Page 2 of At His Lady’s Command

“Delighted,” he bit out, stepping back. “Do excuse me. I have to…go and clean my pistols.”

“Oh. Of course. Well, do not get yourself covered in powder, we are going to Halstead’s estate for dinner, remember. The carriage must leave no later than six o’clock.”

Bloody hell. Just what the day needed. Bowing and scraping to her brother, the spoilt dandy who owned a good portion of Surrey and never failed to remind everyone of that fact, and his perpetually pregnant wife.

“I’ll be ready.”

With a curt bow, he left the parlor. Feeling her gaze on him the entire time, but refusing to look back lest she see the truth in his heart.

That must remain a secret.

For his sake. And hers.

Chapter 1

“As men go, you are tolerable I suppose.”

Even hours later, the words made Lady Portia Butler wince and shift uncomfortably on the luxurious leather carriage squab.

Everything she said to Denham sounded awkward or shrewish lately, yet she had no idea how to regain her equilibrium around him. All because a few months back she’d glanced out the music room window to see him training footmen in the enclosed garden. Bare-knuckle boxing. Fencing. Wrestling. Throwing daggers. But he’d been shirtless. And in one blinding moment, Captain Randall Denham had ceased to be just her calm and steadfast bodyguard. Now she saw a six-foot tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, deliciously brawny man with broad chest, powerful thighs, and dexterous hands. For heaven’s sake, she’d even started having fantasies about him. Torrid dreams of his erotic submission that left her wet and needy and thoroughly bloody annoyed.

For she wasn’t some starry-eyed ingénue who didn’t know how the world worked. Men never voluntarily ceded command; they desired to conquer and rule, to own and oppress. Denham only followed her instructions because he was paid to. No doubt in his free time he preferred young and shy buxom blondes who meekly offered their bodies for his pleasure…

Characteristics that Lady Portia Butler would never possess.

Anyway, as the spinster daughter and sister of a marquess she couldn’t just publicly take a lover, anything long-term with a man had to be marriage—and her brother Lord Halstead would never, ever approve of a penniless captain, no matter how fine his character. More to the point, she absolutely disdained marriage. Not for the world would she be someone’s property, forced to live at her husband’s mercy in the confines of foolish and antiquated societal norms, only permitted the funds and freedoms he decided upon. Lady Portia Butler was a thirty-eight year old woman who cherished freedom above all. And while she liked children just fine, would fight to the death for them to be safe and educated…maternal urges had never once stirred in her heart, and she remained quite content with her childless state.

So no reason to wed whatsoever.

Of course Portia experienced moments of loneliness, sometimes agonizingly so, especially when she saw happy couples like Beatrice and Amelia, or Madeline and Ethan, and the uncommon but no less successful ménage of Clayton, Joseph, and Susanna. It would be agreeable to have a lover who knew just how to please her in bed, a companion to laugh and share adventures with, someone who wholeheartedly supported her charitable endeavors. But that remained an impossible dream. A husband would wrest control of her life and expect heirs and conformity to his will. Which would never, ever do.

“You are going to wear a hole in the squab.”

Portia froze as Denham’s low, gruff words startled her from her thoughts and rasped across her nerve endings, making her nipples tighten. Blast it, even his voice aroused her now. But he felt nothing in return, and sat still and calm across from her in the carriage, his expression respectfully polite in the low light of the oil lamps.

Forever bloody calm.

While he disliked being questioned about his affairs or listening to ribald discussions in the Society meetings, she’d only ever seen him lose his composure once, and that had been during the incident at Cheapside. The way he’d pummeled those two men who had tried to hurt her, his handsome face twisted with fury, his huge fists inflicting all manner of injuries…

Resenting yet another unwelcome surge of lust for her bodyguard, Portia sent Denham an irritable look. “This leather has survived many a visit to my brother. I’m sure it will survive another.”

“You are more uneasy than usual.”

“Nonsense,” she lied.

Denham raised an eyebrow, which only made his distinguished features more pleasing. “I’ve already said Halstead won’t hear anything from me about the attack, my lady.”

“Incident,” she corrected. An incident, she didn’t have to think about. An attack was something else entirely. “And it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

The carriage jolted as it hit a rut in the muddy road, allowing her a moment to gather her thoughts. “It is nearly a year since Papa died, and I don’t wish to discuss that with my stepmother or half-brother or his wife. I prefer to grieve privately. To visit Papa’s gravesite and then Mama’s and tell them how I miss them terribly. Not…not be forced to take part in an elaborate mourning production. When Papa knew he wouldn’t recover from his illness, he said, Don’t you dare shroud yourself in black and lilac, poppet. Not your colors. Nor may you hide away, for those without a voice need you. Be bold and march on. He knew me. Understood me. And…and…”

Portia swiftly pressed her fingers to her lips. Good heavens. Any moment now she’d be a watering pot, and she loathed crying in front of other people.

“Your father was a fine man,” said Denham softly. “A great one, taken too soon. As great people often are. I will always be indebted to him for employing me, there aren’t many opportunities for retired soldiers.”

“I am also grateful he did,” Portia blurted. Then quickly, she added, “If they mean to mark the anniversary of Papa’s passing with some vulgar monument or public occasion, I shall be tempted beyond measure to liberally sprinkle their dessert with pepper. Or worse.”