by Alyssa Cole
Portia thought of the hours of ballet classes and deportment lessons, and cotillion practices, all the things she’d done to please her parents that had never added up to enough. Of the awful sinking feeling that had come over her when her parents rushed Reggie to the hospital, when she’d realized something awful was happening, and for some illogical reason it was happening to Reggie and not to her, who deserved it . . .
“Check me out, Freckles!” Tavish strutted out into the hall wearing a green button-up shirt tucked into sharp black slacks. “Forget the photos, you need to see this in all its glory. What do you—oh, sorry, you’re on the phone.”
“I have to go, Mom. Bye.”
“Por—”
She hung up, not wanting to hear anything else her mother had to say, and pasted a smile on her face. “I love it. David’s going to be even more jealous when he sees you.”
Tav dropped his arms.
“What’s up?” He motioned around his own eyes with his index finger. “Calf box eyes.”
“It was my mom. Doing mom things.” She shrugged and hated that the breath she exhaled was shaky.
Tav’s brow creased. “Mum things are not good, I gather?”
“Not when it comes to me. I’m sure if you talked to Reggie, they would entail constant praise and normal fun conversations.”
“Oh,” Tav said, rubbing a knuckle over his stubbled jawline. “Ohhhhhhhhh. I see.”
“Yeah, everyone does eventually,” Portia muttered. It was childish, wanting to cry over her mother’s occasional barbed comments. She was an adult. It didn’t matter.
“So this is where it comes from. All the ‘I’m a fuck-up’ hogwash?” Tavish chuckled, and Portia narrowed her gaze at him. “Come now. This is classic Dr. Phil shite. I value my life enough not to say anything bad about your mother, but as someone who just apologized for being a jerk to you myself, maybe you should consider that she’s wrong?”
Portia had considered that. But there was considering and there was believing.
She sucked in a deep breath and remembered that she was New Portia. New Portia couldn’t let anyone sap her energy, even if that person had given her life.
“Hey,” Tav said, snapping his fingers to get her attention. “I need your opinion on a suit. Is that all right? You can tell me about erm, thread count and the cut of the lapel, or whatever.”
Portia almost did cry then. He was trying to distract her. It was clumsy and he was perhaps confusing suits with linens, but her chest tightened a little.
“I’m an excellent judge of lapels,” she said. “Go try it on. I’ll be right there.”
Tav gave her one of those full smiles then. “Grand. Don’t stay out here beating yourself up or anything. I expect my lapel critiques promptly.”
Portia took in a deep, trembly breath. Her mother’s words had hurt because, as always, they were just a bit too close to what she wished for herself. It was like her mother always saw her dreams as reflected in a fun house mirror.
A burst of deep brotherly laughter sounded from behind the door and Portia followed it. She had lapels to judge.
Chapter 18
Struggling to balance the workload of the armory along with duke lessons was tiring as fuck. He’d always made fun of the aristocracy, but Christ he was glad he hadn’t had to spend an entire lifetime bound by these arbitrary rules. Smile like this, laugh like that, toast like this, sit like that. Tav was well and truly knackered, but not as much as he should have been, since Portia was running herself ragged trying to make things go smoothly for him.
“I’ll be right there.” He’d nearly closed the space between them in the hallway when she’d said those words so guilelessly, as if that was something she could offer him simply and without a second thought. It had hurt, because it wasn’t true in the long term. Apprenticeships ended, as did visas. In the meantime, she was doing exactly that. Being there for him.
She’d contacted her princess friend—because of course she hadn’t been joking about that—and found a lawyer perfect for the job of navigating all the aristocratic bullshit and transitioning the title, and all the land and money and prestige associated with it, to Tavish. The mere thought of it made him feel like he’d been kicked in the chest. She’d taken over his emails and begun answering the inquiries that had started to trickle in—Tavish assumed there would be a tidal wave once word really got out. There were the lessons of course, and in her spare time she was still putting the finishing touches on the armory’s website and running the social media.
He’d brought on an apprentice but gotten a force of nature instead.
He finished up his work for the day and headed to Portia’s room, in what had become the norm for them. He’d gone from avoiding his apprentice to spending every free minute with his squire. The flurry of anticipation that built in his stomach as he approached her room had also become the norm. Tav had thought the infatuation would fade away, or that her drills on social interactions and small talk and how to act like a rich git—reminders that she was one—would have turned him off. As with everything when it came to Portia, he’d been wrong.
He remembered how wrong he’d been about her kissing style, how she’d been shy and vulnerable, growing bolder as their tongues tangled. Even with all that had happened in the weeks since she’d arrived, it was that kiss by the forge he couldn’t stop thinking of. His entire world was on the precipice of change. Life as he had known it was about to fall and smash to pieces on the cobblestone below—was in fact already tumbling toward the ground—but he was too busy fixating on the memory of her mouth and her hands and the way she’d moaned . . .
What a tosser you are, Tavish.
He pushed the thoughts away as he raised his hand to knock on the door. There was no response and he waited, then knocked again. Finally, he heard the shuffling of sheets and a groggy “Come in.”
