“PARDON?” TAVISH ASKED, unfettered confusion scrunching his features. They were up in his office now, sipping tea. Portia noticed that Leslie stirred her tea in a circular motion, almost defiantly.
“Well, technically I am supposed to offer you my assistance,” Leslie explained, her voice flat and refined. “You know, the season is wrapping up, and there’s the ball at Essexlove House two Saturdays from now, to mark the official turning over of the title and properties and David’s farewell to the peerage.”
Tavish glanced at Portia, but she was already pulling out her phone and scanning emails. “Oh. Ms. Baker sent an email invitation last night,” she said. “I missed it. Because.”
She cleared her throat. A flush cupped Tav’s cheekbones.
Leslie reached into her bag and pulled out a paper invitation. “Yes. And I brought the paper one. There’s also the matter of the Queen’s garden party to kick of her arrival at Holyrood, which you co-host with Her Majesty herself. Three Saturdays from now.”
“Bloody hell,” Tavish said. “The weans have their exhibition that day.”
“Well, you’ll have to skip it. Queens over weans, I’m afraid,” Leslie said matter-of-factly. She handed off the invitation to Portia. “I was also supposed to see if you’d like to take me as your date to the ball.”
“Me?” Portia asked.
“No, though that would be lovely. Tavish. A night spent together at the ball, an offer of aid that would draw us closer—things that would of course lead to our eventual union.”
“There are many problems with this plan, but first—aren’t we cousins?” Tavish asked, brow furrowed.
Leslie tilted her head and regarded Tav. “Oh dear. You really don’t know anything about the aristocracy at all. How adorable.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Portia asked.
“Because I’m tired.” Leslie picked at her cardigan. “David doesn’t have a wife. He was looking into some heiresses, and there was a music producer’s daughter, too. I’ve spent the last year doing all those duchess things for him—managing the estates, setting up parties, being friendly to people while he was off having affair after affair or stirring the political pot. Before that, as soon as it became clear that your father wasn’t going to have any children, my parents became obsessed with David and his eventual entry into the peerage. No one cared about what I wanted.”
She glanced at Portia and her expression became guarded. “I don’t want to date. Or to marry. Anyone. I’m not . . . wired that way, I suppose. David said since I didn’t want anyone else, that it should be no matter to marry Tavish. That it was my duty to the family.”
Portia knew family expectations could be painful, but her family had always wanted her to be happy and secure, even when their words hurt her. David didn’t seem to care about Leslie’s happiness at all.
“Doesn’t he think I’m a disgusting social climber?” Tav asked.
“Yes, but only because you didn’t go to Eton,” Leslie said. “That’s where proper social climbers meet, you know.”
“And the refugee trash part?” Tav added.
“I don’t want children, and suddenly what I want matters if it means the family name won’t be ‘tarnished by the fruit of miscegenation,’” Leslie replied, a grimace on her face. “David’s taken everything into account it seems.”
“I’m sorry,” Portia said. “I’m sorry your brother would do that to you. He’s supposed to protect you.”
Sudden emotion clogged Portia’s throat as a realization hit her. That was what she had drank and studied and fucked away from for all these years. She hadn’t protected Reggie, illogical as it was. How could she have protected someone from an illness? She couldn’t have. That hadn’t made it hurt less. And then she hadn’t even lived up to anyone’s wishes and dreams, compounding that failure.
Portia took a swallow of tea. This wasn’t the time for plumbing her emotional depths, though maybe she should call Dr. Lewis after throwing her goals away for a night in bed and having traumatic revelations.
“Honestly, I knew he was an asshole, but this is horrifying.” She fixed Leslie with a stern look. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, especially not seducing someone you aren’t attracted to. You do understand that, right?”
Leslie’s glossy eyes met Portia’s. “See? That’s it. I saw how you defended Tavish, how you looked at David like you would rip him in half when he insulted him, and it all fell into place. No one has ever . . .” A stray tear slipped down her cheek and she dashed it away. “Oh. Pardon me. Your sister must feel very lucky to have you, is all.”
“Not sure she feels that way, but thanks,” Portia said, then realized something. “How do you know I have a sister?”
Leslie did her head tilt thing again. “You two haven’t the slightest idea what you’ve gotten into.”
She stood, threw back the rest of her tea like it was a tumbler of whiskey, and straightened her dress. “The offer still stands of course. I can be your date to the ball, and more, if you want, Tavish.”
“But. You just said you didn’t want to?” Tavish looked as confused as Portia felt.
“You will soon understand that one must do a great many things one doesn’t want to. David gave me a command. I wanted to give you a choice. We could figure something out, if you wanted to make it work.” She looked between him and Portia, then breezed out of the office.
Portia’s phone vibrated in her hand, a message from Reggie on the screen.
Incoming. We got scooped. #swordbae’s duke news is the Looking Glass Daily’s breaking news. Your notifications are gonna be a mess.
Portia clicked on the link and held her breath—the Looking Glass Daily was world renowned for its sensationalist, lie-riddled stories—but this one was mild. It listed basic information about Tavish in a bullet point format, discussed the #swordbae meme, and talked about the Scottish peerage in general and what being a duke meant. There was the picture of them from the Bodotria Eagle, but the caption read “The new duke in town, and (more than?) friend.”
“You might want to see this,” she said, handing the phone to Tavish. She hated his frown when he saw the still from the video she’d posted and how it deepened as he read.
He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “This is only the beginning, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
He threw himself back into his chair. “What do we do now?”
Portia felt momentary confusion at the “we.” Not at the pronoun, but at what it connoted. Tavish was still the Duke of Edinburgh, but where did she stand in relation to him after last night?
“I really am going to have to pay you a million pounds for helping me manage this shite,” he said irritably, and Portia cringed. It was ridiculous—so ridiculous. She was the one who had said there couldn’t be anything more between them, but still, nothing clarified your relationship to a man better than an offer of pounds sterling for your services.
“We’ll post a statement on the armory’s social media sites,” she said, already trying to figure out what angle to take in the wording. “I wrote up something fun and charming for Reggie’s site, and she’s likely hitting publish now if I know her well enough. We’ll play this calm and casual. It was a surprise. You’re an underdog. Who doesn’t love an underdog?”
He looked over at her. “Okay. I can write the statement. You don’t have to take care of everything.”
She thought about what Leslie had said. And Tav’s offer.