Page 10 of At His Lady’s Command

“Duly noted, Captain,” she replied, her irritability at being partially thwarted surprisingly low. In fact, her gaze almost looked…soft. “Now, let us hurry down the hill to the market. I know I should leave negotiations to Cook, but I have a yearning for fresh fish. And if I speak to the fishmonger, he won’t try to sell me days-old catch like he does to others. A rascal, that one.”

For the next few hours Randall kept one eye on the sky as gloomy gray turned darker, and the other on Lady Portia as she bustled around the market. He’d had to break a few noses and fingers when they’d first moved to Guildford; some men had seen her as a plump pigeon to be plucked, others had protested at a woman involving herself in men’s affairs like keeping the clock clean, and being patron of an orphanage. But she had worn down the naysayers through sheer force of will, and town leaders now often stopped by for tea.

Lady Portia also had a remarkable memory for detail, somehow recalling the names and occupations of everyone she met. They in turn treated her like the reigning queen of Guildford, showing off their finest wares or freshest foods, offering her free marzipan squares, hot pasties or small mugs of mulled wine to warm her toes. But only after Lady Portia had emptied her reticule of shillings and arranged for delivery of the goods, did she agree that yes, the heavens were going to open very soon and they should return home at once.

Walking back up the High Street always took greater effort thanks to the steepness, but at the ominous thunder roll behind them, they increased their pace. Unfortunately they didn’t quite make it home, as fat, heavy raindrops began to soak through their clothing and create large puddles on the footpath. If his hat and greatcoat looked anything like Lady Portia’s bonnet and fur-lined pelisse, they were a comical sight as they staggered and splashed their way onto the townhouse’s front steps and huddled under the shelter.

The front door opened and her butler peered out. “My lady! Captain! Gracious me.”

Lady Portia laughed. “Indeed it is us and not creatures from the River Wey. Do fetch some towels, so we don’t make a mess on this spotless floor.”

The butler soon returned with a pile of towels so they could pat themselves dry. After removing their boots and hanging up their coats, they hurried to the parlor and stood in front of the well-stoked fire.

“Ooooh,” she said, and his cock jerked at the sensual whimper.

“What you really require is a hot bath. So you don’t catch a chill,” Randall murmured.

“Are you offering to scrub my back?” Lady Portia replied, with a sultry wink. “Or even better, join me?”

“Whatever you desire, my lady. As I said, I am at your service.”

Her green eyes glowed. “Careful what you wish for, Denham. I have a vivid and very wicked imagination. And a penchant for brawny and obedient bodyguards.”

This woman. How could she be so damned perfect for him? So unashamedly passionate, and that tone of hers, part lady of the manor, part field marshal, would forever make him harder than stone. But before he could respond, a footman knocked on the door and entered the room.

“Beg pardon, my lady, but you have a message.”

Lady Portia sighed. “I’ll see to it shortly. I’m drying off, as you can plainly see.”

“Again, your pardon,” said the lad nervously, holding out a letter sealed with wax. “It’s from Lord Halstead. And his servant is waiting for a reply.”

They both went still, and the snapping and crackling from the hearth became unbearably loud. What could the marquess possibly have to add from last night?

“Thank you,” Lady Portia said curtly, taking the note and opening it. “Tell the messenger I will speak with him in a moment.”

“Aye, ma’am,” said the footman, dashing away.

Randall rubbed his jaw. “What does it say?”

She hurled the note onto the floor. “By Prince Halstead’s royal decree, my lessons in ladylike conduct must begin at once. Instead of waiting until the end of the month, you are to escort me to join the family in London by tomorrow evening at the latest. No excuses.”

Fury and despair crushed him like a boulder. Then they were over before they had even begun.

Heaven and hell, once again.

Chapter 3

The things one did to spend an illicit night with a man.

Trying not to sneeze, or whimper at the cobwebs and eight-legged creatures possibly settling on her hair and shoulders, Portia held her lit candle high and continued to inch down the narrow hidden passage that offered discreet access to each of the bedchambers on the floor. She had discovered it soon after moving into the townhouse, noticing an off-center panel when unable to sleep one evening. With the help of a little oil the panel had opened, and she’d found a small key hanging from a hook. That key unlocked a similar panel to each room. It made her wonder what naughty secrets these walls held, but never before had she used the passageway, as evidenced by the musty scent and thick layer of dust. Good heavens, if she sneezed and blew the candle out, her bones wouldn’t be found for a hundred years.

Perhaps she should have told Denham this plan in advance.

Portia took a deep breath as she reached the panel door to his chamber. Halstead might have turned her world upside down again by ordering her to London immediately instead of month’s end, but he couldn’t prevent her enjoying a second interlude with her bodyguard. Or halt the mayhem she would unleash once settled in the capital. They thought she would meekly accept lessons in propriety from young Kitty? How deluded.

Praying her plan worked, she slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and shoved the panel until it opened with a shower of dust, eerie creak, and faint scratching. The resultant puff of air extinguished her candle, and she barely muffled a scream when she was pinned to the wall by an exceedingly strong but thankfully familiar arm.

“Denham,” she croaked. “It’s me.”