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.”
“Oh shit,” Portia said, and the reporter beside her glanced her way. Her phone was vibrating incessantly in her hand, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tavish.
“What are you doing, mate?” a reporter asked. “I mean, Your Grace?”
“I’m publicly declaring my love for someone who was hurt because of me and by me.”
“He’s groveling,” the Queen said with just the right amount of royal contempt, then turned a kinder gaze onto Tav. “Go on.”
“Right. Portia, I would like to say, for posterity, that I was the fuck-up here. I thought I could protect you—”
Portia remembered her talk with Reggie and cringed, but something also loosened in her chest. He had wanted to protect her. Because he loved her, and sometimes or maybe all of the time, what people did for love was pretty damned illogical. She began pushing her way through the crowd of reporters, who were jostling to capture a member of the peerage engaging in dramatics that would make everyone forget Johan’s asscheeks had ever graced the front page of the papers.
“—I did what I did because I thought to protect you, but I didn’t bother to ask if you wanted to be protected, or how. So. That’s about it, Freckles.
“I don’t expect her to take me back, but everyone should know that nothing a paper says, nothing about her past, could change the fact that I love Portia Hobbs. Right. Um, you can stop videoing now. Thank you.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stood awkwardly, but his hands dropped to his side as he caught sight of Portia pushing past the reporters.
“Bloody hell. You’re here?”
“This is much more entertaining than the previous garden parties,” the Queen said. Portia forgot what Debrett’s recommended, but curtsied because she certainly wasn’t going to shake the Queen’s hand.
“Pardon me,” Tav said, and once the Queen nodded her assent he turned to Portia. “You were supposed to watch the video on your tablet and then decide what you wanted to do.”
“My tablet is at the hotel. Should I . . . go watch it and come back?” she asked. “It was pretty good in person, but I can do that if you want.”
Tav shifted from foot to foot, his face suffused with pink. He looked like he could break a man in half but he stood there blushing as the Queen patted his arm in support.
Portia loved him. But she had something else to deal with first.
“I didn’t get drunk that night,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tav said. “We can—”
“It does matter. It means I didn’t mess up. It means someone drugged my drink.” Chatter burst from the reporters as Tav stepped down from the dais and approached her.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when Cheryl painted my nails? It was special polish that changes color if you’ve been drugged at a bar or by your date. And someone noticed my nails were a different color when you carried me out.”
Tav’s face was still flushed, but with rage this time. He looked furious, but when he reached out to cup her face, his touch was gentle.
“Who?” His gaze bored into hers. “Who am I going to kill?”
“I can’t say for sure and it is very clear that you’re joking about killing anyone.” She glanced at the reporters in her peripheral vision. British libel laws were no joke. “But I will say that, unrelated, I found out some stuff about David Dudgeon. Like, how he’s into real estate, using a shell company to buy up property in Bodotria and artificially jack up the rental rates. The same company that was going after Mary’s bookshop.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “And the same company that was trying to buy the armory.”
Portia nodded. “He knew who you were all this time. He was hoping to buy the armory before you knew who you were. He also had control over several of your father’s companies that had been buying from the armory, and bad reviews of the products were traced back to his IP address . . .”
“Oh dear.” Leslie’s voice was almost lost in the commotion of the reporters. “I told him to just honor the duke’s will and let you know. To let you decide whether you wanted it or not. But he said he’d been waiting all his life. I didn’t think he would hurt anyone, though.” She glanced at Portia. “He said he’d looked you up and that if he got a drink in your hand maybe you’d be out of his hair.”
Portia glared at Leslie, but her anger with the woman for not warning her was a discussion for another time.
“Is he here?” Tavish asked.
“I would also like to have a word with Mr. Dudgeon,” the Queen said, cutting in. “And I believe Scotland Yard would be of the same opinion.”
She looked at Tavish and Portia for a moment, and then shook her head. “I do believe it’s time for tea. But perhaps later we can discuss what happened.”
“Yes,” Tavish said, bowing deeply. “Whatever you desire of me.”
“That was an exquisite bow,” Portia said after the Queen was on her way.
“I had a great instructor,” he said. “You weren’t so bad either.”
His hands went to her hips, pulled her close.
“At least half of the British media is watching,” she said. That didn’t stop her from bringing her hand up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw and the shell of his ear, and smoothing back those salt-and-pepper strands.
“I know. It kind of puts you on the spot, which is why I wanted you to watch the video somewhere else. Pressure leads to bad decisions, like telling the woman you love she should leave. Christ, what kind of sense did that make?”
“I work best under pressure, actually,” Portia replied.
“Is that so?” Tav asked.
“Aye,” she replied, happiness bursting through her when he grinned. “We still have a lot to talk about you know.”
“I am here for any and all Dr. Phil shite, except I’d prefer it from an actually licensed therapist,” Tav said. “We’ll talk. We’ll figure this out, my liege.”
Portia kissed him then, and because she knew it would make the front page, she put everything she had into it. She could be called many things, but she had never been one to half-ass the things she truly cared about, and she certainly wouldn’t start with Tavish. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.