Page 16 of At His Lady’s Command

“Thank you for this respite. I fear I will lose my mind before this evening is over.”

Her friend waved a hand. “Don’t thank me, thank your troublesome hem. And Denham. We spoke briefly, and he told me what Lord Halstead did. Oh yes, and be reassured that your soldier is also trying to think of a plan. Something to halt this nonsense.”

Portia’s lips twitched at Madeline’s impression of Denham’s low, gruff tone, even as her heart leaped at the news he hadn’t forsaken her. The past few days had been hideous; having him nearby but not being able to talk to him, touch or kiss him, and combined with her brother, sister-in-law and stepmother all asserting their power in various petty ways, she stood ready to tie her bedsheets together and swing herself out a window. She would never forgive Halstead for this damned ball, this damned dress, and the jewelry that simultaneously felt like it would crush or choke her. Nor for the blatant way he’d offered her up for sale like a bloody Tattersall’s thoroughbred, murmuring about her dowry and bloodlines to peers of all ages who had three things in common: an ancient title, empty nursery, and pockets to let.

“I thought my age and eccentricities would be enough to halt this nonsense,” Portia said with an irritable sniff.

Madeline rolled her eyes and smoothed one of her wayward red curls behind her ear. “Hardly, dear. Unmarried women are a threat, you know that. Good grief, even as a widow I was regarded as an issue to be resolved by the family. But you are a spinster with a substantial dowry, which makes you both a threat and an irresistible attraction.”

“Men.”

“Most men. I feel fortunate every day that Dare and I found each other. A lover who understands you, lifts you up, makes you laugh at the dining table and moan in the bedchamber is a great and glorious thing…why, Lady Portia, your cheeks are even pinker than your gown. I wonder why that is.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture, Lady Dare.”

Her friend grinned. “No, we leave that to Clay. By the by, I don’t think he and the Fentons have emerged from their townhouse since returning to London. They will quite wear out that new ridiculous-sized bed.”

“Don’t tell me that, or how happy Beatrice and Amelia are in their cottage. Not when I am forbidden to—”

A rap on the wall interrupted them, and Madeline hurried to stand behind her, as though helping with the clasp of her necklace. Seconds later, Kitty and the dowager marched through the powder room door.

“What is the matter, Portia?” said her stepmother sharply. “Do you require a seamstress?”

“No, this necklace felt a little loose and Lady Dare kindly assisted me.”

“Wonderful. Then there is no impediment to you returning to the ballroom and dancing with one of the many gentlemen clamoring to do so. We are quite delighted with the success of the evening thus far.”

“Delighted,” echoed Kitty, looking smug. “Halstead will have offers by the dozen in his library tomorrow.”

Madeline smiled sweetly. “Thank heavens your husband cares deeply for his sister’s happiness and would never entertain an offer from a fortune hunter.”

The dowager inclined her head, her gaze icy. “Portia is indeed lucky to have such a loving family. Now, ladies, the ballroom awaits.”

Knowing she would have to dance at least once or suffer worse retribution, Portia smoothed her horrid pink gown and fussy coiffure, and swept from the powder room like an empress. Denham waited outside, and she pretended to stumble just so he might take her hand and steady her, a brief, reassuring touch to calm and strengthen before she rejoined the mass of titled milksops.

“Thank you, Denham,” she said graciously.

“My lady,” he replied, his face expressionless yet his fingers burning through her glove.

Somehow she managed to walk away from him, back to where her brother stood surrounded by a large group of well-dressed bachelors.

Halstead clicked his heels together. “Ah, sister. Hem all fixed I trust.”

“Indeed,” Portia replied coolly. “And the music beckons.”

As one, the peers surged forward. Sickened by the greed and calculation on their faces, she let her gaze sweep over them all, trying to select the least repulsive option. Until she met a pair of dark eyes regarding her not with avarice, but impatience.

Good heavens. The Duke of Fairfield.

What was he doing in this melee? The duke must be eighty at least, his hair entirely silver and the lines on his face pronounced, yet his bearing remained rigid, his height undiminished, his perfectly tailored clothing immaculate. Halstead thought he held power, but Fairfield embodied it. It was whispered by many that he’d been the force behind the throne for decades, advising kings and prime ministers alike, and he was also well known for his icy hauteur and arrogance.

However the duke was also a childless widower…which meant he could loosely be considered a suitor. Her brother wouldn’t be able to say a word, and she might be able to avoid dancing with the others.

Portia curtsied. “Ah, Your Grace. I believe I promised you this waltz.”

Fairfield raised a brow at the blatant falsehood, but amusement flickered in his eyes as he held out his arm to escort her to the floor. “Indeed, Lady Portia. Shall we?”

The opening bars of a waltz sounded, and he began twirling her around.