Portia’s head was pounding. No, not only pounding, it was also vibrating. She pried her eyes open and squinted through the morning sunlight streaming into the room.
Morning.
She and Tavish had spoken the night before. He’d asked her to stay with him. She hadn’t answered, but her heart had been filled with possibility when they’d returned to the ball. She remembered schmoozing and sitting down for dinner. Haggis had actually been better than she’d expected—she’d shared that on social media along with some clips of the Highland dancing. The last thing she remembered was getting tossed this way and that during some traditional Scottish reels. Tavish holding her hand so tightly each time they were partnered. Johan bringing her another glass of punch . . .
What is happening?
The vibration echoed in her skull again, and again, and she reached under the pillow and grabbed her phone. She saw that the screen was covered by notification messages just before the battery died and the screen went black. She always carried at least one travel charger that was ready to go and plugged her phone in before bed as religiously as some people said their prayers. She couldn’t remember the last time it had died.
When you were drinking. That’s when.
She crawled out of bed to find she was still in her frilly, if now flattened, dress. Someone had done her the courtesy of unzipping the bodice so she could breathe while sleeping. Her mouth tasted gross, and from more than a single night of forgetting to brush.
Panic began to set in as she ran her tongue over her teeth. Waking up bleary had once been common for her, but there was no reason she should feel like she’d been hit by a truck heading to Margaritaville with a rush delivery. Not now. She was New Portia and . . .
She pulled her bedroom door open and jogged to the kitchen, where she heard voices echoing down the hall.
“Look, she said flat out she had a drinking problem, bruv. I guess now you can see why she stayed off the sauce,” Jamie said, then sighed. “I hope she’s okay. She couldn’t even walk.”
They can’t mean—I didn’t—
“Oh, how awful. These pictures are obviously taken from strange angles,” Cheryl said. “To make it look like . . .”
“The one of us isn’t,” Tavish said. His voice was subdued, but she felt the anger in it. Was he mad at her? How had this happened? “Fuck’s sake, this is a disaster. And I don’t even care if she snogged every bastard there, but . . . this is a right disaster.”
Portia stepped into the kitchen, the rustle of her disheveled dress drawing everyone’s gaze to her.
She’d expected them to be talking over breakfast, but Cheryl was already busy prepping for lunch at Doctor Hu’s. Jamie was in his sweaty workout clothes, meaning the morning class was over. Tav was dressed in his usual worn-in jeans and T-shirt, but they all wore similar apprehensive looks on their faces.
“What happened?” she asked. “What—I don’t remember anything.”
True panic took over then. She’d been truly wasted in her past, but she’d always had some baseline memory, or scraps of them. There hadn’t been a total void during which anything could have happened.
“Tavish?”
He pushed himself away from the counter where he’d been leaning. “Looks like we made the papers again.”
He shoved her the copy of the Looking Glass Daily.
THE DUKE’S DRUNKEN DUCHESS TO BE?
“What? No. I didn’t drink anything.” Portia didn’t understand this. She hadn’t had anything but punch. She placed a hand to her chest and tried to pull in a deep breath.
I tried so hard and still somehow I managed to ruin everything.
Tav sighed. “After the dancing. I went to the loo and got stopped by about fifty geezers on my way back. I have no idea how long it took. You’d been fine, but when I found you, you were yelling at Washburn about the results of some cooking competition. Johan was trying to play along and act like this was all normal, but then you keeled over.”
His expression was drawn, like he could barely bring himself to remember it.
She glanced at the paper again and caught the subhead of the article.
DUKE’S GOOD TIME GIRL FRIDAY MAKES THE ROUNDS OF THE PEERAGE, AND SETS HER SIGHTS ON A PRINCE
She skimmed the text, words like sordid past and promiscuous and bully-brained socialite stood out. There were photos of her that painted a terrible picture. One in which she leaned suggestively toward David, her body pressed against his as he sported a shocked expression. One of her and Johan with locked eyes as they danced. And of course, one of Tavish holding her in the gardens.
