Page 9 of At His Lady’s Command

Denham relaxed. “Next time?”

“Oh, indeed. I believe we must embark on a secret and exceedingly wicked affair. Well, at least until my brother and stepmother ruin my life with their nonsense. Do you concur?”

His dark eyes glittered, and he inclined his head. “Yes, my lady.”

* * *

The scent of impending rain was heavy in the air.

Nothing unusual for Guildford, especially in November when people muttered that they may as well grow tails and gills as feet were rather useless. But Lady Portia had insisted on a stroll to town, so they wrapped up warmly and donned their sturdiest boots. In truth, he was glad of the fresh air and her usual brisk manner as they passed the imposing red brick building of Abbot’s Hospital at the top of High Street, for it allowed him time to think on the unthinkable—that after an erotically perfect interlude in Lady Portia’s bedchamber, they were going to have an affair.

He, lowly Randall Denham had pleasured the great Portia Butler, and would be permitted to do so again. All he had ever dared hope for, finally happening. And yet thanks to bloody Halstead, this glimpse of paradise would be a short one.

It seemed his life would forever be that mix of heaven and hell. His parents happy but unmarried, for she had been a rich man’s mistress not a wife. His childhood rich with gifts and laughter and affection, until the nightmarish day when Mama died and Father abandoned him to a harsh orphanage. Joining the army at seventeen and finding his true calling as he thrived in a strict environment of routine, orders and hierarchy, but witnessing the carnage and bloodshed of war, the agony of friends dying beside him while he escaped with cuts and bruises. And now living with the bold and fiery woman of his dreams…yet knowing he would eventually lose her to some peer who would never appreciate such a treasure, and worse, force marriage, subservience, and unwanted motherhood upon her.

Indeed, heaven and hell.

“Denham! Yoo-hoo!”

Randall glanced down. “Something wrong?”

Wrinkling her pert little nose, Lady Portia gestured toward the Guildhall on their left, or more specifically the enormous clock that stuck well out over the footpath and kept an elegantly watchful eye on High Street. “I asked your opinion on whether the clock had been cleaned. Do you think it has? I told the town clerks it looked a trifle shabby.”

He stifled a smile. “Couldn’t say, my lady. It is rather exposed to the weather. But those clerks do enjoy your visits.”

“They dive under their desks when I approach,” she said archly.

“Because they know they’ll have to do more than shuffle paper.”

“Perhaps I could try being…sweeter.”

Randall frowned. “What?”

She hesitated, and he hated the dimming of the light in her eyes. “That is what my future husband will expect. A sweet wife who says yes my lord, and no my lord, and whatever you wish my lord.”

“Lady Portia,” he said patiently. “There can be no peer in England unaware of your tendency to tart speech. Unless they have recently woken from a fifteen-year nap.”

“More like thirty year. I was a precocious child.”

“There you go, then.”

“Denham, I…” Lady Portia’s hand clenched on his arm, and even through her kidskin gloves and his greatcoat he could feel her tension. “I won’t be some lord’s chattel. Wed for a dowry and bloodline, permitted no more excitement than a musicale or shopping.”

Randall hated the thought of her flame being extinguished, and yet she could be occasionally too reckless. “I would humbly suggest less excitement than a Cheapside brawl.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Men should not beat women.”

“No, they shouldn’t. But confronting drunks in the kind of area where it is guaranteed they will have some sort of weapon is dangerous. You have more sense than that.”

“I suppose you will refuse to escort me to the East End now.”

“If that is where you wish to go, I will accompany you. But I won’t allow you to place yourself in harm’s way. You are too…”

Lady Portia raised one delicate eyebrow. “Too?”

Too important. Too precious. Too essential to my world.

“Too impulsive,” he said eventually. “Just remember you are mortal. Courage is a fine thing, but it doesn’t stop a musket ball or blade.”