Page 26 of At His Lady’s Command

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.”

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.