Tavish watched Portia across the breakfast table. A few weeks ago he would have called her rude for constantly swiping her finger across the screen of her tablet and typing away at her tiny keyboard as she picked at her beans and toast. Now he knew she was handling online social media responses to his statement. She was responding to requests for interviews. She was answering private messages, emails, and public posts in a witty, engaging, and professional manner. And she was doing it all without breaking a sweat and without complaint.
She can’t do this forever.
The low-level panic that had gripped him since she’d left his office the other day seized Tav. He was struck with dual realizations, like two attackers coming at him from different angles and impossible to fend off. One: for him, being a duke was completely tied to Portia. Spending time with her, learning from her, watching her nimble mind come up with new ideas, was one of the only good things that had come of the revelation. Would he be able to do it without her? Two: outside of the duke thing, he liked her very much. VERRA much. Was it really possible to separate his feelings for her from her helping him? Was it possible for her to be in his life without helping him? Because when he thought of her now, it wasn’t as an employee. He had thought of her as more than that for some time now.
Sweat broke out at his temples as he wrestled with where exactly Portia fit in his life, and the fact that in a few weeks she would be out of it given their current plan.
“Bruv. Tav. Tavish!”
He pulled his gaze away from Portia to find Jamie regarding him with a look of annoyance. “Hullo. Did you hear anything I said?”
Tav considered lying, but Jamie’s rare scowl wasn’t something that could be overlooked.
“No, sorry—”
Cheryl huffed. “He said what is he supposed to do about the media calling us all hours of the day and night?” She stormed over to the window and peeked through an opening in the curtains. “Look! There’s one of them right now, loitering about. I’m tempted to go wave a sword at him, but I’d end up on the cover of the Looking Glass with some bloody awful headline.”
Tav looked out the window and saw a man dressed in black, leaning against a pole. He was smoking lackadaisically, but one hand rested on his camera, ready to spring into action. Tav wanted to smash it, but it didn’t matter. The photo that had run in the Bodotria Eagle had already been purchased by news outlets. Once word had gotten out how exactly it had been discovered he was a duke, the story had spread like wildfire, along with conjecture about every aspect of his life, including who Portia was to him. He wouldn’t have had a good answer for that, even if they’d bothered to ask him instead of creating stories likely to grab attention.
“One of these guys left a message asking about my police record,” Jamie said. “I don’t have a record, unless they mean the cops almost arresting me that time because they were bloody racist and wrong.”
“They’re just making shite up, now. I don’t want these people trying to paint him as the dangerous thug brother of the new duke,” Cheryl said. Her voice was trembling, which it only did when she was furious.
“You think I want that?” Tav snapped, the rush of anger stiffening his neck. Part of the reason he’d thought the duke thing worthwhile was that he might be able to ensure his family’s security in a way swordmaking never could. There was that idea gone.
“Well, you’re the one who brought this on us, you need to deal with it,” Cheryl said. “You’ve already broken the kids’ hearts by abandoning them at the exhibition. Can’t you spare a moment from your aristocratic time to take care of this?”
Christ. As if he didn’t feel shitty enough. “I’d love to be at the exhibition, but I literally have to throw a party for the Queen. The fucking Queen. Trust me, I’d rather be with you lot.”
Ms. Baker had reached out to Portia and handed over the planning for the Queen’s garden party, which was traditionally hosted by the Duke of Edinburgh. Tav didn’t care for royals, but the thought of meeting the Queen filled him with a nervous dread. What if she treated him as David had? What if she shunned him, publicly? What if she told awful racist jokes and expected him to laugh?
“I’ll try to take care of the paps,” Tavish said, though he had no idea how to do so without threatening them. He only knew how to ask Portia what to do, and she was already stretched thin and holding herself away from him since the afternoon they’d ruined him being able to spend more than five minutes at his desk without a naughty thought.
Cheryl continued her uncharacteristic rant. “And you might also tell the paparazzi if they’re going to ruin my business by gathering in front of the armory and scaring customers, the least they can do is buy lunch!”
It was when her voice went shrill that Tav realized what was fueling her: fear. Having a duke for a brother-in-law had seemed fun at first, but now that reality was setting in, Cheryl was likely reconsidering her earlier excitement.
The click clack of Portia’s fingers on the keyboard stopped. “Everyone needs to calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say, no one’s about to make you out to be some kind of gangster in the papers,” Jamie said.
“Gangster? I’ve been called an American con artist who falsified paternity tests and Tav’s pregnant mistress. And unlike you, I have an internet presence, a semi-famous sister, and wealthy, prominent parents whose business could be affected by negative press. I’ve had to deal with the blowback for myself, my family, Tavish, and both of you. I’ve been the one dealing with everything. Everything. You want to tell me that’s easy one more time?”
