised me an advance copy of Volume Two of his Egyptian travels. Don’t want to miss out by making his daughter wail. She’s a feisty one, little Jessica. It’s the red hair. Although, to be fair, David Fenton is just as feisty. No doubt having a mother and two fathers doting on him does that. So spoilt! And they’re being rocked by a viscount and viscountess. Not right. Not right, I tell you.”

  Portia and Randall rolled their eyes at each other, barely stifling laughter. Indeed, on meeting days, the Dares or the Fentons and Clayton took turns minding the two babies. Because they were a family. Perhaps not by blood, but something much deeper. Friendship and affection, past history and shared values.

  So much had happened in their own lives, also. The past year had flown by, but it had been entirely wonderful. With Randall the now publicly acknowledged natural son of a duke and an extremely wealthy man, they had purchased a large house just outside of Guildford, with a great deal of land around it. Randall had opened a special barracks for returning soldiers to assist them in easing back into civilian life, and instruct them how to be bodyguards themselves. She had overseen further expansion of the orphanage, and employed several new tutors to teach the children their letters and numbers. Indeed, education was key.

  Of course they had continued the Society meetings, increasing the membership by one crotchety duke. The first time Fairfield had expressed an interest in attending, she had hesitated, not wanting to expose her friends to any woefully old fashioned lectures or morality. Until the duke had haughtily informed her that he’d been a Friar of Medmenham with Francis Dashwood and the Earl of Sandwich in his younger years, a later iteration of Wharton’s Hellfire Club, and if she thought that two ladies together or a trio might shock him, she was a henwit.

  Bloody old curmudgeon.

  “Should we start the meeting, then?” said Randall. “If I can wrest back that flogger from Mittens, it might still be salvageable.”

  “In a moment,” Portia replied, raising her face for a kiss. It had been several hours after all.

  “Hmmm. I think my lady might require an afternoon in bed to recover after all this.”

  “I’ve always found that to be remarkably restorative. Now, go and take your seat, Captain.”

  Clasping her hands together, she watched her friends talking, laughing and working busily. Helping these men and women, all unique in station and background and tastes, to overcome their past hurts and understand how special they were no matter who they loved, would always be one of her proudest achievements. Knowing that they would always have each other, in good times and bad, and that they had each found their personal happily ever after…well, that just made life so much better.

  “A-hem! Let the meeting of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society come to order!”

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Regency

  The London Lords

  To Love a Hellion (#1)

  Rake to Riches (#2)

  Tempting the Marquess (#3)

  Fallen

  Surrender to Sin (#1)

  The Devil's Submission (#2)

  The Seduction of Viscount Vice (#3)

  Surrey SFS

  My Lady’s Lover (#1)

  To Tame a Wicked Widow (#2)

  My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman (#3)

  At His Lady’s Command (#4)

  Standalones

  Once Upon a Promise

  Joy to the Earl

  Tudor

  His Forbidden Lady

  One Forbidden Knight

  Contemporary

  Ladies First (erotic short stories)

  About the Author

  NICOLA DAVIDSON worked for many years in communications and marketing as well as television and print journalism, but hasn’t looked back since she decided writing wicked historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand’s beautiful beaches, cheering on the champion All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes chocolate—even better!


  www.nicola-davidson.com

  [email protected]

 

 

  Davidson, Nicola, At His Lady’s Command

 

 

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