Page 21 of At His Lady’s Command

Randall took a deep breath and eventually blurted, “He’s my father.”

A low cry tore from her throat, and Portia scrambled to sit up. “What? Oh God…I never even thought…but yes. You have the same eyes, the same height. I bet he had black hair as a younger man. That…that vile cretin. That weasel. What kind of monster doesn’t acknowledge his own son? Noblemen do it all the time. Royals do it! Even if you couldn’t inherit the title…Fairfield better start praying, for when I see him again I’m going to take that gold-topped cane and break both his legs.”

His eyes burned at her indignant fury on his behalf. Christ. He was going to break down in front of her. To think he’d seen all manner of horrific things in battle and managed to remain calm and steady for his men, yet talking about his damned father ripped him open and left him vulnerable and barely coherent. Humiliated at his weakness, sure Portia would despise his tears, Randall sat up and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “I just…uh…”

“Don’t you dare turn away from me, Randall Denham. This is his shame, not yours,” she said fiercely, and in a lightning-quick move, she straddled his thighs, tucked his head against her neck, and wrapped her arms around him. But when her fingers threaded through his hair in that firm, disciplinary way that he loved, words began to spill from his lips. A trickle. Then a waterfall.

“Fairfield met my mother at a house party. She shouldn’t have even been there, it was one of those private bawdy masquerade ones, but she went to win a wager. I don’t know what Mother was thinking bedding him…the duke had recently married, so couldn’t offer for her even if he wanted to. But she fell pregnant and her family disowned her. Fairfield purchased a cottage for her in the country, and continued to visit. Then she had me.”

Portia stroked his back. “Go on.”

“The duke was delighted. Gave her money, brought gifts. Later, I started attending the village school, but he thought it inadequate and arranged for a tutor as well as lessons in horse riding, dancing, and fencing. Everything a young gentleman should know. Then he and my mother began to fight. His wife had not conceived, and blamed his affair. He needed a legitimate heir, so he returned to the duchess. But he couldn’t give my mother up completely, and every so often they met in secret. She would leave me at the cottage. Leave happy, and return in tears. Every time. I began to hate him.”

“Randall. And the duchess never had children.”

His stomach churned at what he was about to reveal. The very worst of his nightmare. “No. This went on for years. So many damned years. My mother fell pregnant again. But…but the birth went badly, and…she and the babe died. I saw it all, so much blood and agony, and decided there and then I didn’t want children, that my woman would never suffer so.”

“What about your father?” Portia asked softly, as she rocked him.

“Fairfield departed and never returned. He left me behind.”

She went rigid. “But you couldn’t have been more than a lad!”

“I was twelve,” he whispered, and the tears he’d been fighting itched a path down his cheeks. “I went to an orphanage. Not like the one you are patron of. They…did not treat me well. I dreamed of joining the army and leaving England forever. But a commission costs money. Even though I hated him more than life itself, I wrote to Fairfield. He never replied, but his secretary sent a bank draft, and an instruction to send a progress letter each quarter. Twenty-five years I served, and I wrote every fucking quarter. Occasionally I got a brief note from his secretary, but never from my father. Not until…the invitation this morning.”

“Do you know the duke had his man at Whitehall recommend you to Papa because of your record and excellent character? That’s what he told me when we danced.”

An old familiar pain knifed through his heart. “He never told me. Mama did. Sometimes my superior officers. But never him. Not once. My world collapsed, and he abandoned me without a thought. Like I was worthless. Nothing.”

“You are everything.”

“What?” he said, his vision so blurry he could barely see her face.

Portia cupped his face as she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “You are all that is good. Strong and brave, calm and kind. I respect you because you care and protect, never oppress or belittle. And knowing what you lived through, so much hurt and grief, and yet still you marched on…it only makes me want you more.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You…you do?”

“Oh yes.”

“Show me,” Randall whispered. Even though she had him cradled against her, he needed to be closer. To replenish his strength in her fire.

Portia leaned back and licked her lips. “With pleasure, my captain. With pleasure.”

* * *

Somehow, she had to keep her composure.

If she thought about Randall’s childhood, how Fairfield had abandoned him to an orphanage after the death of his mother and baby sibling, or later, when the duke had asserted his power by insisting his son write while never replying, she would be apocalyptic with rage. Fairfield had disapproved of her father’s decisions, all while knowing he had done infinitely worse, the gross hypocrite.

So typical of most peers. Do as I say, not as I do.

But Randall didn’t need her righteous fury right now. And the aching sympathy she felt for the terrible loss he had suffered might be construed as pity. What he needed was affection. Healing. A physical reminder that she desired him above all others, and that his revelations had strengthened their bond, not damaged it.

Settling Randall on the pillows, Portia slid sinuously down his body until her mouth rested level with his cock. “You know,” she said idly as she teased his thick length to hardness with her fingertips, “I really cannot decide which part of you I like best. It changes by the minute.”

“Indeed?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, I adore your brawny arms when they are around me, and yes, fighting off drunks. Your mind, for the intelligent conversation and jests that make me laugh. But then there is your tongue. I daresay it is the most wickedly expert in England.”