There was steel in her voice—Tav heard it loud and clear, but Jamie and Cheryl were used to nice, accommodating Portia. Or they were too panicked to pay attention.
“Well, it will be over for you eventually. You get to skip away from all this soon,” Cheryl said. “That’s why you get to sit there all calm, even though you started this mess.”
Portia’s usually expressive face went blank, her eyes desolate. That had hurt her, and Tav’s urge to protect everyone found its focus.
Tav stepped between them. “Hey now, it’s not her fault. Maybe you want to take it up with your mother-in-law instead of an easy target. Or have you forgotten about all that sensitive shite you talked the other week?”
“No, she’s right. I do leave soon.” Portia was still looking at her screen and her voice was strangely dull when she spoke again. “Leave and spend every day hoping that I didn’t ruin all of your fucking lives by going to the library and meddling in the past. So I understand that you’re stressed, but I can’t be stressed right now. I don’t have that option. There’s a ball in a few days and Tavish doesn’t even know how to waltz. Every news outlet from Buzzfeed to Horse & Hound is in our in-box. There are two hundred and forty messages on the armory’s voice mail and I don’t see either of you volunteering to log them, let alone get back to anyone with a coherent answer. So. I am going to need you to calm down.”
Cheryl sucked in a deep breath, as if emerging from a well of panic. “Oh my goodness. I’m sorry, Portia. I just—this is a lot to take in.”
“I know,” Portia said. “I know. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
She finally looked away from her screen and tried to give Cheryl a smile of reassurance, but her expression was tight and Tavish could feel the tension vibrating from her.
Fuck all this.
“Freckles.”
She didn’t look at him.
“Freckles McGee, there’s something I have to show you.”
“I don’t have time,” she said in that strange voice. He stood, walked around the table, and placed his hand on the back of her neck. She stiffened, then relaxed into his hold, and he felt her release a shuddering breath. Desire tickled his palm, along with the curls at her nape, and traveled through his system, but that wasn’t what this was about.
“I must insist that you make time, squire,” he said, trying to remind her that he was supposed to take care of her, too, in whatever this relationship was. “Let’s go.”
She sighed and stood, her movement forcing his hand away.
“Go get one of your sporty little hoodies. We’re going for a walk.”
“THIS HAS BEEN here the entire time?” Portia asked, as she picked her way along the path. They’d walked in silence since Tav had driven them to the wooded section of the Bodotria Trail, which passed from the gentrifying industrial area of the docks, on past the brick town houses, and through old railroad tunnels and over abandoned tracks. The greenery expanded from moss on the rocks along the river, to bushes, to this lush—though compact—wooded gorge.
Tav had let Portia walk in peace, watching as the weight seemed to lift from her shoulders and brightness crept into her eyes. She asked questions about the area every now and again, and he enjoyed being the one who had answers for once.
“This is so beautiful,” she breathed. A couple of small brown birds chirped as they chased each other through the branches of chestnuts and beeches. “And peaceful. It reminds me of going to Central Park and finding a space that seemed magical in the rush of the city.”
Tav nodded. “I used to come here when I was a lad and play at being a knight. There was a lot more rubbish about back then. Mum was always warning me not to touch any strange needles. But this place cleans up well.”
“As do you. We have to think about what you’ll wear this Saturday, by the way,” she said, and he noticed her brow wrinkle just a bit.
“It’s a Highland ball. I’ll be wearing a kilt,” he said easily. “I may not know much about suits, but I’ve a very fine formal kilt and hose and all that. Don’t stress.”
He realized that the last bit would fall on deaf ears—Portia was always stressing. Maybe she should have been the one taking this post. She was certainly working harder for it than he was.
A duke needs a duchess . . .
Leslie’s words came to him as Portia stepped into a beam of sunshine filtering down through the leafy overhang and turned to look at him. The sun hit the strands of bronze in her hair, coaxed the golden undertones of her brown skin to the surface, and Tav was struck with wistfulness like an anvil dropping from the sky. He’d tried, and failed, at marriage, and it wasn’t something he was eager to try again. And his feelings for Portia were inextricably tied to the duke shite.
But he didn’t think that was what made his heart beat faster as she stood looking at him like some freckled nymph caught frolicking along the banks of the Bodotria. He didn’t think—but he wasn’t sure, and it was that lack of surety that meant he should push all thoughts of duchesses out of his mind. He’d married Greer for the wrong reasons, he’d realized much too late, and though he’d loved her, love wasn’t enough.
