A Duke by Default

by Alyssa Cole

  Tavish’s brow furrowed. “I’m no—”

  “Your Grace, do you really not want to do this? It’s the fastest way to make sure that certain people know their place—and yours. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  He gave a reluctant nod and took the swab, swiping quickly in his mouth and then dropping it into Francis’s gloved, outstretched hand.

  Portia glanced at Tavish, who glared at the floor. David was trying to be insulting, but only because he was already fighting a losing battle.

  Portia whipped her head in the direction of their hosts. “Now, we were invited for what I assumed would be tea and a discussion of the new and exciting discovery of Mr. McKenzie’s lineage. Yet we haven’t even been offered refreshment. Is this some modern form of hospitality or is Mr. Dudgeon always so rude to guests?”

  Leslie gasped and David frowned, but Ms. Baker jumped up from her seat.

  “I’ll see to it,” she said, hurrying away with her sample.

  Portia hoped having an American remind them of the rules of respectability would rightfully shame them.

  “Well, we’re not in the habit of offering refreshment to possible charlatans,” David said, dashing Portia’s hopes for civility.

  “Mr. McKenzie?” Leslie cut in. “You make weaponry?”

  “I do. Bodotria Armory makes some of the finest swords in modern Scotland.”

  “Replicas, I suppose,” David said.

  “No, they’re very real,” Tavish said.

  “And very sharp,” Portia added. She felt something on her knee and realized Tavish was now giving her the same message she had given him earlier.

  Easy there.

  She doubted he’d felt the same shocking heat spread through his body at her touch, though.

  “Who exactly are you again, Ms. Hobbs?” David was looking at her with that same skeptical look people often gave her when she exerted her knowledge, or ability to speak properly, in their presence. The problem was, she didn’t exactly know the answer to the question anymore. Apprentice? Consultant? Squire?

  Woman blushing wildly and inappropriately at her employer’s touch?

  The door opened and the tinkling of a cart being wheeled in echoed through the room.

  The liveried server placed out the saucers and teacups and teaspoons, the tray of sandwiches, the silver teakettle. Mundane objects that suddenly felt like a gauntlet.

  The day before, Tav had done nearly everything wrong—poured milk into his cup before adding the tea, clanged his spoon around the cup like he was a toastmaster, speared the petite sandwiches with a fork. Portia didn’t care, but she didn’t want to give David anything to feel smug about.

  Leslie took on the role of hostess, pouring the tea into the delicate china cups, passing the sugar.

  “It’s Darjeeling,” she said. “A present from the Queen herself.”

  Tav made a polite sound. “Ah, so that means technically I paid for it. With my taxes. Grand.”

  Portia nudged him with her knee and he shot her a devious look. She was really regretting her suit suggestion because it fit him all too well. He was sexy enough sweaty and covered in shaved metal, but in a finely tailored suit and poking fun at annoying aristocrats?

  Tavish then added a dollop of milk to his tea and stirred delicately, moving his spoon up and down in a straight line—the lesson that stirring in circles was just not done had taken.

  He did fine, though there was a stiffness to his movements. She could almost hear him repeating six to twelve, six to twelve as she’d instructed him, in the way a person who wasn’t skilled at dance mentally rehashed one and two and three and four instead of moving naturally to the music.

  “Scone?” Leslie asked.

  Tavish took one and almost picked up his knife to cut it, then seemed to remember that was a no-no.

  “So exactly how did your mother meet the former duke?” David asked with insinuation in his voice. “He did seem rather susceptible to the charms of commoners, but he had other, more tawdry, inclinations people say.”

  Tavish ripped his scone in half, which was the proper technique but executed with maybe a bit more force than necessary.

  “She was working as a translator for his refugee organization, one that she received help from when she arrived here from Chile,” Tavish said as he spread clotted cream over his pastry. Portia hadn’t been aware that cream could be spread in a threatening manner, but it most definitely could.

  “And she thought that scheming her way into becoming a duchess was a perfectly reasonable step up from migrant?” David asked, sipping his tea.

  “Sorry to ruin your little fiction, but she had no interest in his wealth. She turned down his proposal once she saw how detestable the aristocracy was.”

  “Ah. I suppose the apple can fall far from the tree then,” David said.

  Tav had picked up his saucer and been about to take a sip of the tea, but he lowered it back to the table, his expression terrifying. Portia remembered that though she didn’t call him maestro, Tav was one, and spent much of his downtime studying ways to kill a man quickly and efficiently in battle.

  His gaze went up to the mantel, to the sword that was hung in a place of honor beneath David’s portrait.

  He was on his feet in an instant, rushing for the weapon.

  “Tavish!” Portia stood and hurried after him.

  “Oh my,” Leslie said, her hand flying to her chest.

  David jumped up and ran behind one of the large chairs, putting it between himself and Tavish.

  “What are you doing?” Portia tried not to let the panic come through in her voice as Tavish took down the sword and stared at it.

  “I made this.” The fury was gone from his face. He looked stunned. “This was one of the first pieces I sold when I opened the armory. It was a special request, made to replicate one from the buyer’s family line.”

