A Duke by Default

by Alyssa Cole

  “I’ll pay for the suit, so you don’t have to worry about the cost,” she said, slipping her phone into her handbag. “Our SuperLift is outside.”

  She moved past him and made her way to the car idling out front. Kevyn sat behind the wheel. Great. So he’d have an audience for his humiliation.

  He stalked up beside her and placed a hand on the car’s roof. “I could have driven us,” he said.

  “You can drive?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Everyone can drive!”

  “I can’t. Oh, that’s right, you make the deliveries . . . well, this was a simple communication error. Noted for next time. Now let’s go.” She slid under his arm and pulled the door open. After wrestling with the passenger seat, she pulled it down and forward.

  “After you.” She gave him a bright smile and he pulled a face as he smushed himself into the backseat. Portia adjusted the front seat and settled herself in.

  “Hey, Kevyn,” she said sweetly, and the git had the nerve to be blushing when he turned to face her.

  “How’s it going, love?”

  “How are the wife and wean, Kevvo?” Tav asked, shoving his face forward between them.

  Kevyn grimaced. “Hey, Tav. They’re good, they are.” He turned his face back toward the road.

  “The Armani shop please,” Portia said.

  “Ohhh, fancy!” Kevyn put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic.

  Tav sucked in a breath. “No. I’m not buying a new suit and you definitely aren’t paying for it,” he attempted to whisper.

  She looked back at him and his gut clenched at the annoyance in her gaze. She was rich. They both knew it. But this was not one of those moments where she needed to remind him of it.

  “I know that this feels really shitty,” she said, surprising him. “I’ve had problems with forcing my goodwill on people in the past, and I know it doesn’t always have the intended result. But I have a concrete reason for paying for this suit. I’m the one who got you into this situation.”

  “No, technically that was Mum and this Dudgeon wanker.”

  “Tavish.” She batted those lashes of hers, like he’d be doing her a favor by letting her buy him an overpriced suit.

  “This still just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  She gave him a look. “Tell me how you’re feeling right now. Agitated? Uncomfortable?”

  “Bloody right I’m uncomfortable!”

  She grinned. “Why?”

  “Because I’m stuffed into this suit like a goddamn wanker—”

  She held up a finger. “So. This suit makes you feel like a wanker. Going to the meeting tomorrow is going to be stressful enough, don’t you want to wear something that makes you feel confident?”

  “I don’t see how a suit—”

  She pushed her finger closer. “When you fight in an exhibition, you choose the clothing that allows you greatest range of motion while keeping you safe. Yes or no?”

  He nodded and his nose brushed the tip of her finger. She blinked rapidly, but didn’t move her hand.

  “If this thing happens, you need to think about your presence. What you’re projecting. If you walk in looking like a sulky child in an ill-fitting suit, they’re going to treat you like one. If you show up looking like a polished, sexy man who is doing them a favor by bestowing his presence on them, they’ll respond to that, too.”

  He thought about how Portia was always perfectly done up, even when doing inventory. And how he had still dismissed her from the beginning.

  “So, a posh suit is a bit like donning armor,” he said, and her features brightened in relief.

  “Yes. I’m your squire and I’m going to make sure you’re outfitted in the best fucking armor possible. You’re going to need it.”

  She leaned back in her seat, and Tav did the same. He stared at the rust-gold curls that rested on her shoulders and wished she was sitting next to him, and that it wouldn’t be strange for him to take her hand in his.

  “Wait. Did you just call Tav sexy?” Kevyn asked helpfully from the driver’s seat. “Because it sounded like you just called him sexy.”

  Portia pulled out her phone in a smooth movement and began swiping.

  Tav leaned forward again. “The man asked a question, Freckles.”

  “Sorry, I can’t hear either of you because I’m using my bawbag blocker app.” Her gaze was trained on the screen and her mouth was a solemn line.

  Kevyn laughed and pulled into a blessedly empty space by the curb. “Well. Here we are. Enjoy your shopping trip, Tav.”