“Do you love her, m’hijo?”
“What about dancing?” Portia asked, that wide mouth of hers pulling into a grin.
Not yet, but oh fuck, could I. Shite.
“What about it?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Do you have two left feet, or three?” she asked.
“I’ll let you judge that.” He reached out a hand for her and she took it, tugging him close. He laughed. “I’m supposed to lead, Freckles.”
“Says who?” she taunted, tugging his arms out into a waltz position and slowly beginning the steps. Tavish fought against everything he’d learned, stumbling as he followed.
“I know a thing or two,” he said, pleased because she was pleased with him. “But this is a Highland ball, lass. There won’t only be waltzing.”
He stopped their movement, feeling the pull of her for a second, and when she relaxed and looked up in confusion he skipped into a reel, tugging her lightly along with him. He slowed to show her when to point her toe, when to lean back, when to turn, and when to bow. She picked up quickly and within a few moments they were whirling and hopping across the grass and mossy rocks, her laughter riding on the rustle of the wind through the trees like some kind of goddamned fairy song.
Do you love her?
They came to a panting sweaty stop and Tavish stared down at her as she threw her head back, letting the sun filtering through the trees warm her face.
I really could. Maybe I already do? This is not good.
Some part of him had known this was possible since the moment he’d seen her, mace and all. So he’d been a wanker in the hopes it would keep that distance between them. He should have still been pushing her away, but instead he sat down on an old tree stump and looked at her, willing her to come to him.
Her eyes narrowed and she strutted toward him, all of the stress from earlier in the day gone.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, brow raised. He circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger, giving a slight tug in his direction because she’d shown she liked that and Tav noted what made her happy very carefully these days. She swung her leg over his thigh and straddled him as if it was the natural thing to do. The weight of her against him, and the smell of her, and the press of her hands against his shoulders? That felt natural, too.
“That was fun.” Her eyes were glinting and a dusky blush spread over her cheeks.
“Good. You need some fun in your life,” he said.
“I’ve had my fair share of fun, don’t worry about me.” Another smile, but her eyes had lost a bit of their shine. She was doing that thing, where she parried good things by reminding others—and herself—that she was bad. Bollocks to that.
“Look at me, Portia.” She reluctantly brought her gaze to his. “You’ve been having me do all this stuff so that I can walk into any room and know I belong there. I need you to do the same for me now. Repeat after me.”
“This is silly,” she said, shifting in his lap.
“My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent.” Tav bounced his knees. “Say it.”
“My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent,” she muttered.
“I’m smart as fuck, and can do literally anything I put my mind to. Now you say it.”
“I’m smart as fuck and . . .” She trailed off and dropped her gaze. “I feel ridiculous.”
“I’m going to say something so pathetic that I will vehemently deny it if you ask me about it later.” He slipped his hands behind her back and wove his fingers together, resting his hands at the dip of her back.
“Are you secretly a Dr. Phil stan?” she asked, clearly trying to distract him. He didn’t go for the bait.
“I wish you could see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Mine. You can think what you want about yourself, but I’ve two eyes and a brain in my head and the view right now? It’s bloody brilliant.”
He might turn out to be a shite duke. He might spend the rest of his days wishing he’d never found out the truth about his father. But Portia’s gaze popped up to his and her palm came to his cheek and she smiled so brilliantly that Tavish could never regret wearing his heart on his chain mail sleeve.
“Have you forgotten that you’re supposed to be a wanker?” she asked as she rocked forward in his lap.
“I haven’t forgotten, but maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”
“Rubbing off? Is that what you call it here?” She rocked forward again, her hips moving in a sinuous motion beneath his arms. Sensation shivered up Tav’s spine then vibrated against his thigh . . . then vibrated again.
Wait.
Portia huffed, pulled back, dug into her pocket, and tugged out her phone.
“Hm.”
Tav gave her a quizzical look.
“Apparently, we have company,” she said.
“Who is it?” Tav husked.
“Who are they. Someone named Greer? And a guy who showed up with her.”
“Ah. My ex-wife. And her husband, I suppose.” He looked at her closely, gauging her reaction.
Portia made a considering noise. “I haven’t checked the Debrett’s but I’m pretty sure leaving your ex waiting while you dry hump your squire in a fairy wood is just not done, Your Grace.”
There was slight disappointment in her voice, but nothing more, as she stood and began tapping her response.
“Back to reality,” he said.
“Your reality is other people’s fantasy,” she reminded him gently.
Tav knew what his fantasy was and it had just been disturbed.
“Aye? Well, other people need better imaginations.”