by Alyssa Cole
“I should make sure David isn’t on the battlements with a pot of boiling oil,” Tav said drily.
The carriage moved forward in the line and she felt so nervous her head spun. They had worked hard in preparation for this moment, and now that it was here she felt totally out of it, as if she was watching it play out from a distance. All she could think of were the things she should have focused on with Tav, of her phone call with her parents, of the fact that no matter what she did, it wasn’t good enough. Her chest went tight and pressed back into her plush carriage seat.
“The stone was all locally sourced and the newer wings—”
“Relax, poulette,” Johan said. He was seated across from her, sporting a kilt that seemed perhaps a bit shorter than standard. He seemed quite comfortable, given his dangerous manspreading on his side of the carriage. He’d already announced he was playing a game of Liechtienbourgian roulette by going sans underwear, so Portia kept her gaze above his waist. “If you start to feel inadequate, just remember that you two will likely be the only people there tonight who make an actual contribution to the world, apart from the staff.”
Portia noted that he didn’t include himself in the positive contributions to the world column. “What about you?”
He ran a hand through his floppy ginger locks and shot her a devilish grin. “I’m semi-royalty. That’s even more useless than actual royalty.”
“Hey, you do good things. And you just spent days helping complete strangers because a friend asked you to.”
“I needed something to keep me occupied while in this dreadful country,” he countered, as if he hadn’t come explicitly to help Tav.
Portia started to protest but Tav sighed loudly.
“Christ, the two of you. Now can you see how frustrating it is trying to give you a compliment, Freckles?” Tav asked, shifting closer to her as he tugged at his kilt. Part of her was taken aback by his gruff words, but then his fingertips brushed over the back of her hand and she realized that someone being annoyed because they thought you were greater than you could imagine was perhaps not the worst situation one could find themselves in.
But having that and losing it was, and this was a game she’d already lost.
“And can you see how frustrating it is when you pretend she isn’t your lady love?” Johan chimed in with a smile. “I can say from experience that the Looking Glass Daily isn’t always entirely wrong.”
Tav drew his hand away and Portia swallowed against the roughening in her throat.
She shot Johan a dirty look, and he raised a shoulder. He knew something was up between her and Tavish, and his little pokes weren’t helping. Lady love. Pfft. Lady close to hand was more accurate.
Portia kept thinking about Tav’s complete lack of reaction when she’d told him about her next job. How he’d accepted it so easily. Because she wasn’t the kind of person people kept around.
Enough overthinking.
The carriage stopped and the door was pulled open by a liveried footman. Portia and Tavish looked at each other for a long moment.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Remember, you’re an international, ahem national, man of mystery,” Johan said from across the carriage. “James Bond, minus the taking advantage of abused women, plus a sword and whatever medieval affectations please you.” With that, he leapt down from the carriage, seemingly not caring at all that it was a gusty night and his kilt was flapping dangerously.
“You’ve got this,” Portia said.
“We’ve got this,” Tavish replied, giving her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “All right, on with it.”
He stepped out of the carriage and then turned to guide her down, and Portia’s heart squeezed. It should have been a perfect moment: Tavish in his Highland best, her in a buttery yellow princess-style gown. The look in his eyes. The incomprehensible feeling that welled up in her chest and made her eyes suddenly dangerously moist. But like in any fairy tale, a night at the ball had a catch. She wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, but she had an expiration date.
This was Tavish’s happily ever after, not hers—she was just a helpful woodland creature, or maybe a fairy godmother if she was more generous with herself, who worked her magic and then faded to the background while the hero continued his journey. If she’d thought otherwise, she could only blame herself for the confusion.
“Portia?”
She took his hand and made her way carefully down the carriage steps. She couldn’t meet his gaze—she didn’t know what he would see there and she couldn’t let her ridiculous feelings ruin the night.
Tavish tucked her arm beneath his, as they had practiced.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
Great. She was supposed to be here to support him, not distract him, and she couldn’t even do that.
“I’m fine. I forgot to eat,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, she realized, but she needed to pull it together. “Don’t worry about me. Pretend I’m . . . an accessory. Like your tie. Part of the ensemble but nothing you really need to pay attention to now that you’re at the event.”
Tav grunted. “What? If you think I could focus on something besides you, or would want to, then you really do need a bit of haggis to set you right.”
Great. She was making a scene and he was trying to make things better.
“This is your night,” she whispered. “I don’t want to—”
“Let me guess. Mess things up?” He chuckled. “I’m the one who’ll be making the cock-ups tonight. And if I do, it will be fine. And even if somehow you did, that would be fine, too.”
It was both exactly what she needed to hear and exactly what she didn’t. She was being selfish again. She needed to think about her job, not her emotions. She needed to be professional.
“Right. Here we go. Don’t forget not to curse anyone out or physically attack anyone.”
“I think I’ll manage,” Tav said.
She held her breath as he greeted the people in line before them, only releasing it when the cordialities had passed successfully and the older man and woman seemed suitably charmed. The line moved quickly and soon they were at the top of a ridiculously long flight of stairs.
“His Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh, Tavish McKenzie!”