  He turned it in his hands, ran his finger over the ornately sculpted quillon. It had a unicorn etched into each side, similar to those she had seen in images of the dukedom’s crest.

  “Your father must have . . .” Portia stopped. That truth meant so many things. His father had known about his business. He may have even communicated with Tavish himself. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling, no matter how adamantly he claimed he didn’t care about his biological father.

  He laughed ruefully. “I remember receiving a letter afterward, thanking me for my fine craftsmanship. And I made several more pieces for the buyer over the years. They ordered products regularly to sell in their shop, you know.”

  He placed the sword back on its mount. “I guess now I know why some of my orders stopped coming in,” he said quietly.

  He turned then, and his brows raised as he took in David, who stood clutching his chair like a shield.

  “Did you think I was going to run you through?” Tav asked. His tone was amused. “If I was, that chair wouldn’t have stopped me. Like she said, my swords are sharp, mate.”

  David straightened and adjusted his jacket.

  “One never knows with someone like you,” he said.

  “Someone like me?” Tav squared his shoulders. “And what exactly am I like? I met you less than fifteen minutes ago, though I guess that was enough time to get your number. But you’d best not think you have mine.”

  “More tea?” Leslie stood, thrusting the teapot around as if a sip of piping hot Darjeeling was the key to world peace.

  “That would be wonderful, thank you,” Portia said, tugging discreetly at Tav’s sleeve. He kept his gaze on David as he navigated his way to his seat.

  The door to the parlor opened and Ms. Baker rushed over to David. She leant close to his ear and whispered something, then stood beside his chair.

  “I’m guessing this is the Maury moment?” Portia asked. She sipped her tea.

  “Maury?” Leslie asked.

  “It’s a talk show where women go on and get paternity tests done, dear,” Francis said.
“Quite amusing. And yes, the Duke of Edinburgh was indeed the father.”

  Portia choked back an inappropriate laugh. It was true. This whole wild situation was real and she had gotten Tavish into this.

  “How much do you want then?” David asked, steepling his hands before him. When Tavish didn’t answer, David made a sound of irritation. “To go away. How much do you want to go away?”

  “Are you trying to buy me off?” He didn’t sound angry about it, and Portia realized this might work out perfectly. Tavish needed money and didn’t really want the aggravation and duties of the title. A payoff wasn’t exactly legit, but it would solve one problem and prevent others. Tav might find it much preferable to a life spent dealing with men like David, and Portia wouldn’t judge him in the slightest.

  “Of course I am,” David said. “Come now, do you have the slightest idea what being a member of the peerage entails?”

  Tavish shifted uncomfortably. “I’m a fast learner.”

  David scoffed. “There are things that can’t be learned, Mr. McKenzie. For example, you look good in a suit and can drink your tea without slurping, but do you know how to give a formal toast? Do you know the events for the season—which is already in swing, I’ll have you know—the dress code for each event, the strategic social and business import of each event?” David’s nostrils flared. “And that’s just the beginning. I’ve trained my entire life for this role, waited and watched and prepared. I’m from this world, and I understand what’s expected of me and what the people I represent need.”

  Tav was nodding along, and David could have shut up, but he didn’t. Apparently, he was just getting started.

  “I know what they don’t need, too. As if this country isn’t dealing with enough trash washing up on our shores. Just imagining the insult of the Queen having to share Holyrood with you in a few weeks makes me ill. Of you presenting her with the crown jewels and standing by her side at the garden party. Atrocious. I can’t allow some bastard of a refugee whore to sweep in and undo everything I’ve worked for!” David’s mouth snapped shut, as if he hadn’t meant to let out all that bile but it had spewed forth of its own accord.

  Portia jumped to her feet.

  “Mr. Dudgeon—”

  Tav’s gentle grip around her arm stopped her. He stood so that he was beside her.

  “I regret that I’m going to have to turn down any offer you make,” he said calmly. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers to get the process of turning over the title and all it entails to its rightful owner—me. We have another engagement, so we’ll be leaving. Thank you for the hospitality.”

  He looked down at Portia. “Shall we go?”

  She didn’t know the etiquette for basically saying “fuck you” and flouncing, so she executed her most ostentatious curtsy in David’s direction.

  “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” she said with a bat of her eyelashes, then she and Tav strode toward the door and out into the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, placing her hand on his lower back. He stiffened, but then sighed and relaxed just before she was about to pull away.

  There was a loud crash from the room they’d exited, echoing down the hall.

  “Better than Davey, I suppose.”

  “I thought maybe you’d take the money. You said you weren’t sure you even wanted this.”

  “I did consider it. It would have been a huge payday with no work required from me. But then I saw the look on his face when he said refugee. Now I know where I’ve seen this git’s face before.” Tavish sneered. “He’s been in the papers putting pressure on MPs to come down harsher on migrants. Trying to get them to cut back on legal immigration, too.”

  “He can’t make them do anything though, right? It’s all talk?” She was pretty sure the Duke of Edinburgh had no voting powers. It was a royal dukedom, but like much of the Monarchy, the power was symbolic.

