A Duke by Default

by Alyssa Cole

  “That wasn’t why,” Portia said.

  “You’re telling me all these years were wasted because you were too fucking stubborn to apologize for something I wasn’t even mad about?”

  “I wasn’t stubborn! I was scared you would hate me even more.”

  “What the fuck, Portia. More? What does that even mean, more?”

  “Yes, more! Because everyone knows it should have been me who got sick instead of you!” She almost dropped the phone but somehow managed to avoid it, even as a wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. There it was, the thing everyone had always avoided saying—but never shied away from implying.

  “God, I knew you were selfish, but I had no idea.” Reggie took a slow breath. “I’m happy with my life and I don’t want or need your pity. You of all people should know that. And guess what? I never thought it should have been you. Did you ever think of that? I was always glad it was me and not you. I wouldn’t have been able to stand it if something happened to you because I love you, you asshole! I mean, how would I have coped with thaa . . . and oh, I guess maybe I would have spent half a lifetime being a jerk, too.”

  She laughed in frustration, but Portia was silent. She couldn’t talk. She’d already said too much.

  “Portia.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I never hated you. Like, why? I obviously got all the good genes. You didn’t even know what a tardigrade was.”

  Portia hiccupped out a laugh, and a little of the pain and fear that was all blocked up in her chest escaped with it.

  Reggie sighed heavily. “Jesus. And I thought I was a masochist, trying to get your attention all these years. You’ve been carrying this half our lives.”

  “I’m sorry,” Portia said. “I thought I was protecting you.”

  “By pushing me away?”

  “I didn’t say it made sense!” Portia dropped a hand onto her hip.

  “You know, I should be mad. But I’ve done some nonsensical things myself lately. Speaking of which, the reason I’ve been blowing up your phone.”

  Portia was unsurprised by Reggie’s pivot. Cool, calm snark was her general setting and she was sure the outbreak of emotion had thrown her off as much as it had Portia.

  “My friend saw that pic of you being carried out of that party like a bag of potatoes and he noticed something.”

  “Friend?”

  “Yeah. The guy you found for me? It’s a long story. Anywho, he’s pretty good about detail stuff. And he noticed something up with your nail polish color. It’s pink in the earlier photos and black when you’re getting carried out.”

  Portia’s brow crinkled. Ledi had treated her to a manicure when they arrived at the hotel, and she’d been too numb and disappointed with herself to pay attention as her polish was removed.

  “That’s weird.”

  “Well, maybe this is nothing, but we’ve promoted this safety polish on our site a few times. For college students. It changes color if you’re drugged.”

  “Wait.” Cheryl had grabbed the polish from the kit they’d received from a company that wanted to provide products for the self-defense courses Portia had talked Cheryl into teaching . . .

  “Oh my god.” Her face went hot with anger as she realized someone had drugged her and worse—had made her doubt herself. She’d believed that she drank until she passed out, even though it made no damn sense. The world believed it, too. Her past had been dragged out for judgment, and no one had been a harsher judge than Portia. But, as it turned out, Portia was pretty shit when it came to judging herself.

  “Was it that prince? That guy is kind of creepy,” Reggie said, blunt as usual.

  “No, Johan is my friend,” Portia said. “But I know who isn’t.”

  “Oh man. Who do we have to kill?”

  Portia opened the door to find Ledi pretending she hadn’t been listening. “We might just have to shank an ex-duke.”

  Chapter 29

  Tavish pulled up the internet browser window on his new smartphone and clicked through the four open tabs—one for each of Portia’s social media accounts. There had only been one recent message on each, all posted the day she left. A photo of her staring straight at the camera, a mischievous smirk on her face, wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words I solemnly swear I am up to no good. And the caption “Gone fishing.”

  He’d seen that shirt before. Cheryl had one, too. He was sure Portia had no idea what it really meant either, and that simple thought—one way they were alike in a way that made them somewhat different, and how much he wanted to learn just how different and alike they were—bowled into him, rocking him like a physical blow. He wouldn’t have that now; couldn’t have that and be fair to her.

  Tav had no fucking idea what he was doing. No, that wasn’t true—he was certain that he was completely screwing up anything that might have been between him and Portia. But that’s what was for the best. He’d crossed the line by asking her to stay anyway, and it was only when he’d seen the tabloids descend upon her like piranhas that he’d realized exactly how he’d messed up.

  He didn’t care that she’d gotten stumbling drunk at the ball, outside of the fact that he knew she’d be angry with herself about it. He didn’t care about what the newspapers had insinuated about her past—loads of people hacked their way into adulthood through the field grown from all the wild oats they’d sown. Some people’s fields were smaller, some larger, and Tav didn’t think it particularly mattered as long as people reached a mutual agreement about whether their farming days were over, on hiatus, or some kind of special schedule.

  What he did care about was exposing Portia to situations that would cause her pain, and whether she was his apprentice, his squire, or something more, her proximity to him would cause her pain. She found any hint of her own unworthiness entirely too credible, and the Looking Glass Daily loved nothing more than pointing out perceived flaws and creating ones where they found none. He already had to figure out how to protect Jamie and Cheryl, but he wasn’t sure how to protect Portia without drawing her deeper into the very world that would hurt her—and eventually destroy any possibility of love they had.

