What are you wearing?”
Tav didn’t have to look at Portia to know that her nose was wrinkled in distaste. He held his arms out to allow her to see the suit in all its glory. It had been her idea to go on a practice run before tea with this royal secretary, and he’d dressed up at her insistence.
She, of course, looked stunning. She wore a simple black dress that looked like something from Breakfast at Tiffany’s and probably cost as much as a ring from Tiffany’s. Her heels were high and made her legs look fantastic, and her hair surrounded her face, the curls sleek and moist. Tav felt even more like a lunkhead, but that was something he would have to get used to.
He tugged at his lapels. “You said to wear my best suit.”
“Tavish.” Yup. Definite nose wrinkling. “This suit is a wrinkled polyester nightmare that’s about a size too small. And what are those?”
She pointed at the work boots he’d paired with the suit.
“My dress shoes fell apart a couple of years ago.” He sighed. “I used to wear this suit to the office. I haven’t exactly had need of a suit for some time.”
She closed her eyes and pressed a delicate fingertip to the bridge of her nose. “Okay. We’re going to George Street anyway. I’ll add suit shopping to our itinerary. We have a little bit of time before the afternoon tea.”
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m not paying an arm and a leg for something we can get for a fraction of the price at Bodotria Commercial Center.”
He was being unnecessarily mulish, but he hated this shite. He’d thought he was well done with this kind of rubbish after quitting his job, but here he was, semi-willingly allowing himself to be pulled back in. Portia was looking at him with an expression he’d seen several times before Greer had finally broken down and asked for a divorce.
No, this is totally different. He couldn’t compare Portia to his ex-wife because of his own insecurities. She was there trying to help him, and Greer had been trying to help him as best she’d known how.
“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 Queen. 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.”