She pushed away thoughts of Tav flourishing or failing after she left. Of their discussion and how he’d seemed resigned to the fact that she would leave, as if he had no input on the matter. His well-being wouldn’t be on her agenda anymore, and he’d made it clear that his biggest concern was how he’d mishandled her job, not her heart. That was all he saw between them in the end: an apprenticeship. Well, an apprenticeship and some major chemistry and the best sex of her life. But chemistry faded and apprenticeships ended—it wasn’t even a full-time job. Despite that, it had taken over her life.
“This portion of Essexlove was built to repel invaders in 1575,” Portia said when the itchy tension started at the base of her neck. “It was renovated with a more modern look in 1912, though on this side you can still see the high, thin windows to prevent the English from storming the castle.”
“I should make sure David isn’t on the battlements with a pot of boiling oil,” Tav said drily.
The carriage moved forward in the line and she felt so nervous her head spun. They had worked hard in preparation for this moment, and now that it was here she felt totally out of it, as if she was watching it play out from a distance. All she could think of were the things she should have focused on with Tav, of her phone call with her parents, of the fact that no matter what she did, it wasn’t good enough. Her chest went tight and pressed back into her plush carriage seat.
“The stone was all locally sourced and the newer wings—”
“Relax, poulette,” Johan said. He was seated across from her, sporting a kilt that seemed perhaps a bit shorter than standard. He seemed quite comfortable, given his dangerous manspreading on his side of the carriage. He’d already announced he was playing a game of Liechtienbourgian roulette by going sans underwear, so Portia kept her gaze above his waist. “If you start to feel inadequate, just remember that you two will likely be the only people there tonight who make an actual contribution to the world, apart from the staff.”
Portia noted that he didn’t include himself in the positive contributions to the world column. “What about you?”
He ran a hand through his floppy ginger locks and shot her a devilish grin. “I’m semi-royalty. That’s even more useless than actual royalty.”
“Hey, you do good things. And you just spent days helping complete strangers because a friend asked you to.”
“I needed something to keep me occupied while in this dreadful country,” he countered, as if he hadn’t come explicitly to help Tav.
Portia started to protest but Tav sighed loudly.
“Christ, the two of you. Now can you see how frustrating it is trying to give you a compliment, Freckles?” Tav asked, shifting closer to her as he tugged at his kilt. Part of her was taken aback by his gruff words, but then his fingertips brushed over the back of her hand and she realized that someone being annoyed because they thought you were greater than you could imagine was perhaps not the worst situation one could find themselves in.
But having that and losing it was, and this was a game she’d already lost.
“And can you see how frustrating it is when you pretend she isn’t your lady love?” Johan chimed in with a smile. “I can say from experience that the Looking Glass Daily isn’t always entirely wrong.”
Tav drew his hand away and Portia swallowed against the roughening in her throat.
She shot Johan a dirty look, and he raised a shoulder. He knew something was up between her and Tavish, and his little pokes weren’t helping. Lady love. Pfft. Lady close to hand was more accurate.
Portia kept thinking about Tav’s complete lack of reaction when she’d told him about her next job. How he’d accepted it so easily. Because she wasn’t the kind of person people kept around.
Enough overthinking.
The carriage stopped and the door was pulled open by a liveried footman. Portia and Tavish looked at each other for a long moment.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Remember, you’re an international, ahem national, man of mystery,” Johan said from across the carriage. “James Bond, minus the taking advantage of abused women, plus a sword and whatever medieval affectations please you.” With that, he leapt down from the carriage, seemingly not caring at all that it was a gusty night and his kilt was flapping dangerously.
“You’ve got this,” Portia said.
“We’ve got this,” Tavish replied, giving her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “All right, on with it.”
He stepped out of the carriage and then turned to guide her down, and Portia’s heart squeezed. It should have been a perfect moment: Tavish in his Highland best, her in a buttery yellow princess-style gown. The look in his eyes. The incomprehensible feeling that welled up in her chest and made her eyes suddenly dangerously moist. But like in any fairy tale, a night at the ball had a catch. She wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, but she had an expiration date.
This was Tavish’s happily ever after, not hers—she was just a helpful woodland creature, or maybe a fairy godmother if she was more generous with herself, who worked her magic and then faded to the background while the hero continued his journey. If she’d thought otherwise, she could only blame herself for the confusion.
“Portia?”
She took his hand and made her way carefully down the carriage steps. She couldn’t meet his gaze—she didn’t know what he would see there and she couldn’t let her ridiculous feelings ruin the night.
Tavish tucked her arm beneath his, as they had practiced.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
Great. She was supposed to be here to support him, not distract him, and she couldn’t even do that.
“I’m fine. I forgot to eat,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, she realized, but she needed to pull it together. “Don’t worry about me. Pretend I’m . . . an accessory. Like your tie. Part of the ensemble but nothing you really need to pay attention to now that you’re at the event.”
Tav grunted. “What? If you think I could focus on something besides you, or would want to, then you really do need a bit of haggis to set you right.”
Great. She was making a scene and he was trying to make things better.
“This is your night,” she whispered. “I don’t want to—”
“Let me guess. Mess things up?” He chuckled. “I’m the one who’ll be making the cock-ups tonight. And if I do, it will be fine. And even if somehow you did, that would be fine, too.”
It was both exactly what she needed to hear and exactly what she didn’t. She was being selfish again. She needed to think about her job, not her emotions. She needed to be professional.
“Right. Here we go. Don’t forget not to curse anyone out or physically attack anyone.”
“I think I’ll manage,” Tav said.
She held her breath as he greeted the people in line before them, only releasing it when the cordialities had passed successfully and the older man and woman seemed suitably charmed. The line moved quickly and soon they were at the top of a ridiculously long flight of stairs.
“His Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh, Tavish McKenzie!”
The crowd went silent, so Portia should have been able to hear herself and Johan being introduced, but she was busy scanning the room, taking in the breadth of reactions to Tavish. There were many, many faces—most of them white, many of them wrinkled—but only about three sets of expressions that she could make out: outright disdain, curiosity, and blatantly-wondering-what’s-under-that-kilt. Curiosity far outnumbered the other two. Portia felt a bit of the tension leave her. They could work with this.
Johan took her other arm as they descended the stairs, and she understood that for all his attempts to come off as a devil-may-care-aristocrat, his arm through hers was lending them the power and presence of the Kingdom of Liechtienbourg. Johan didn’t think much of these people, but his family and their wealth made everyone in the room think a lot of him.
“Want a shot? Whiskey? Tequila?” He raised his brows suggestively. He’d only drunk tea while at the armory, so she was a bit surprised.
“I don’t want a shot and you don’t need one,” she said. “Thank you, by the way.”
“Very true,” he said, ignoring the last part. “I’ll have a Manhattan, in your honor.”
He stepped away with a wink—and several admiring glances at his legs trailed in his wake.