  Tav reached into his pocket, which was a remarkable feat given how tight his suit was. “How much?”

  “I already paid,” Portia said, waving her phone. “Technology. One day you’ll catch up.”

  She hopped out.

  “Careful with that one, Tav,” Kevyn said, turning in his seat as Tav struggled to follow her. “She’s a live one.”

  Tav recalled the morning when he’d leaned in to meet her impulsive kiss and almost drowned in her.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  FINE. TAVISH COULD admit when he was wrong. Sometimes, at least. But as they walked out of the shop and he caught sight of himself reflected back in a window, he had to admit he felt . . . different. He didn’t think he’d be trading in his jeans and tees for suits in the workshop, but he’d never had a suit like this before. Portia had run the shop workers ragged in a firm but polite manner, and in no time at all he’d been set up with a suit that accented all his attributes but allowed him to move freely and comfortably.

  He looked . . . bloody posh.

  “Checking yourself out again?” Portia sidled up beside him and Tav almost said something crass, but then he glanced at his reflection. At hers next to his. They looked good together like this. Was this the kind of man Portia was used to dating? Dressed in a suit that cost a year’s rent for some people? How would that kind of man respond?

  “You told me I’d have to start appreciating the finer things in life. What can I say? I was appreciating, lass.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  She scrunched her nose. “Oh wonderful. I’ve created Hobbs’s monster.”

  “Except instead of running after me with pitchforks, they’ll be after my sexy bo—”

  “Oh em gee, we can turn around and return that suit right now, Sir Tavish,” she said, whirling to point at the shop’s entrance. “Can your ego already have grown this much? Just from a suit? I’m sure you’ll be a real treat when you have your title.”

  “I guess my new cool and confident persona is working,” Tav said. “I have done some research, you know. My mother used to have these novels that I’d read in the bathroom.”

  “TMI, Tavish. Rule number one of duking. Don’t discuss what you do in the bathroom. No one needs to know teenage Tav’s preferred wanking material.”

  “Right. But I learned some things while skimming. Dukes and rich guys in suits are supposed to be all commanding and give smoldering looks to the women in their vicinity.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her and pursed his lips.

  “You look constipated,” she said, and walked off.

  “Lead me to the tea service, Freckles,” he said, then jogged to fall into step beside her. She muttered something under her breath.

  They walked on in silence until they approached a storefront that looked like someone had taken a dollhouse and shot it with a growth ray. Through the window he could see pink walls and purple tables and gaudy silver trays and teapots.

  “Here we are. Two for Tea, Edinburgh’s premiere tea establishment.”

  “Are there seedy tea establishments? Places where they sell black market Earl Grey and chamomile that fell off the back of a lorry?” Tavish asked, and Portia sighed.

  “This suit has definitely got to go.”

  They walked in and were greeted by an older woman who seemed like she was dressed for one of those cons Jamie and Cheryl liked, and her costume was the Que
en. Her white hair was meticulously styled and her pink dress had obviously been cribbed from the royalty section of the Looking Glass Daily. She hustled them to a table near the window and Portia plastered on a smile.

  “Do you have anything a bit more . . . private?” Portia asked, doing that lash flutter thing. “My dining partner is a bit shy.”

  “Oh!” the woman said, conspiratorial delight stealing through her wrinkles as she grinned and glanced back and forth between them. “I see. Yes, over here.”

  She led them to a table behind a veil of strung-up ceramic beads painted with little tiny teacup patterns. “We have a reservation for this table, but as long as you don’t intend on staying longer than two hours, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you so much. And we’ll have traditional tea service for two,” Portia said.

  The woman bustled off and Tav settled onto the ornate chair. He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat. “Private? Are you planning to have your way with me?”

  “Of course.” She was sitting ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, but Tav didn’t miss the way her gaze tracked his fingers, or the insinuation in her tone. “I’m going to put you through your paces. I figured you wouldn’t want to be in front of a window for that.”

