Page 19 of At His Lady’s Command

And yet she could feel herself wilting, after managing thirty of them.

THIRTY.

How were there so many unmarried peers in England? A small army ranging in age from twenty-three to sixty, had descended on Butler House for the sake of her dowry. She’d had to be creative in her dissuasion: to a jaded rake, she had described her nightly two-hour prayer ritual. A viscount with a pink nose and watery eyes departed after hearing about the vast menagerie of beloved pets who slept in her bed, a notorious penny-pinching earl decided they might not be a match because she so loved gambling and buying a new bonnet or gown every other day. Horrifying the youngest hopeful had been almost too easy—halting in the middle of a conversation to wet a lace handkerchief and scrub at his chin while cooing what a good boy he was. She had scolded habits and hobbies, given lectures on women’s rights, criticized politics and tailoring, and effusively praised the Prince Regent…and yet despite all of that, ten bloody lords had still kissed her hand, told her she was charming, and they would return.

Damn their empty bank accounts, and her wretched family.

Thankfully Denham stood beside the drawing room window all stern and deadly, watching every single peer—plus Kitty and the dowager—like a hawk watches a mouse, so she hadn’t resorted to pelting them with raisin pastries. But finally, finally, the last lingering lord took his hat and cane and left the townhouse, and Portia sank into a chair and rubbed her temples. Hours and hours of dismantling the worst examples of male entitlement and backward thinking did take its toll.

“Lady Portia requires some fresh air,” said Denham. “Perhaps a short ride along Rotten Row. Or a turn in the curricle.”

Kitty frowned. “It is chilly out. I’m not sure—”

“Lady Portia requires some fresh air,” repeated Denham sternly. “For her health.”

“One hour,” said the dowager. “In the curricle and Marie accompanies you.”

“As you wish.”

A half hour later they sat ensconced in the curricle, Marie perched on the back in the groom’s seat, the wind blessedly cool and relatively fresh after the stench of flowers, perfume and sweat that had hung like a shroud in the room. Each time they turned a corner or Denham navigated around another vehicle their shoulders and thighs rubbed together, and Portia bit her lip to halt a whimper of fierce arousal. Her nipples were chafing against her chemise, her quim damp and throbbing, and even the thought of Denham’s fingers destroying the foolish curls and massaging her scalp to ease the hurt of the unnatural style almost made her orgasm.

She needed him immediately. To feel his hands on her body, his hard lips on hers, his thick cock stretching her wide.

“Denham, take us to Manchester Square,” she ordered. “We must pay a visit to Lord and Lady Dare to…thank them for their kindness last night at the ball.”

“At once, my lady.”

Disgruntled at his even tone when she felt so on edge, Portia discreetly slid her hand under the light rug covering their laps and stroked his thigh. Only then did she discover the huge bulge straining against his trousers, and her breath catching, she trailed her fingertips across it.

“Wait,” he growled.

“Drive faster,” she replied, deliberately clutching his arm and rubbing one swollen nipple against it when they turned the next corner. If they didn’t find a room soon, she would lift her ruby-red gown and straddle him right here—safety, Marie, and those out walking be damned. She’d been starved of him, and now she needed to feast.

After surely the longest journey in history, they arrived at the Dare townhouse in Manchester Square. Discarding all propriety, leaving Denham behind to assist Marie down from her seat at the back of the curricle, Portia near sprinted up the three steps and pounded on the front door.

When the butler opened it, she gave him her most imperious stare. “I need to speak with Lord or Lady Dare. It is most urgent.”

“Your name, madam?”

“Lady Portia Butler.”

Gratifyingly, the older man’s expression warmed into deference, and he ushered the three of them inside before hurrying away.

“Lady Portia!” said a rich, male voice, and she glanced to her left to see Lord Ethan Dare stroll across the lavish entrance hall. “And Captain Denham. How wonderful to see you. Perhaps, Lady Portia, your maid would enjoy tea and cakes in the kitchens while we have a nice visit in the parlor?”

Marie hesitated, but with three stern sets of eyes on her, curtsied and trotted off with a footman.

Dare grinned. “Madeline and I are working on my book. She told me that if you and the captain should arrive looking wild and desperate, that I should not delay you, but merely point out that at the top of the stairs, second door on the right, there is a most comfortable guest chamber.”

“Your wife is a treasure,” said Portia. “And chose well in a spouse.”

The viscount nodded gravely, but his eyes twinkled. “I like to think so. Please try not to break the bed. Devilishly expensive things.”

Would they even make it to the bed?

“My lord,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, before grasping Denham’s hand and dragging him toward the stairs. Or perhaps they dragged each other.

In all honesty, Portia would have been satisfied with a stable, as long as she could be alone with him. But the chamber was light and airy and grandly furnished. Well, what she saw of it before she flew into his arms.