The crowd went silent, so Portia should have been able to hear herself and Johan being introduced, but she was busy scanning the room, taking in the breadth of reactions to Tavish. There were many, many faces—most of them white, many of them wrinkled—but only about three sets of expressions that she could make out: outright disdain, curiosity, and blatantly-wondering-what’s-under-that-kilt. Curiosity far outnumbered the other two. Portia felt a bit of the tension leave her. They could work with this.
Johan took her other arm as they descended the stairs, and she understood that for all his attempts to come off as a devil-may-care-aristocrat, his arm through hers was lending them the power and presence of the Kingdom of Liechtienbourg. Johan didn’t think much of these people, but his family and their wealth made everyone in the room think a lot of him.
“Want a shot? Whiskey? Tequila?” He raised his brows suggestively. He’d only drunk tea while at the armory, so she was a bit surprised.
“I don’t want a shot and you don’t need one,” she said. “Thank you, by the way.”
“Very true,” he said, ignoring the last part. “I’ll have a Manhattan, in your honor.”
He stepped away with a wink—and several admiring glances at his legs trailed in his wake.
“He’s not a bad type, that Johan,” Tavish said. “Too bad he isn’t Scottish.”
“Oh, I’m sure everyone is saying the same about you.” David had a smile on his face as he approached Tavish and held out his hand, but his gaze was flat and his eyes ringed with dark circles.
Tav ignored his hand and clapped him on the back. “Not falling for that trick again, etiquette or no. And I was born and raised here, same as you, except I didn’t have a silver spoon up my ass.”
&
nbsp; Leslie hurried up to Tav, looking lovely in a gauzy pink gown. “Your Grace. So very good to see you again.”
David bristled, and the slightest smirk lifted the edges of Leslie’s mouth. “I hope your trip here passed well and the carriage ride was acceptable.”
“It was lovely,” Tavish said, gracing her with a smile. “Nothing like the smell of manure to get you ready for a night with the peerage.”
David seethed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This is who gets a seat at the table now.”
“Quite right,” Tavish said. “And I have a tradesman’s appetite, too. Plus I’ll likely invite my friends and family without permission. You must understand that people like me can’t help ourselves.”
Portia glanced up at him. She’d expected him to be nervous, but he seemed calm, cool. Like himself, but with a bit of charm rounding out his rough edges. He wasn’t exactly Tavish—he was the Duke of Edinburgh now, testing out the persona that she’d helped craft. She couldn’t help but wonder if that was good or bad.
An older man who had been standing behind David shuffled into the circle, rheumy eyes squinted as he blatantly examined Tavish. He scowled, but then a bit of laughter escaped from his mouth.
“Well, if you aren’t the spitting image of your grandfather.”
“May I present Lord Washburn,” Leslie said, and Portia made a mental note of his name and face, then realized she wouldn’t need to know his name for future events.
“He had a sharp tongue too, you know,” Washburn said. “Got him into heaps of trouble, but always made for an amusing time. Some people prefer mealy-mouthed brownnosing, but my god things have been boring until the last few weeks.”
David sneered. He was likely having the worst night of his life, so Portia couldn’t blame him.
“I’m glad I could amuse you,” Tavish said. “Are you the Washburn who’s been advocating against sanctuary for immigrants? I imagine you won’t find me amusing for long.”
Portia felt a surge of pride at his quick response, but Washburn seemed to take the threat in stride. “Oh right, that’s to be your pet project it seems. Let’s talk a bit when you’ve settled into the role. I’m always up for a spirited debate.”
The man shuffled away.
“A debate. That’s what this is for him, the git.” Tavish shook his head.
Portia felt a trickle of relief. He was still Tav.
“Well, he’s as far as you’ll get. You see, for most of us, there is no debate,” David said.
“Do you practice saying ridiculous shit like this in a mirror?” Portia asked, making sure she smiled politely so anyone watching would assume their conversation was convivial. “The former duke would have hated everything you stand for.”
“The former duke was a promiscuous drunk who squandered his power,” David said, his face flushing red.
“Well, he managed to do two things right,” Portia said. “And neither of them was allowing the dukedom to be passed down to someone like you. Good thing now you’re the former duke.”
“I’ll take you around and make the introductions,” Leslie said to Tav politely, as if Portia and David had been discussing the weather. Polite sniping was common, so Portia was sure she’d seen much worse.
Tavish turned to Portia and held his arm out, but Leslie slid her own into the opening. “It’s best if I bring you around. Portia, lovely as she is, would raise questions and distract from your integration.”
Portia knew Leslie wasn’t trying to be rude—and that she was correct—but it still made her stomach hurt. She’d been replaced, just like that. Her parents had Narisa. Tav had Leslie.
No one really needs you.
The brief panic on Tavish’s face spoke to just how important it was that he learned to do this without her at his side. And she needed to be proud of him for not needing her.
“Go ahead. I’ll go find Johan,” she said cheerily.
His expression cleared, his man of mystery swagger returned. “I’ll nip back round and find you in a bit.”