  Her voice was low, and Tav imagined her bare foot sliding up the inseam of his pants leg. Or her hand reaching across the table to grab him by the tie. She was right—he did need to get more up-to-date sexist clichés.

  “Apparently you Brits are really, really, into this tea thing. So after researching Debrett’s, various instructional videos, and double-checking with my sources, I’ve made a basic dos and don’ts list to get you through tomorrow.”

  “A list?”

  She raised a brow. “It’s the simplest and most efficient organizational tool. Do you want a PowerPoint presentation?”

  “Fuck’s sake, this is ridiculous,” he said. “Why all this bloody attention to detail just to drink a cup of tea?”

  “Rule number one—no cursing. And yes, bloody counts as a curse.”

  “You already gave me a rule number one. Don’t discuss what I do in the toilet,” he reminded her. “So much for organization.”

  He was being tetchy, but he hated all of this shite. He hated pretending to be someone he wasn’t. All of those years spent making pleasant chitchat in an office when he’d wanted to hang himself by his tie. All of those years trying to figure out how to be a good husband and not being able to get it quite right in the end. A band of anxiety tightened around his chest.

  “That was a rule for duking. This is a rule for drinking tea.”

  Tav threw his head back in frustration. “Bloody hell.”

  “Tavish. Please tell me the proper protocol for a knight visiting a castle in a foreign land.”

  He was sure she was trying to put him at ease again, but he went along with it. “Well, that depends. What time period? Is the castle in a friendly country or one where there’s tension? Have they been invited? Are they there under duress?”

  “So much bloody attention to detail. I wonder why that is?” She smiled as a server approached with a tray of tiny, ridiculous sandwiches. He reached for one with his fork once it was settled, but she deflected the metal prongs with her own.

  “No. Use your hands for these. Using a utensil is considered gauche.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Freckles.” He grabbed a delicate sandwich between his thumb and index finger and a cucumber slid out limply and plopped onto the doily. Portia speared it with her fork.

  “Rules are put in place to test people, Tavish. They establish a baseline for respect, and people who can’t meet that baseline are considered rabble that don’t have to be tolerated. It’s all bullshit, but if we’re going to do this, I’m not letting anyone treat you like rabble. Or even merely tolerate you. You’re going to be the best fucking duke this country has ever seen, got it?”

  Tav stared at Portia through a space in the multitiered sandwich tray. She looked good in her dress, but now she was wearing that look of determination he found even sexier. And it was all for him. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined coaxing the expression from her, but it would do. For now.

  He straightened in his seat and saluted her with his tiny sandwich. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 16

  A palace. A freaking palace.

  Holyrood, which was indeed a freaking palace at the end of the Royal Mile, seemed to serve as more tourist trap than actual functioning home of an aristocrat, but apparently it was also used for meetings when lowly commoners showed up claiming to be secret heirs to dukedoms. Portia wondered if this weren’t some form of intimidation; Thabiso had told her he usually met with Scottish peerage at the Royal Scots Club and had only been to Holyrood for events and parties. Or maybe they were going to be dragged into a secret torture chamber on the premises. Good thing she’d packed her bear spray.

  After being mistaken for tourists and twice told they had to pay to enter, they’d eventually been led to the private wing of the palace, reserved for the usage of the duke and the royal family when they visited Scotland.

  “Ms. Hobbs? Mr. McKenzie? Please, follow me,” the butler who met them at the entrance to the private wing said.

  Portia had been to homes with household staff—nannies, cleaning women, and serving staff—but seeing a real-life Jeeves reminded her that there was wealth and there was aristocracy. Even a poor duke or earl was accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and that lifestyle included butlers who sneered at guests without the decency to have titles in front of their names, or absurd wealth to make up for the lack of it.

  Having worked in museums, Portia felt appropriately awed as they passed through the halls. Nearly every item, from artwork, to furniture, to molding, could have been put on display in the main touristic area.