  “No. But he can present himself as the face of Scotland and pressure the people who do. He can get in all the papers with all the historical weight a title like ‘Royal Duke’ holds. He can talk to the bloody Queen. If I can stop one man who thinks about other humans that way from holding any kind of power, I have to.”

  The only sound after that was the sound of their shoes tapping on the buffed tile floors, and the little voice in her head reminding her that she was in way over her head. They kept walking even when they got out of the palace, past stores and down cobblestone streets. They’d gone a couple of blocks before Tavish had even realized it.

  “Thank you,” he finally said as they waited for their SuperLift. He even managed a grin. “I know Davey was scared I was gonna run him through, but I think you were the one giving that serious thought.”

  “Eh, I’m always down to stab horrible men,” she said. “No need to thank me.”

  “I forgot, you’re the vigilante-slash-spiritual man killer,” he said with a short, unamused laugh. “Aye, that’s about right.”

  She was wavering on offended but then he looked at her, heat and something else in his gaze. “After the display David put on, I’ll remind you I’m hardier than average. We’re in this together, so don’t worry too much about killing my spirit. I’ve a feeling it’s a pretty good match for yours.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say to that so instead she just blinked up at him.

  “Portia?” An apple-cheeked woman called out from the car that had pulled up. “Are you waiting for a SuperLift?”

  “I call passenger seat this time if it’s another numpty two-door,” Tav said and strode toward the car, displaying once again just how good he looked in a suit.

  Way, way over her head.

  Chapter 17

  Portia sensed the moment Tav’s mood shifted from engaged to ennui, even with the battered kitchen table between them. He ran a hand through his hair and dropped his head back in annoyance.

  “Ah, that’s right. Of course I should have remembered this random inconsequential fact about fork tines. I’m a complete and utter git, obviously.”

  The daily “duke lessons” they’d undertaken since tea time at Holyrood a week ago hadn’t been too bad, really, and sometimes they were even fun—too fun. But for the past couple of days Tav had been growing progressively more stressed, understandably so, and his ability to retain information was slipping.

  He was still running a business and dealing with all that entailed on top of his lessons, and it was likely just starting to really sink in that this was his world from now on. Going from artisan to aristocrat meant a complete restructuring of his life, from the very foundations. It would be a lot for anyone to take in, but he was also getting years of etiquette lessons and practice at social niceties crammed into just a few weeks. Her apprenticeship was only for a few weeks more, after all, and she was trying to help as much as she could before she left.

  Portia hadn’t thought enough about this aspect of helping Tav out. Setting out on a goal of improving herself was one thing, but trying to improve him felt uncomfortably like telling him something was wrong to begin with. She couldn’t help but feel like an imposter for even suggesting she knew better than him.

  “Okay. So. Before we continue, you shouldn’t feel bad about not knowing this stuff already. Why would you know random minutiae of etiquette? It served no purpose to you before.” She sighed. “You’re learning skills, but lacking those skills had no impact on your worth. Your value doesn’t lie in the way you hold a glass or a knife, or whether you can make a formal toast.”

  Portia generally kept their conversation light, but it was important to her that he understood this. She had spent years cringing her way through deportment lessons as fault after fault was pointed out for correction, and having to do the same to Tav was dredging up some unexpected memories.

  Stop slumping! Enunciate! Chewing your nails is disgusting. Can you really not pay attention for more than five minutes, Portia?

  Tav drummed his blunt fingertips on the tabletop, then lifted h
is gaze to meet hers.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Squire Freckles. You’re saying you like me just the way I am, then?” he asked. His expression was wary, even though he was cracking jokes.

  She lifted her brows. “If you want a compliment, all you have to do is ask. And stop cursing Debrett’s.”

  Tav made a motion that seemed to be the beginning of an eye roll, but stopped himself. “Fine, I’ll behave.”

  “Don’t get too freaked out. We’re just going to review some basic etiquette skills you’ll need when dealing with people like David.”

  Tav snorted, and then cracked his knuckles menacingly. “Think I’ve got the skills for that down already, lass.”

  “Well, as enjoyable as squaring up with David would be, the rich are extremely litigious, and the new Duke of Edinburgh being arrested for battery would make him way too happy, don’t you think?”

  “Aye. So let’s go through this again,” he said, then drew a deep breath and moved his index finger toward the leftmost edge of the formal place setting Portia had laid out in front of him. “Butter plate, butter knife, salad fork, fish fork, dinner fork, service plate, dinner knife, fish knife, salad knife, soup spoon, and bloody oyster fork.”

  This was the easiest thing they’d gone over during their lesson, but Portia had saved it for toward the end of the lesson, when he’d be flagging and grouchy, so they could finish the day on a good note with Tav feeling accomplished and optimistic. It was something she’d adapted from a Hot Mess Helper video: celebrating even the smallest steps, because every small step added mileage toward reaching your goals.

  She clapped with delight. “Yes! You got them all correct. Way to go!”

  She reached over the table to give him a high-five which he returned a bit bashfully.

  “Grand. Stuff like this makes my skin crawl, though. Everyone putting on these fake personas and indulging in these silly little rituals just to impress people. And I know I do that to an extent with the European martial arts and the exhibitions, but that’s fun! This isn’t fun at all.”