Page 5 of At His Lady’s Command

Her spoilt, foolish cretin of a brother tearing away her freedom, punishing her for not adhering to society norms, all under the laughable guise of expense. Halstead knew very well he could lease every blasted building in Guildford, hire all the townspeople, and it wouldn’t make a dent in his fortune. To make matters worse, Kitty and the dowager thought to break her with a Season of soirees and musicales, propriety and rules…with marriage her only escape.

Truly no choice at all.

There was no good reason for this nonsense. They weren’t the royals, with Princess Charlotte the only legitimate heir to the throne. Halstead had two sons and a third child on the way; she was not the last remaining hope for the title. The three of them merely enjoyed the purse-string power they held over her. If only there had been a bequest from her mother’s side, or Papa had settled money and property on her in his will, rather than just an enormous dowry. Portia strongly suspected her stepmother’s hand in that particular travesty, to ensure her own son inherited everything.

Damn them all. If they didn’t expect vengeance for this injustice, then they didn’t know her at all. Peppered breeches and dead rodents would be the least of their troubles.

“Mind the step, my lady.”

Denham’s voice remained a measure of calm in the storm, and she nodded as she scrambled into the carriage. Unfortunately, as soon as he settled himself on the opposite seat and the carriage began to move, her eyes turned into twin waterfalls.

“Here,” he continued, holding out a neatly folded square of plain linen.

“I’m not crying,” she choked out, even as tears dripped onto her bodice, and trickled an itchy path down the side of her neck.

Denham nodded solemnly. “I know. You are—now what is that phrase—rage watering the bloom in your cheeks.”

Portia stilled. Some time ago, she and Beatrice, Amelia and Madeline had discussed the annoyance of tears falling not because of sadness or hurt, but anger. They had all agreed it was a grievous betrayal by their bodies, and thus the term had been coined. Denham had heard and remembered. And recognized it now.

Warmth curled around her heart, halting the pithy reply she had been about to make. Instead she looked him in the eye as she dabbed her face with the handkerchief, and said simply, “Halstead has won this round.”

“Perhaps. But he hasn’t the wit to realize a fight comprises of many rounds. Or that his opponent is infinitely more intelligent, and forever willing to use pepper, rodents, and treacle.”

A watery laugh escaped. “I have so many relying on me. Without money, I will let them all down. And if Halstead fabricates a charge of mismanagement and has my orphanage closed…I…I couldn’t bear that. Other orphanages do not meet my exacting standards in comfort and care. Or education.”

Even in the low light of the carriage oil lamps, she saw the pain that flashed across her bodyguard’s face.

“No,” he said quietly. “They don’t. Often they are cold and dark places without affection or hope, where the child counts the hours until they may leave.”

Shaken to the core that he might have personally experienced such a horror, Portia could only gape. Denham, an orphan? Good heavens. And yet it explained so much. His taciturn, watchful nature. His extensive fighting skills. Perhaps he’d been forced to learn those long before the army. “Quite. But children often overcome difficult beginnings and grow into the very finest of people. Strong and steadfast and brave.”

Denham turned away and stared out the window at the pitch-black night. “We won’t let Halstead win. He might be able to take back your townhouse, but you are not without friends. Didn’t the Fentons just say at the Society meeting that they would happily contribute to your causes? They have a large fortune. And the ear of the Prince Regent. If Prinny bestowed his royal favor on the orphanage, then your brother couldn’t close that, at least.”

Portia braced her hand on the carriage wall as it rocked and swayed on the road away from the estate, almost speechless. How did he know exactly what to say to offer true comfort? Most men would have patted her hand and told her not to worry her pretty head about it. He pointed out facts. And he’d said we.

“We?” she repeated, as her tears dried and a far different emotion surged through her entire body. An emotion that made her blood fizz, nipples harden, and quim throb with longing.

Her bodyguard turned back and tugged on his cravat. Then he cleared his throat. “I am at your service. Anything you need.”

“Anything?” she asked boldly, so very tired of pretending he wasn’t the most attractive man she knew, that she didn’t want to cover him like a blanket and feel those hard, sensual lips on hers. Especially when a future without him at her side loomed, bleak and empty.

“Anything,” Denham repeated firmly, and the air in the carriage seemed to disappear as his gaze locked with hers. For the first time not benign, but hot. Hungry. Scorching through her green-striped gown, stays, petticoat, and chemise, caressing her bare skin and sparking a flame of acute need inside her.

A rush of moisture between her legs made her squirm on the leather squab, but a glance down at his trousers confirmed the moment wasn’t one-sided. Indeed, if that splendidly large bulge announced anything, he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

“I find myself wondering,” Portia said as her spirits soared, “what your mouth might taste like.”

Denham’s lips twitched. “My lady is direct.”

“If it is coyness you seek, you’ll not find it here. Only a great deal of salt.”

“How fortunate I am well used to and appreciative of salt, then.”

Oh.

Hurling caution to the wind, Portia pounced on him, settling one knee either side of his powerful thighs as her fingers threaded through his hair and her tongue flicked at his lips to demand entry. And Captain Denham, the gruff, handsome devil, surrendered immediately.

Good heavens.