Leslie was already pulling him away, so he threw her a beleaguered grin over his shoulder. Portia had to admit they made a lovely couple; they’d certainly grace many magazine covers if Tavish took Leslie up on her sad offer. She couldn’t imagine he would, but maybe it would benefit them both. Maybe after a few months mingling with the elite, he’d see that Leslie’s idea wasn’t so far-fetched, comparatively speaking.
A sudden hard grip on her arm shocked her. When she tried to pull away and couldn’t, she felt the beginnings of panic. She looked up into David’s face, which was placid, as if he weren’t squeezing her arm like a vise.
“Let go of me.” She reminded herself that she was in a room full of people. That he couldn’t hurt her—could he? The fact that he didn’t seem to care if anyone noticed chilled her. This man had until that very night been wielding an inordinate amount of power. After the night was over, he’d still have the power of his wealth and connections. He thought nothing of using that power to intimidate a woman seemingly just because he could.
He tugged her closer to him, and Portia stutter-stepped forward though she tried to resist.
I should scream, she thought. I should say something.
She looked up at him and didn’t say anything at all.
“I don’t know what your plan is or how you talked him into this, but you and whoever sent you to do this to me are going to regret it,” David said.
“Sent me?” She didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Don’t play coy,” he growled. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your parents are and the inquiries they’ve been making? Oh, the daughter of real estate venture capitalists just happens to get her hooks into the love child of a duke.”
Portia snapped out of it. She could do the genteel thing, and politely move away, but not when a strange man was holding her arm and muttering paranoid threats at her. She wouldn’t put up with that in a subway car or night club, and she wouldn’t accept it from some bawbag in middle-of-nowhere Scotland. She couldn’t reach her pepper spray, so she pivoted toward David, placed her hand gently on his chest, and kneed him in the balls.
He emitted a muffled squeal and lurched forward, but she grabbed his shoulder before he sank to the ground, holding him upright.
“One of the benefits of this ridiculous skirt is that it conceals the movement of the legs,” she said close to his ear, which was as red as his face.
The sudden scent of whiskey made her stomach turn a bit, but the long, muscular legs covered with gingery hair that accompanied the scent gave her some relief.
“Johan.” She turned and smiled pleasantly at him. “I was just leaving Mr. Dudgeon to his business. Do you mind escorting me to the other side of the room?”
Johan was usually playful, but his stance and expression made it clear that behind his charming demeanor was a man who would gladly throw down, and was possibly looking for an opportunity to do just that.
“Is there a problem, putain?” he asked, gaze not moving from David.
“I think we’re good here,” Portia said, tugging Johan along by his sleeve. Her breath was coming fast and she felt a little shaky, but she just wanted to get away from David. “Please. Let’s go.”
Johan shot David a glare, but escorted Portia away.
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was nothing. He thinks I’m part of some conspiracy. As if I would have willingly dragged Tavish into this mess.”
“He was trying to hurt you, friend. That is not nothing.”
Portia sucked in a breath and realized she was shaking—he was right. Why was she downplaying this? She didn’t have to. David should never have touched her.
“You’re right. I was scared. I just don’t want to make a scene.”
“I hate these people,” Johan said miserably. “Cruelty is so normal to many of them.”
“How many shots did you have?” she asked.
“Only two,” he said. “For fortitu
de. And some whiskey.”
His gaze scanned the room, a troublesome glint in his eyes. She felt a sudden, sad kinship with the redheaded step-prince. She decided to do what she would have done to Old Portia if given a chance.
“You know what, I really need something to eat. Let’s go get some appetizers and non-alcoholic drinks. We have a long night ahead of us,” she said. They’d hydrate and wait for Tavish to return or for the night to be over—whichever happened first.
Chapter 26
Tavish was exhausted. He could spend hours practicing parries and thrusts, or bent over a forge, and be good to go, but his interactions with the peerage drained him in a way physical labor didn’t.
“That went well,” he said to Leslie as they walked away from an elderly duchess smoking a long, thin cigarette.
“I think it went well, though most people are away at the yacht races this weekend. It’s a major event. I’m fairly certain David planned it this way on purpose.”
Tav listened while scanning the room for Portia’s rust-gold ringlets and yellow dress. He’d read a thing or two about codependency after Johan’s walking stick analogy and his subsequent talks, or non-talks, with Portia. It worried him how much he itched to see her, to be next to her again, but he didn’t want her advice or assistance. He wanted her. How in the hell was he supposed to differentiate between overreliance and love?
Love.
“Fuck’s sake,” Tav said aloud as the realization hit him.
“Yes, it is a pity,” Leslie continued the explanation Tav’s thoughts had interrupted. “But don’t fret, you’ll meet everyone at the Holyrood garden party.”
“Ah, yes. Along with the Queen.”
“In a week,” Leslie said, then stopped walking, halting their progress. Tavish’s gaze went from scanning the room back down to her.
“Honestly, Your Grace? You’re not ready. I know you have some type of arrangement with Ms. Hobbs, but if you’re serious about this title, you need to find someone else to help you. More importantly, you should do so if you’re serious about her.”
Irritation walloped through him, mostly with himself. Two people who barely knew either of them were warning him off, and Portia had pulled away, too. Maybe this title was already turning him into an arsehole and this was everyone’s way of telling him.