  “Your Grace?” Leslie’s voice pulled him out of his daze. He sat across from her in that receiving room where he and Portia had first met with David. Where he’d first decided that he would become a duke if it gave him even the smallest chance of changing things for the better.

  David had gone to ground since Tav had replaced him. Leslie said he’d retired to a country estate to formulate his next move. Tav hated him but he imagined it must have been a difficult change for a man so invested in the title.

  “Perhaps we should go over the preparations for the garden party one more time,” Leslie said in that voice that was both wishy-washy and strident. It wasn’t her real voice, simply something she put on for work, like a smart pair of trousers. Tavish had almost requested that she be less formal, but changed his mind. She was his assistant, not his friend.

  Boundaries.

  “I get dressed up. I present the Queen with some jewels. I stand next to her while people mill about in the garden making inane chatter.” He sighed. “I disappoint my students.”

  I miss Portia like a bloody fool.

  “Your Grace, we still haven’t settled on the entertainment—”

  Tavish’s phone rang and he whipped it out of his pocket, hope expanding in his chest and then deflating to a tempered happiness when he saw the word Mum flashing on the screen.

  “I have to take this,” he said, and Leslie nodded and left. She was good at doing what she was told, at scurrying this way and that. Just once, Tav wished she would call him a wanker instead of giving him a treacly smile.

  “Hey, Mum.”

  “I have to say, Tavish, I really like this new ‘answering the phone’ habit you’ve picked up. Who knew all it would take was a title?”

  That wasn’t the real reason he suddenly cared about incoming calls.

  “Well, every job requ
ires some sacrifice. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, sí. The paparazzi here have moved on to other stories, in part because your father went after them with a machete and they don’t want to risk their precious cameras over me. Plus, one of them said people were more interested in your Portia anyway.”

  Hearing the name unexpectedly sucked a bit of the wind from him. “Why? It makes no sense. She is no longer a part of the armory or my life and—”

  Tav didn’t know why he stopped talking. The words left him like the heat from hot metal dipped into ice water.

  “M’hijo.” His mum’s voice had taken on that round, loving tone that instantly made him feel like a child aching for a hug. “Do you remember what I asked you all those years ago?”

  “Why did I have all those page three girl photos in that box under the bathroom sink?” he asked, just to get a rise out of her.

  She laughed, indulgent and warm. “You sound miserable. You look miserable in the pictures on these sites. Jamie and Cheryl are worried about you. I meant this question—what are you willing to do?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve turned my life upside down, I’m driving myself mad learning how to properly talk to the Queen, and how to properly be ignored by her. I haven’t made a sword in weeks. I miss my students. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to be a good duke.”

  The laughter on the other end of the phone wasn’t warm this time. “Oh you are so much like him. Pobrecito. What are you willing to do to keep her by your side?”

  Tav didn’t say anything for a long moment. He was remembering all those years ago: Greer’s ultimatums, his stubbornness, their mutual love and pain and how, in the end, he had done . . . nothing. Because he hadn’t been able to think of a single goddamn thing. The path of their love that had once seemed to wind forever into the horizon had been overrun by the vines and weeds of reality. There had been no way forward, together, even with a sword in his hand. Especially with a sword in his hand.

  But Tavish was at no loss of ideas of what he would do for Portia. He spent every night imagining scenarios, every day being pulled out of reveries. None of them were good enough. None of them were right. And none should be acted out because he owed her too much already, and a life lived for herself and not hounded by the press or teaching him manners was the least he could give her.

  “She deserves better than me, Mum. A man playing at the peerage who needs his hand held for the simplest thing.”

  “What the bloody hell, Tavish?” his father suddenly cut in. “What do you think people fall in love for, if not the hand holding? Do you think marriage is two people walking side by side, never touching lest one of them pull the other down?”

  He could imagine his father: mustache bristling in annoyance that his son had missed out on this lesson somehow.

  “Am I on speakerphone?”

  “Sorry, your father wanted to eavesdrop.”

  “But Mum, you left my fa—the duke. You decided it was better for me to live a life away from all of that.”

  “You were a child, Tavish. And things were different then. And still, I should have let you decide. Do you really think Portia can’t decide on her own what she wants? If you think your judgment is so much better than hers, maybe you should leave things as they are.”

  Tavish remembered the pain in Portia’s eyes that morning in the kitchen. How her usually expressive face had gone blank before she slipped into business mode. He’d turned her out on her ear, in front of Jamie and Cheryl, after telling her he wanted more.

  “My god, I just might be the thickest bawbag alive.”

  “Not gonna dispute that, my boy,” his father said.

  “You’ve given him some serious competition in your time, love,” his mother said sweetly. “Don’t get forgetful, now.”

  His father chuckled, but Tav couldn’t join in the mirth of their conversation. He’d messed up in grand fashion. He’d have to apologize in even grander style.

  “I might have more than some scraped knees after this grovel, Mum.”

  “I’ll be here to clean the wounds whatever they are—unless Portia decides to do that for you. With alcohol and maybe some salt solution for good measure.”

