Page 27 of At His Lady’s Command

“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 think 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.”