  Her phone vibrated in her purse and she was certain it was Nya or Ledi responding to the OMG I’m going to ruin everything and also if you don’t hear from me in an hour have Thabiso send the SWAT team freak-out messages she’d sent to their group that morning, Scotland time. She let the vibrations comfort her. She wasn’t alone. She was with Tavish. She had her friends. She could do this.

  They could do this.

  They entered a lavish sitting room where a man and two women sat in uncomfortable-looking chairs before a fireplace. The walls were covered in rich, floral-patterned wallpaper and large oil paintings of white dudes at various stages of life and facial hair manscaping trends.

  The man, who was sitting in the most ornate chair, turned his head in their direction, and that was when Portia realized that the largest, and newest, portrait, which dominated the space above the fireplace, was him.

  The two women had been in deep conversation, but then they both stood. The younger woman gave a friendly smile and adjusted the lacey collar of her dress, which looked like Duchess of York cosplay gone wrong. The slightly older woman stepped forward, a neutral expression on her face and delicate white gloves on her hands, indicating that she was above general drudgery.

  “Thank you so very much for coming. We spoke on the phone. I’m Francis Baker, secretary to His Grace, David Dudgeon, the Duke of Edinburgh,” she said, gesturing to the man before the fireplace. He was an average-looking dude in an ugly but expensive suit, and he stared at Portia and Tavish like they were a strange substance spilled on the last open seat in a crowded subway car. He didn’t bother to stand, and looked away dismissively before Ms. Baker was even done with the introduction.

  Portia had planned to be gracious, inoffensive, bland. To simply usher Tav through the meeting. But if that was how David wanted to play it, she could do genteel bitchiness, too.

  “Hello, I’m Portia Hobbs, assistant to His Actual Grace, Tavish McKenzie, the Duke of Edinburgh,” Portia responded, gesturing toward Tav. David curled his lip in response.

  “I’m Leslie, David’s sister,” the other woman said. She curtsied as well, and then glanced back and forth between Tavish and David. Little wo
rry lines creased the space between her dark brows, though she tried to smile.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Tavish said, walking over to the seat. He reached out to shake David’s hand and the man simply regarded him for a moment, then grabbed Tav’s hand and began executing some strange maneuver that didn’t resemble a handshake at all. If he had tried it on a weaker man, perhaps he would have taken him off guard and shaken him like a rag doll. Instead, Tavish stood unmoved as David gritted his teeth and tugged harder.

  “You okay, mate?” Tavish asked, laughter in his voice.

  “I’m not your mate,” David said, releasing his grip and wiping his hand on the leg of his pants as he sank back down into his seat.

  “That’s right. You’re his cousin,” Portia said. “Distant cousin.”

  “Supposedly,” David muttered.

  “Shall we be seated?” Ms. Baker asked so politely that of course it wasn’t a request but a demand.

  Portia and Tavish took their seats, the sound of the crackling fireplace exacerbating the tension in the air.

  “Before we begin,” David said, and then looked at Ms. Baker. She reluctantly pulled out a plastic case and opened it to reveal a small glass tube and some cotton swabs.

  “No point in beating around the bush,” David said. “It’s a paternity test. If you’d be so kind as to swab your mouth.”

  Tav stiffened and Portia laid her hand on his knee.

  “Mr. McKenzie, excuse me, His Grace, would be happy to take the test.” Tav’s knee flexed beneath her hand and she squeezed a bit. “I’m assuming you took one as well? After all, your claim to the title is much more tenuous.”

  Portia took great satisfaction at the way David’s mouth opened and shut silently for a few seconds before slamming into a thin blanched line.

  “My family’s bloodline is pure and undiluted,” he said after gathering his composure, barely able to look at Portia. “I didn’t have anything to prove.”

  “Given the noted high rate of adultery and other unsavory behavior in the aristocratic ranks, a DNA test should have been carried out if that’s so important to you, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Portia took the cotton swab from Francis and turned to Tavish. “Open your mouth please.”