Page 25 of At His Lady’s Command

Randall rubbed his jaw. “I’m not sure.”

“Nonsense. You cannot tell me you didn’t learn your terrain. Every alcove and window and door. You are far too good a soldier—and bodyguard—for that.”

Irritated at the warmth the praise provoked, Randall replied, “I may have some idea. But that doesn’t matter. If Lady Portia runs away with me, she loses everything. Halstead will find a way to withhold her dowry, and close down her orphanage, which will devastate her. We’ll be without funds or a home. I can’t ask that of a lady.”

Fairfield snorted. “You aren’t penniless, nor will you be homeless. If you’d had the sense to accept my invitation, you’d have seen the documentation. Unfortunately not a dukedom or the entailed properties…but a fortune I insist you accept.”

“You insist?”

The old man drooped again. “Take the money. I know it doesn’t begin to atone for the past…but it will ensure your future. A love match is what Joanna would have wanted for you. Please, Randall. Do it for her. You don’t…you don’t have to speak to me in future. Unless you choose to.”

Christ.

The all-conquering Duke of Fairfield actually begging, and calling him by name. And yet he spoke truth. Mama would have adored Portia, and as a practical woman, scolded him for hesitating over the money. He hated to take it, but wealth offered choices. A man of means could purchase property, offer a special marriage contract where his wife retained all freedoms and distributed her dowry as she pleased…

“Very well,” Randall said at last. “I accept.”

* * *

How many sheets did one require for a second-floor escape attempt?

Portia peered out into the darkness and gulped. It would be a wretched thing to leap to her freedom, only to find herself dangling ten feet off the ground. Or worse, have the sheets rip and plummet her head first onto the footpath. But two things were true. The first, that her revolting cretin of a brother had locked her bedchamber door, and there were no helpful hidden passages. The second; she had decided to marry Randall Denham, and it had to happen quickly.

After so many years disdaining marriage as a hammer of the patriarchy, it did feel odd even contemplating it. But in this case, it would be the tool to set her free, and one couldn’t ignore facts just because it didn’t suit an argument. There were a few good society marriages, ones where husband and wife were equals, not master and supplicant. Madeline and Dare enjoyed such a union, Susanna and Fenton also. Even her own parents had been happy. With a man like Randall as her husband, someone who knew her faults, foibles, and beliefs yet didn’t seek to change or control her…life just might be rather excellent.

If she could just get to him, all would be well. The Fentons would surely lend them money for a special license, and if they could evade Halstead until she and Denham wed, her brother would be helpless. It wasn’t like they were under the age of twenty-one and required parent or guardian consent. Yes, they would have no funds until her dowry got transferred, but they had friends with guest chambers. If Halstead challenged the validity of her marriage and withheld the money, she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She could learn to sew or cook. And as Randall had suggested, if Prinny bestowed his royal favor on her orphanage, it would be quite safe from Halstead’s games…

Portia turned and walked back to her bed. Now was not the time to fret about the future. First and foremost, she had to break out of this luxury cell.

“Thank you for your sacrifice to the greater good,” she murmured, yanking back the quilt, and tugging the sheets away from the mattress. Fortunately, the linen felt of reasonable quality, and by the light of her candelabra, she tied two ends together in a sailor’s knot Papa had taught her. “A good start. Now, I…oooffff…”

Panic flared as a large hand clamped over her mouth, and another clasped her hard against a large and unyielding male body. Until she recognized the familiar scent and shape, and the familiar voice who whispered, “It’s me, Portia.”

She choked down a cry of joy, wriggling free so she could throw her arms around him, and bury her face against a surprisingly fine jacket fabric. “Ah, Randall…whose clothing are you wearing?”

“It’s a long story. One I will tell you only when we are far away from Cavendish Square.”

Portia nodded, reaching up to cup his injured face, a hiss escaping at the damage Halstead’s footmen had done. “I can appreciate that. I do have one question though.”

“How I got into your bedchamber?”

“Very well, two questions.”

“What was the first?”

She took his hands in hers. “Randall Denham, will you marry me?”

Randall sucked in a breath. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m glad you asked. Thrilled. Knowing how you feel about marriage, I didn’t know quite how to offer without it sounding foolish.”

“Am I sure that my captain is mine and I am his? Yes.”

A slow smile formed, one that lit up his face. “I must confess…I fell in love with you the day after we met. I think I took a day to recover from the initial impact of your fire and affinity to a runaway cart. I’ve always wanted to marry you, but I was your bodyguard. And I know how you feel about rules and the law. I’ll sign whatever must be signed. I don’t want control of you or your money, just for us to be together, always. If marriage means we cherish and support each other, laugh and love together, and never have children as long as we both shall live, then my answer is a resounding yes.”

Portia sniffled. And sniffled again. But her heart was too full, and tears spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks. Randall truly was her perfect match.

“I’m not rage watering,” she sobbed. “That was the m-most romantic thing anyone has ever s-said to m-me. It took me so long to realize. I found it nearly impossible to trust, when I’ve had so m-many bad experiences. And the others in the Society found their person. Or people. I thought I never w-would. But you stayed. You showed me. And let me m-make it very clear that you are the only m-man I will ever love. Certainly the only man I would ever agree to stand in front of a c-clergyman with.”

“How about ten o’clock tomorrow morning? I’m afraid all that could be arranged is the Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the ceremony,” Randall replied, wiping her tears with his thumbs, his dark eyes so warm and tender in the candlelight she would soon turn into England’s most prolific watering pot.