“That was when I kicked David in the balls, that’s when Johan was telling me an intense story about an overflowing toilet in the royal pool house, and that’s . . .” She looked up at Tavish. He knew when that was. It was when he’d asked her to stay. Not to be his apprentice or squire or any combination of the two—he’d asked her to stay for her. For them.
But the warmth that had been in his eyes the night before had banked, like a forge gone cold.
The next picture showed him carrying her over his shoulder toward their carriage and Johan elbowing a paparazzo out of the way.
Tavish’s debut. His entry into society. She’d ruined everything.
You knew you would.
She flipped the page and sank down, either chance or reflexes landing her ass in one of the wooden chairs. There, in bullet point format, was an accounting of her scandalous past. Former hookups gleefully discussing their brief times together, happy to cash in on fifteen seconds of fame. Pictures stolen from her social media—or more likely offered up by acquaintances.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“We all know the Looking Glass is full of lies,” Cheryl said comfortingly as she chopped, but her smile was tight. “No one believes this tripe and if they do they’ll forget soon enough, aye?”
Portia shook her head and winced at the brief flash of pain. “Some of it is true-ish. Sensationalized, but true. But the stuff about last night—no. I wasn’t flirting with anyone! Well, Tavish, maybe, but I’m not some scheming social climber. I’m rich, why would I need to aim for some dusty old Scottish aristocrat with nothing to his name but a crumbling property? They would be coming after me!”
“Portia.” Tav’s voice was low and there was an undertone to it that she didn’t like.
“Tav—”
“I think we should move up the end date for your apprenticeship,” he said.
The kitchen spun and she didn’t think it was the hangover. She gripped the edge of the table.
“But—”
“Look, you said yourself that this situation was too much for you, and I think last night showed it. Your face is splashed everywhere, everyone is crawling through your past looking for garbage. Because you’re here, associated with me.”
His nostrils flared.
“Maybe it would be better for you to go back to New York,” he said with a firmness that left no room to imagine the maybe was anything other than a nicety.
“Come on, Tav,” Cheryl said. “Take a minute to think about this.”
“To think about what? The fact that the tabloids will leap on everything and everyone related to me and drag them through the mud? I have a responsibility to my family, and to the armory, and . . . and to this title. So I think it’s best you go like you planned, get back to your regular life and friends and family.”
Portia said the first thing that came to mind. “But who’s going to help you?”
Tavish ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “You need to worry about helping yourself right now, Portia. People around the world are reading about your sexual exploits. Have you checked your phone? There are already stories circulating that Johan and I are sharing you, which would be fine if any of us were into that, but that’s not the healthy setup being spread around. Aren’t you always thinking about optics? What are the optics of constant headlines about you being some kind of—”
He stopped short, but Portia knew what he was going to say. What he had thought. About her.
“I’ll book my flight. You already have access to all of the social media accounts and emails on the phone I got you. I’ll send you the link to all the important info and files online,” she said calmly. She tried to keep her breathing controlled because all it would take was one deep breath to lead to a gasp, to lead to a sob, to lead to showing everyone how Tavish had just ripped her heart out.
“Cheryl, I have all the ideas for the restaurant promotions and menu mock-ups, and Jamie, the expansion plans for your classes at other gyms. I’ll email them.”
With that she turned and walked out, as quickly as her hangover allowed.
PORTIA DIDN’T CHARGE her phone as she gathered her belongings. She knew what awaited her: hot takes on social media, a plethora of dudes who had or would lie about being past lovers. Conjecture about her and Tav, hate from Johan’s obsessive fans, disappointment from her parents. She didn’t want to know what Reggie would think. Reggie who had let Portia become part of her site and would now have to deal with the blowback.
She packed haphazardly, expecting Tavish to come through the door any minute, to tell her there had been some misunderstanding. That he hadn’t really sent her away. Even a mere apprentice would have gotten some fanfare about her departure, or a pat on the back. But when the knock at the door came, it was Cheryl and Jamie, both wearing pinched expressions.
