Page 16 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

In truth they did little more than sway, their arms tightly wrapped around each other. Even this eased her tight shoulders, his strength somehow seeping into her bones through touch alone.

“I’m too bloody old to be kneeling on hard floors and scrubbing windows,” Portia said mournfully. “I swear I creak more than an ancient staircase when I get to my feet….don’t say a word, Randall, or I’ll remind you that you’re six years older.”

“Why do you think I let you ride me?” he asked, his eyes glinting. “Forty-five year old warhorses need to conserve energy, madam.”

Suppressing a shiver at the thought of riding him—one of her favorite activities—she instead snorted. “Warhorse. I should put you out to pasture. Or at least use my riding crop a lot more.”

“No need,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing her neck, “not when the lightest touch on the reins will do…”

“Randall! Portia! What is the meaning of this?”

Wincing both at her father-in-law’s strident tone, and the echoing thump of his cane, Portia sighed and swayed them around so they faced the ballroom door. “Good morning, Faffy. Merry Christmas.”

The duke harrumphed. “Can’t be Christmas. Not even a drop of snow outside. And since you avoided my question, gel, you might explain why I am fully dressed, and you and Randall are downstairs in your damned nightclothes. Unseemly!”

“You know,” said Randall thoughtfully, “I recall several visits where Mama greeted you in her nightgown. You didn’t find it so scandalous then.”

Fairfield looked away, his shoulders drooping a little. “Unseemly,” he mumbled.

“Was there something you needed?” asked Portia softly.

“I’ve come to warn you,” the duke replied, his shoulders stiff and straight once again. “There is mutiny in the kitchens. My valet says the chef and saucier are dueling over first choice of pots, the butcher delivering meat thought to pinch his wife’s backside and got someone else’s by mistake, so he received a cup of flour over his head which annoyed the pastry chef, who threw an overripe pear…”

Randall cleared his throat. “I could summon my men to capture the kitchens. Take a few prisoners. Or we could send in Portia, who will take none.”

“It’s Christmas. Christmas is the problem. I’m going to have breakfast now, past time for my tea and toast, but at least I am properly attired. Certainly hope you’ll change before the ball.”

“Why?” asked Portia sweetly. “We could stand proudly in the receiving line, slipper to slipper.”

Faffy sniffed. “With a draught like this you’d freeze your extremities off. For heaven’s sake, gel, get the fires lit.”

With that irritable pronouncement the duke marched away, and Portia sighed.

“He really doesn’t like December, does he?”

Randall shrugged. “He did, once upon a time. On Christmas Eve he’d visit the cottage, bring food and drink, and a carriage worth of gifts to open in the New Year. Mama never could wait, though. We’d play charades and drink mulled wine…”

Portia went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you can remember the happy times. I so wish I could have met Joanna…however now I must go and scold chefs, sauciers, and bottom-pinching butchers.”

“Come now, my lady. They can’t be worse than Cheapside drunks.”

“I’m not so sure. But they certainly require a slice of Lady Portia’s ire pie. As my hair is unbrushed and I’m in a dressing gown, it shall be particularly frightening. Serves them right for fighting on Christmas Day. I suggest you get dressed before going out to the barracks, though. Those soldiers have seen enough…oooh! You did not just pinch my bottom, sir.”

“Never. But I did see the culprit running in that direction,” Randall replied blandly, gesturing to the ballroom door. “Also…no one could make unbrushed hair and a nightgown look more beautiful.”

“Bah!” she replied, throwing her hands in the air and stalking from the ballroom so he didn’t see her huge grin.

Infernal beloved man.

* * *

Guests would be arriving for the masked ball in a few short hours, and in truth the event couldn’t come fast enough for him.

As he completed his shave—wealth had not provoked him into hiring a valet, no matter how much it pained his father—Captain Randall Denham glanced for the hundredth time at his wife, currently wearing a hole in the bedchamber rug with her frenzied pacing.

Never had he seen her so anxious about a ball.

“Portia…” he began.