  “Mum.”

  “Oh my, the call is breaking up,” his mother said.

  “Bye, son! Good luck!” His father’s words made it in just before the call disconnected. Luck. He was going to need it.

  Leslie entered the room after a few moments of silence. “I have the list of entertainment from the previous years if you’d like. I printed them, since you prefer paper.”

  “Actually, I won’t be needing that.” Tavish was known for his offensive abilities during a tourney. He went in hard, attacked relentlessly, and didn’t give up without a hell of a fight. If he couldn’t apply the same ferociousness toward Portia, he didn’t deserve her, or the dukedom she’d helped him claim.

  “What do you mean?” Leslie asked.

  “I mean, this year we’re changing things up.”

  Chapter 30

  Portia had grown used to navigating the crack of dawn while stone-cold sober. She’d grown used to navigating the world without the idea of “liquid courage” or “something to take the edge off.” But as she figured out how to sneak into a royal garden party, she was tightrope walking along that edge, and her well of courage was dry as the Dust Bowl.

  But she remembered she had people behind her. Ledi and Thabiso. Reggie and her mystery assistant. Nya. Even her parents were there—they had their attorneys lined up to intercede on her behalf. And maybe she had someone in front of her, too. She couldn’t focus on that too much as she walked in through the service entrance wearing the tuxedo shirt and black pants Ledi had told her to pick up to blend in with the waitstaff. She would have to talk to Tavish about his security management.

  The party sounded livelier than she’d imagined. When she’d researched, it had seemed a very staid affair, but she heard shouts and cheers echoing over Holyrood’s gardens. Familiar shouts and cheers.

  She passed through the crowd, which had gathered in clumps around the garden.

  “Run him through!” a distinguished-looking older man shouted, eyes bright, and that was when Portia realized what was going on. Tavish had turned the garden party into an exhibition. He’d been so worried about letting the kids down and he’d found a solution to his problem. She was sure Syed or Emma or Jake were fencing or jousting in one of the clusters of people.

  She peeked through a space in another crowd and saw Cheryl and Jamie demonstrating grappling. Tav’s students and instructors and family of all shades and ethnic origins were here at this most Scottish of events, staking a claim to their homeland. A sheen of tears welled in Portia’s eyes. She was still angry with him, but this was Tav’s first official act as a duke, and she couldn’t be prouder.

  She hoped his second official act would be handing David his ass after she presented him with all the facts, but that remained to be seen.

  First, she had to find him.

  She pulled out her phone and went to the “find my phone” function. She knew it was some billionaire stalker shit, but his newest smartphone had been registered in her name and it was the fastest and most discreet way to find him. She’d apologize later—and have him register the phone in his own name. Him or whoever his new assistant was. That wasn’t her job anymore, and with some space she could see why, no matter what happened, it was good that it wasn’t.

  A red dot appeared on the phone’s screen—he was fifty feet away. Forty-five . . . forty. Anxiety began to roil in her stomach, but she kept marching forward. She was brave. She was worthy. Most importantly—Tavish had appointed her his squire, and a squire watched their knight’s back no matter what.

  “My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent,” she murmured to herself. “I can do literally anything I put my mind to.”

  She reminded herself that loving and being loved both fell under the umbrella of anything.

 
; She didn’t need to follow the dot anymore once she reached a small cluster of reporters and paparazzi. She moved behind a large shrub landscaped into the shape of a corgi, and peeked from behind the tail.

  There was Tav, dressed in his tourney uniform instead of the new formal kilt he’d ordered before she left. She closed her eyes in disbelief for one second. She’d believed him when he said he knew Scottish formal, and then he went and wore this to meet the Queen.

  She moved a bit to get a better view of him. He looked down and said something and Portia saw a perfectly coiffed nest of white hair . . . sporting a crown. Tav was standing with the Queen, because of course he was.

  “You said you wanted to make an announcement?” one of the reporters shouted.

  “Yes,” Tav said, and his voice stopped her in her tracks. She had forgotten the feeling it inspired in her, the want and the need and the swell of something encompassing both of those things and more. “I actually need you lot to do me a favor, which is owed after you’ve been stuck to my arse like a boil.”

  Portia cringed as “New Duke Says ‘Arse’ In Presence of the Queen” headlines popped up in her mind.

  “I would have gone with wart, but yes, quite,” the Queen said pleasantly.

  “Oh god,” Portia whispered as shocked laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “That works, too,” Tav said. “But either way, you all have video cameras and thus you are useful to me. You might want to start recording now. Anyone with a smartphone who can livestream this?”

  Several phones were pulled out as the words slowly penetrated Portia’s brain. Tavish. Who hated “being videoed” was requesting as many people as possible record him. He was likely about to do something he’d deeply regret.

  She began pushing her way through the crowd.

  “Portia Hobbs,” he said, and both her name and the reverence with which he said it stopped her again. “Portia Hobbs first came into my life as my apprentice at the Bodotria Armory. She then became an aide as I took on a new chapter in my life—becoming a duke. Despite being treated poorly by a great many of the supposed reporters before me, Portia is competent, intelligent, kind, and beautiful, but above all that, she is the woman I love.”