“Are you okay, love?” Jamie asked. His curls were sticking every which way, as if he’d tugged at them in frustration.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just packing. I’m going to catch the tram and go find a hotel.”
“Wait, you’re leaving today?” Cheryl asked. She and Jamie looked at each other. “I don’t think he wanted you to leave today.”
“Well, if he wants me to leave, that’s all there is to it. Why put off the inevitable?”
“Portia, I think maybe both of you should take some time and talk this through,” Cheryl said. “The past few weeks have been a whirlwind—maybe wait for the dust to settle a bit before making any rash decisions.”
Agitation tightened the back of her neck. Moving halfway around the world to learn how to make a sword had been rash. Falling for her bawbag of a boss, that had been rash. Offering to guide Tavish into the aristocracy when she didn’t even know what she was doing with her own life? Rash. Going back to New York would be the first rational thing she had done since applying to the apprenticeship.
“If he wanted to talk this through, he’d be here instead of you. This is for the best anyway. He has Leslie, Johan, and any number of other people willing to help him now. What he doesn’t need is a scandal.”
“Tav doesn’t care about that stuff,” Jamie said.
Portia remembered his expression of disgust. “Tavish doesn’t, but apparently Your Grace does. I guess I did my job too well.”
She packed in silence, with a tearful Cheryl and a somber Jamie hovering and trying to help but mostly getting in the way. She thought about maaaybe connecting her phone to the charger just to peek, but decided not to. Reality was a safe haven because whatever awaited her once she opened the virtual floodgates would be too real.
“Can one of you call Kevyn? I’ll need a ride.”
Jamie went to make the call while Cheryl helped her carry her bags downstairs. When they were done, Portia waited outside. Both desperate to see Tav one last time and dreading the same.
He was nowhere to be seen.
“Portia,” Jamie said. “You know, I’ve never seen Tav like this before. About a woman. I know he’s a wanker, but he’s a wanker who cares about you.”
“Well the damned honey badger needs to tell her that then,” Cheryl said with agitation. She brushed a strand of pink from her face. “He’s stone, not the sword in this situation.”
Jamie nodded gravely, though Portia was too busy holding herself together to work that one out.
A beautiful Mercedes coupe rolled up, but Portia paid it no mind, waiting for Kevyn’s beat-up Vauxhall. A female driver dressed all in black got out and opened the back door and a familiar face poked out.
“Why aren’t you answering my texts? Or calls? Or social media messages?” Ledi asked angrily as she rushed up the steps and pulled Portia into a hug.
Portia was shocked for a moment and then shook herself out of it and hugged Ledi back. All of the emotion she’d been burying to get through the packing and leaving rushed to the surface and tears spilled down her cheeks, chased by four heaving sobs that she wrangled into submission. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Thesolo.”
“What is the point of being a princess if you can’t book an emergency flight around the world? And we weren’t in Thesolo, we’d made a stop in Spain for legitimate, totally non-churro-related reasons.” Ledi looked around. “Where is Tavish?”
More tears spilled from Portia’s eyes, and Ledi’s expression went hard. “Okay. Your bags are packed and Tavish is nowhere to be found and I might have to call in Thesoloian special forces to take care of him after all.”
“Let’s just go,” she said. “Please.”
Ledi released her hold on Portia and motioned to the driver, who came over to help with the bags. Of course, Ledi refused to let the woman take the bigger bag because being a princess hadn’t changed the fact that she preferred her own hard work and was stubborn as hell.
Portia hugged Jamie and Cheryl. “This isn’t goodbye,” Jamie said. “Hasta luego, more like.”
Portia didn’t feel like lying so she simply kissed his cheek, and then Cheryl’s.
“I hope Jamie is right,” Cheryl said. “I mean this is totally a Hermione and Ron situation and we all know how that worked out.”
Portia had no idea, but she smiled and nodded anyway. It was the polite thing to do.