When he stepped into the dim room, the first thing that hit him was how her territory seemed to be marked by smell—a fragile floral scent that told intruders this space was hers now. The second was that she looked . . . well, she was lying across her bed, hair wild, the skirt of her black dress wrinkled and hiked up in precarious folds just above her knees. Her feet dangled off of the edge of the bed, and her heels were still on. It was like walking into a boudoir fantasy until Tav noticed the dark circles under her eyes and how out of it she seemed.
He stalked over to the bed and sat down, ignoring the warning creak emitted by the frame.
“You look like hell,” he said, and no, that wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear judging from the glare she shot him. It was a sleepy glare, bordering on adorable since he could see both of her hands and she wasn’t toting any weapons.
“I feel like shit,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, and not sexy, Kim Cattrall hoarse. Worry tumbled Tav’s stomach.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
“I think I’m just really, really tired.” She shook her head ruefully and wiggled down further into her duvet. “I sat down for a minute, and I passed right out.”
She had taken on so much—much more than could be justified with this talk of apprenticeships and squires. He would pay her, once things were settled and he had the money that was supposedly his by virtue of blood.
“You’re toast, lass. Burnt,” he said. His hand went to her hair, sweeping the curls back and out of her face. “Setting off the damned fire alarm in the kitchen, even though some knob’s taken the battery out.”
She laughed softly.
“I just needed a nap. I’m fine now . . .” She started to sit up and Tav laid his hand heavily on her shoulder to keep her down, and then she flopped back onto the bed and looked up at him with wide eyes.
“Here’s what’s going to happen tonight,” he said, speaking in an exaggeratedly slow tone. “You are going to take a break.”
“I promised to help you,” she said, and Tav felt something in his chest region that was probably similar to what a man run through with a sword
felt before he gave up the ghost.
The look in her eyes was dangerous because it was ridiculously pure, despite the fact that he’d spent a good portion of his time around her at between a six and a ten on the wanker-ometer.
“Helping me shouldn’t leave you feeling like shite. You know that, right? And like I said, you look like—”
“Hell. Yes. Got it.” She pulled the duvet up over her head.
“Glad we’re on the same page. So instead of teaching me how to curtsy or hold a damn fork or whatever you had planned for this evening, how about you sleep? Just relax?”
She let out a soft laugh, and shook her head beneath the duvet before pulling the cover back down. This was basic peek-a-boo shite, but Tav couldn’t help the strange spike of happiness when her face was revealed again.
“I don’t think I can go back to sleep now,” she said. She rolled over and picked up her tablet, which was never far from her reach. “It’s cool. I have to—”
Tav plucked the tablet out of her hands and tossed it onto the sofa across the room.
“Careful!” She leapt up and he held his forearm across the front of her, feeling the delicious press of her breasts as she dove for the tablet, which was resting safely atop a knit jumper.
He expected her to pull back, but she didn’t. Her head swiveled toward him, but the soft globes of her breasts rested against his forearm, the weight of them pure temptation. Her eyes were wide and he could feel her heart thudding where he held her. His own heart was giving hers a run for its money because his pulse rushed in his ears, drowning everything out except for the voice shouting Kiss her.
Tav swallowed.
“You’re my squire, aye?” It was a reminder to himself. She’d already said that anything more than that wasn’t on offer, even if her pupils were wide and those lovely pinky-brown lips were parted in anticipation.
“Yes,” she said. The word came out on a wary huff of breath.
“That means this isn’t a one-way street. I get to look out for you, too, remember? I think you need a break tonight and I’m going to have to insist on that.”
Her lashes fluttered. He wanted to feel them against his cheeks as she kissed him.
He couldn’t.
“Oh. Okay.” She leaned back, taking the glorious press of her bosom from his arm.
“I’ll just . . . not do anything then.” She glanced longingly at her tablet and Tav knew if he left her to get sleep she would just jump back into work as soon as the door shut, researching, sending emails, and whatever else she could do from bed.
“Can you be ready to go in half an hour?” he asked.
Her head tilted to the side and Tavish wanted to cup her face in his hands, to run his tongue over the seam of her mouth.
That wouldn’t exactly be restful for her.
“Sure,” she said. “To go where?”
“To have your mind—and your taste buds—blown.”
THE RESTAURANT WAS smaller than Tavish remembered. He hadn’t been in years—the last time had probably been that awful dinner with Greer when he’d sat searching for words that never came and the realization that it was well and truly over had settled on him. But when he’d sat on the edge of Portia’s bed, watching her rationalize how to sneak in some work, he’d had a craving for the taste of home. That he’d wanted her to taste it with him was something he’d worry about another day.
Across the table, she was biting into her fourth empanada, eyes fluttering closed and smile resting on her grease-slick lips.
“This is so good,” she murmured. Bits of the flaky pastry clung to her red-stained lips, and she licked them away.
The restaurant was small and dark and not much to look at, but the chef could make Portia smile and moan in a way Tav wasn’t able to, so it had been the right choice. He’d worried when he led her into the alley, and then down the flight of rickety stairs to the basement, that she might scoff or pull a face. He didn’t know why he kept expecting these things—Portia had never done anything to make him think she’d react in such a way.
