Page 17 of At His Lady’s Command

“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, would 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.”