“Well, as enjoyable as squaring up with David would be, the rich are extremely litigious, and the new Duke of Edinburgh being arrested for battery would make him way too happy, don’t you think?”
“Aye. So let’s go through this again,” he said, then drew a deep breath and moved his index finger toward the leftmost edge of the formal place setting Portia had laid out in front of him. “Butter plate, butter knife, salad fork, fish fork, dinner fork, service plate, dinner knife, fish knife, salad knife, soup spoon, and bloody oyster fork.”
This was the easiest thing they’d gone over during their lesson, but Portia had saved it for toward the end of the lesson, when he’d be flagging and grouchy, so they could finish the day on a good note with Tav feeling accomplished and optimistic. It was something she’d adapted from a Hot Mess Helper video: celebrating even the smallest steps, because every small step added mileage toward reaching your goals.
She clapped with delight. “Yes! You got them all correct. Way to go!”
She reached over the table to give him a high-five which he returned a bit bashfully.
“Grand. Stuff like this makes my skin crawl, though. Everyone putting on these fake personas and indulging in these silly little rituals just to impress people. And I know I do that to an extent with the European martial arts and the exhibitions, but that’s fun! This isn’t fun at all.”
Portia couldn’t disagree, though she envied his ability to distance himself from “fake personas” and “silly rituals.” She couldn’t imagine moving through the world without having to do the calculations for about a million different variables that factored into how people would treat her. She felt the slightest bit of irritation that Tavish didn’t have to think of all of this, then she saw the uncertainty in his eyes and sighed.
“Tavish, what did you think of me when you met me?” she asked.
His irritation slipped away and was replaced with an uncharacteristic blank stare. “Pardon?”
“Actually, I don’t want to know,” she said quickly, waving her hands. It wasn’t too hard to figure out given his past behavior. “But when you talk about fake personas and silly rituals, remember that some of us can’t opt out of that stuff. Before I even open my mouth, I’m judged based on whether I’m perceived to be pretty enough or wearing the right thing—not too revealing, not too frumpy, not too cheap looking, not too fancy. When I do talk, it’s whether I’m articulate enough. So while you’re rightfully annoyed by this, just remember that at least half of the population has to adopt these fake personas and silly rituals just to get through the day.”
She expected him to push back, but he dropped his elbows to the table and stared at his hands. When he looked back at her, his brows were lifted and he looked both shocked and ashamed.
“Christ, you’re right.”
Portia was confused. “About what? The patriarchy? Well, yeah.”
“No. Well that and the other thing about when I first met you. Don’t you see? I was your David Dudgeon.”
It was clear his exhaustion had finally gotten to him.
“Maybe we should take a break? Do you want some tea?”
“No. Well, I always want tea, but listen. When you showed up I acted like an arsehole to you for . . . reasons. That were no fault of your own. And then we went to Holyrood and David acted like an arsehole to me for no reason.”
“Well, your taking his money and title is a pretty strong reason,” she said. She wasn’t sure where this was going and was slightly worried.
“I’m not being clear,” he said, shaking his head. “And aye, I’m a bit knackered, but I’m not hallucinating or anything. I’m realizing. Realizing that I treated you unfairly and never really apologized for it. And that was when the only power I had was master-at-arms. If I’m going to think myself a better man than David, not being a bigoted wank stain is the lowest bar to clear. I need to do better. And I need to apologize, for real this time. So: Portia Hobbs, I’m sorry for being a shite boss and making you feel bad about yourself, and for doubting you just because I made a snap judgment. It wasn’t all right, and you’ve my word I won’t do it again.”
Portia was stunned. She was usually the one doling out heartfelt apologies. She was tempted to sooth him, to tell him it had been fine.
“Yeah. That really sucked and I was disappointed and felt like an idiot. Thank you for apologizing.”
They sat in awkward post-apology silence until Tav stretched in his seat.
“What next?” he asked. “Do I have to balance a book on my head?”
He gave her his normal smile, and she returned it, resetting the serious mood that had blown up out of nowhere. That had been awkward, but she felt happy. Seen. Respected. She wanted him to feel the same way.
“Actually . . .” Portia pushed out of her seat and strode around the table to stand behind him. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders, but pulled them away when he jumped at her touch. “Sorry, I should have asked before touching you.”
“No, it’s fine,” he said, his voice a bit gruff. “You can, erm, touch me.”
His voice went low on the last two words and desire unfurled and spread its wings someplace beneath Portia’s rib cage.
Touch me.
The words echoed in her head, turning what should have been something ordinary and platonic into a heated challenge.
She placed one hand on his shoulder this time, tentatively. He didn’t jump, but she felt his muscles bunch beneath her palm in response. “I think you’re used to bending over things, with all the grinding, and forging, and poring over medieval texts. You need to work on your posture. Pull your shoulders back, just a bit.”
She squeezed his shoulder more firmly and pulled. She placed her other hand flat against the middle of his back and gently pushed up and forward. His body followed the motion naturally, his chest moving up and out and shoulders dropping back and down. She noted how the muscles of his back flexed beneath her palm, then twitched even though he was supposed to be relaxed. She pushed the thought aside—she was helping him, and she could keep any dirty thoughts about Tav’s musculature to herself.
“Am I doing this right?” he asked.
“Hm, this usually works better with a mirror . . . oh! Look at your reflection in Cheryl’s restaurant fridge. This is the posture you should aim for.” She flexed her hands for a moment, emphasizing exactly how his body was aligned beneath them. “Imagine there’s a string from the top of your head and down through your spine, and someone is pulling it up. Yes, lift your chin like that. Can you see how this posture gives you an air of power and grace?”
“Aye.” His voice was rough, and she could feel his heart begin to beat faster beneath her palm. Her pulse was apparently trying to be polite, too, because it rushed to keep pace with his.
“When you walk into these events, people are going to try to intimidate you. But most of them only have their wealth, so they’ll use backhanded compliments and insinuation that you aren’t good enough.”
“Well, they wouldn’t be wrong there, would they?” He said it with a laugh and not even a forced one, but Portia felt a flare of indignation. Her hand left his shoulder and went to his chin, gently turning his face up toward her.
“Don’t joke about stuff like that, Tavish. Not anymore and definitely not in front of any of these people you’re going to meet.”
His hazel-green gaze was hot as it locked on to hers.
“Isn’t that some advice that you should heed yourself? Self-deprecation is your stock-in-trade.”
“It’s different for me,” she responded. Quickly. Annoyed. Because everything I say is true. “Don’t sell yourself short just because you didn’t go to a fancy school or learn all the ways money can be used to make someone feel small.”
His fingertips brushed her elbow, trailed up her forearm leaving a wake of goose bumps, and then his fingers encircled her wrist.