Maybe it’s because life would be much easier for you if she did act like the annoying imaginary version of her you conjured up.
“You should taste my mum’s empanadas,” he said. “Makes these taste like deep fried dust.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she said. She stopped and pulled out her phone with her free hand.
“Hey,” he said menacingly. “No working, remember?”
“I’m sending a picture to my friends,” she said, tapping away at the phone with a smile before tucking it away. “Evidence that I am actually taking a night off. You’re not the only one who’s been on my case. Also this deliciousness deserves to be preserved for future generations. One day I can show this picture to my grandchildren.”
Tav smiled.
“The owner of this place is friends with my mum,” he said. “We used to come here all the time when I was younger. Had birthday parties and community events here with other Chileans who’d had to come to Scotland. I thought you might like it.”
“I love it,” she said. She licked at the tip of her thumb, which he was sure wasn’t in any etiquette book, and that made it all the more alluring. When she caught him staring at her, she sheepishly picked up her napkin.
“Do you enjoy the etiquette stuff?” he asked. “I hope so because it’d be a hell of a waste to spend so much time learning and teaching something you didn’t.”
She shrugged. “I’m ambivalent. It’s what my parents thought I was good at. My sister—the smart twin—was more focused on school and I liked artsy stuff and clothes and attention. I was eager to please, while Reggie generally didn’t give a fuck about that as long as she achieved her goals.”
The paint-by-number portrait of Portia’s family situation was getting slowly filled in, but Tav couldn’t quite understand how the woman across from him could be seen as anything less than brilliant.
“So this Reggie is a genius? Because she would have to be pretty fucking intelligent to hold the title of ‘the smart twin’ between the two of you.”
“I know I’m smart. But you know how it is.” Portia shrugged. “My parents sent me for deportment lessons and entered me into local beauty contests.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out that you were a beauty queen, Freckles.” Tav wasn’t exactly surprised, but was still strange to think of Portia parading herself around to be judged. His jibes had hurt her so easily.
She shook her head. “I was a contestant. You have to win to be a queen. But yeah. I had a debut, with the frilly dress and everything, too. I think they were training me to be a good wife since I was so uneven at school and they didn’t think art or hanging on the internet were viable careers. Not their best investment.”
She gave him something between a grin and a grimace. The waiter arrived then with pastel de choclo for her and lomo a lo pobre for him.
“Anything to drink with your meal?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll have another glass of red,” Tavish said.
“And sparkling water with a slice of lime for me,” Portia added. The waiter went off on his way.
“Does it bother you? My drinking?” he asked. “I can just have water, too.”
“No, it’s cool,” she said, cutting into her corn and meat pie. “I can have a drink and be fine. I don’t crave alcohol and I don’t binge drink every time I have it. I decided not to drink because I wanted to see what I’m like when I’m not setting myself up to be a hot mess.”
She shrugged and scooped some of her food onto her fork awkwardly. She was uncomfortable.
“Well, good on you,” he said, but something she’d said snagged annoyingly in his mind. “I don’t know what you were like before, but you’re the furthest thing from a hot mess I’ve seen. Without you I would be completely lost.”
Another shrug. “Without me you wouldn’t be dealing with this to begin with.”
“Portia.”
She s
hoved a forkful of food in her mouth.
“Portia. Hey, lass.”
She looked up at him, chewing apprehensively, and he folded his hands together and regarded her with as serious an expression as he could muster.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shite at taking compliments?”
Her hand went to her mouth as a squeal of surprised laughter escaped.
“Like really shite. Jesus Christ.” He was rewarded with more laughter.
Her hand was still in front of her mouth, blocking it from view as she finished chewing. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just take the fucking compliment. Do I seem like the type who goes about doling them out to every Tom, Dick, and Mary?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Actually, your dirty little secret is that inside all that armor you’ve outfitted yourself with, you’re a squishy marshmallow.”
Tav growled and shoved the deliciously seasoned steak and chips into his mouth instead of replying. He was used to being described as cold and rude, not squishy for fuck’s sake.
Portia chuckled. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t take a compliment, Lord I-Turned-Down-a-Shitload-of-Cash-Because-David-Insulted-Refugees.”
Tav pushed a chip to the edge of his plate with the tines of his fork. “Do you think I should have accepted his bribe?”
Do you think I don’t have what it takes to be a duke?
“I think you could have, but I really don’t see you as the type to take hush money from an asshole like that, even if it’s the easy thing to do.”
He wanted to ask her just exactly how she saw him because every morning he looked in the mirror and tried to tell himself he was a duke now, an important man, and every morning he failed spectacularly.
“I keep wondering, who the fuck am I? To think I deserve the titles and properties and everything that comes along with this?”
“The fact that you’re even wondering is a good start,” she said, waving her knife in his direction—something he wouldn’t have trusted her with before. “There are people out there who will do anything for money and prestige, even when they already have it. Your reservations are a good sign.”
