Page 15 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

Chapter 4

Lady Portia and Denham

Christmas Day

“It’s not even dawn, Portia. What on earth are you doing?”

Botheration. Caught.

Lady Portia Denham paused in her scrubbing of the ballroom’s window ledges, judged clean but not clean enough by her eagle eye. “Nothing at all. This is just a particularly vivid dream, we are both sound asleep in bed.”

Randall sauntered into the cavernous room holding a candelabra, looking sleep-rumpled, irritable, and yet oddly dignified in his nightshirt, quilted robe, and slippers. Her heart fluttered at the sight; brawny shoulders, silver-touched black hair, and dark eyes had never looked better.

Ignoring her bold lie, he instead glanced meaningfully at the bucket and cloth. “It is disconcerting to wake and find cold sheet instead of warm wife. But I rest easier knowing there are no secret passageways for you to become a spider’s meal in.”

A grin lifted her lips. “About that…”

“Christ. Where?”

“All in good time. Imagine, thinking that a Tudor manor wouldn’t have a plethora of secrets. Really, Randall.”

“A fine attempt at distraction, my lady, but it doesn’t explain why you’re scrubbing ballroom windows by candlelight on Christmas morning in a nightgown and slippers.”

Portia beamed. “If you joined me it wouldn’t be quite so odd, and you’d have my eternal gratitude. I just want everything to be perfect for this evening.”

With a long-suffering shake of his head, Randall set his candelabra down on a side table. “What shall I do?”

“Kiss me.”

He stepped forward, cupping her face and brushing his lips against hers before deepening the kiss until a little whimper escaped her mouth. Surely it must be scientific fact that Captain Randall Denham was the finest kisser in the realm. Perhaps the continent. No woman could be more fortunate, to have a husband who cherished and protected and also followed instructions so very well. She loved Randall madly in return. So much so, that each day she refrained from heaving his bloody curmudgeon father into prickly shrubbery. Most days, this directly qualified her for sainthood.

“Better?” he murmured, when he eventually stepped back.

“Always,” she replied.

“We’d best get scrubbing then.”

Portia handed him a cloth and they worked side by side, only the occasional sound of water sloshing and slippers moving on the ballroom floor breaking the companionable silence. Yet another thing she loved about him, he never felt the urge to chirp. When he had something to say, he said it, otherwise he simply rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

No one looking at Randall would guess he was one of the wealthiest men in England, but Faffy had settled an enormous fortune on him. As he was an illegitimate son he would never inherit the dukedom, but they were both quite content with that. Randall was far too happy overseeing his barracks of returned soldiers, training them as bodyguards and teaching them how to ease back into civilian life. And she was far too happy with her orphanage, charities, and duties as both chairwoman of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, and unofficial empress of Guildford.

Far more fun than being a duchess.

“Look,” said Randall gruffly, as he set his bucket down and stretched his back. “The rising sun is giving you a halo.”

Laughter bubbled. “Paint a picture, my captain. It will probably be the only time in history.”

“I’d rather dance with you.”

Portia’s brow furrowed. “Dance? Now?”

“Might not get an opportunity later. All the young bucks will be chasing you, wondering who the mysterious beauty in the emerald gown and silver white mask, is.”

“Ha. You mean all the women panting after the pirate in black. Never thought a man could look so dashing in a demi mask.”

Randall grinned. “I aim to please, my lady. And dance without anyone commenting on my feet.”

“I will comment on your feet. Rather loudly, if they crush mine,” she replied archly, but held out her hands so he might twirl her about the empty ballroom.