Page 6 of At His Lady’s Command

How could she be a lady of experience and yet never have experienced this? Her mouth tingling from the firm pressure of his. Her mind awhirl in the scent of Sandalwood and clean linen. Reveling in erotic authority as Denham allowed her to rub her taut nipples against his chest and her pulsing clitoris against his fully erect cock, but made no move to take control apart from light, steadying hands at her waist.

As though he liked her taking charge and practically riding him.

“Mmmm,” she moaned, thoroughly intoxicated by his taste, the uncompromising strength of him underneath her as she kissed him again and again. Why were they both still fully dressed? Her gown should be rucked up about her hips, his trouser buttons undone to allow that thick cock deep into her wet quim. “More.”

“Lady Portia,” he said raggedly. “I…we can’t. The townhouse. We’re nearly there.”

She shook her head in disbelief. It was about eight miles between Halstead’s estate and Guildford. They couldn’t have been travelling for an hour. And yet when she peered out into the winter gloom, the street lamps revealed familiar buildings.

Botheration. Yet again, she had made a reckless mistake. Of course a carriage wasn’t the place for their first sexual interlude, they needed a bed. Privacy. Time to explore and pleasure one another. Not to be gossiped about by servants, Denham would hate that.

Shaking her head in annoyance, Portia climbed off his lap, and sat back down on the other side of the carriage. “I apologize.”

His whole face shuttered, the lusty rake of a few minutes ago vanishing. “I understand. You have regrets. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. And no one will hear a word from me.”

What?

Her body screamed in protest. But before she could inform the blasted man that he had misunderstood her entirely, the carriage came to a shuddering halt outside the townhouse.

A bloody awful end to a bloody awful evening.

Chapter 2

After a night spent tossing and turning, he looked haggard. Defeated.

Randall winced at the mirror in his bedchamber as he tied his cravat into a simple knot.

He could survive on little sleep. Had done so on many occasions while on campaign—when battles raged into the night, tactics were discussed, discarded, and discussed again, or he stood watch over his men as they succumbed to sheer exhaustion after a day’s march to the rain-lashed hills of Mysore or across the dusty Spanish plains.

What he couldn’t bear: Lady Portia regretting those flame-hot kisses so much that she’d apologized and shaken her head in disgust. He thought he’d become immune to rejection after his childhood, that he’d managed to shove the memories of that broken, illegitimate unworthy lad down deep enough to forget. The realization such rawness lay just under the surface, ready to claw at him again, had been an unwelcome surprise.

Christ.

Rejected by the woman he loved, soon to be without employment or a roof over his head…as always, his wheel of fortune turned from heaven to hell. Why had he thought this time might be any different? And now he had to pretend nothing had happened. That he didn’t know how it felt to have Lady Portia in his lap, grinding those perfect slender curves against him like she wanted to fuck for hours, her lips devouring his, for she kissed as she lived—bold and wild.

Straightening his shoulders—what a soldier did to carry on in the face of adversity—Randall glanced across the bedchamber to the clock on the mantelpiece. Five minutes before the hour. He reported for duty at precisely nine o’clock each morning, for Lady Portia was an early riser who took tea and toast in her room while reading her correspondence. He always found her at her carved mahogany desk, quill scratching and dipping into its inkpot, for she liked writing letters. Then, depending on the weather, they would take a brisk stroll into town, before attending to whatever visits, meetings, or other activities carefully scheduled in her diary. He welcomed her strict routines. In some ways they were similar to army life, rather reassuring to a creature of habit like himself.

Giving his serviceable black jacket one last pat, Randall left his chamber and walked the length of the hallway to Lady Portia’s. As usual, he knocked three times on the door, and entered the room.

She wasn’t at her desk.

Confusion turned to shock, and his gaze flew around the room as pure panic gripped his heart. The shock eased back to confusion at the sight of her still in her four-poster bed, wearing just a fine linen chemise, her brown hair unbound and curling around her shoulders. Until it dawned that she hadn’t seen or heard him enter the room, because she was occupied.

Touching herself.

His mind roared at him to turn around and leave at once, but his feet were rooted to the ground, his eyes devouring each detail of the sinfully erotic scene across the bedchamber. The ribbon of Lady Portia’s chemise lay open, revealing the tantalizing curves of her small breasts as she played with one distended raspberry nipple, and her thighs were spread, her fingers expertly working the slick, pink petals of her cunt…

Her slick pink, hairless cunt.

Good God.

Never had he seen anything so blatantly carnal, and he fought to breathe as his cock rose and strained against his trousers. She was the most beautiful, sensual woman on earth.

“Seen your fill, Denham?”

Lady Portia’s irritable voice reached across the chamber like a slap to the face, and his cheeks burned. He deserved her ire and more, at his unprofessional behavior. When had he become a damned voyeur?

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, turning away. “So sorry. I didn’t know you were…ah…busy.”