“He’s not a bad type, that Johan,” Tavish said. “Too bad he isn’t Scottish.”
“Oh, I’m sure everyone is saying the same about you.” David had a smile on his face as he approached Tavish and held out his hand, but his gaze was flat and his eyes ringed with dark circles.
Tav ignored his hand and clapped him on the back. “Not falling for that trick again, etiquette or no. And I was born and raised here, same as you, except I didn’t have a silver spoon up my ass.”
Leslie hurried up to Tav, looking lovely in a gauzy pink gown. “Your Grace. So very good to see you again.”
David bristled, and the slightest smirk lifted the edges of Leslie’s mouth. “I hope your trip here passed well and the carriage ride was acceptable.”
“It was lovely,” Tavish said, gracing her with a smile. “Nothing like the smell of manure to get you ready for a night with the peerage.”
David seethed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This is who gets a seat at the table now.”
“Quite right,” Tavish said. “And I have a tradesman’s appetite, too. Plus I’ll likely invite my friends and family without permission. You must understand that people like me can’t help ourselves.”
Portia glanced up at him. She’d expected him to be nervous, but he seemed calm, cool. Like himself, but with a bit of charm rounding out his rough edges. He wasn’t exactly Tavish—he was the Duke of Edinburgh now, testing out the persona that she’d helped craft. She couldn’t help but wonder if that was good or bad.
An older man who had been standing behind David shuffled into the circle, rheumy eyes squinted as he blatantly examined Tavish. He scowled, but then a bit of laughter escaped from his mouth.
“Well, if you aren’t the spitting image of your grandfather.”
“May I present Lord Washburn,” Leslie said, and Portia made a mental note of his name and face, then realized she wouldn’t need to know his name for future events.
“He had a sharp tongue too, you know,” Washburn said. “Got him into heaps of trouble, but always made for an amusing time. Some people prefer mealy-mouthed brownnosing, but my god things have been boring until the last few weeks.”
David sneered. He was likely having the worst night of his life, so Portia couldn’t blame him.
“I’m glad I could amuse you,” Tavish said. “Are you the Washburn who’s been advocating against sanctuary for immigrants? I imagine you won’t find me amusing for long.”
Portia felt a surge of pride at his quick response, but Washburn seemed to take the threat in stride. “Oh right, that’s to be your pet project it seems. Let’s talk a bit when you’ve settled into the role. I’m always up for a spirited debate.”
The man shuffled away.
“A debate. That’s what this is for him, the git.” Tavish shook his head.
Portia felt a trickle of relief. He was still Tav.
“Well, he’s as far as you’ll get. You see, for most of us, there is no debate,” David said.
“Do you practice saying ridiculous shit like this in a mirror?” Portia asked, making sure she smiled politely so anyone watching would assume their conversation was convivial. “The former duke would have hated everything you stand for.”
“The former duke was a promiscuous drunk who squandered his power,” David said, his face flushing red.
“Well, he managed to do two things right,” Portia said. “And neither of them was allowing the dukedom to be passed down to someone like you. Good thing now you’re the former duke.”
“I’ll take you around and make the introductions,” Leslie said to Tav politely, as if Portia and David had been discussing the weather. Polite sniping was common, so Portia was sure she’d seen much worse.
Tavish turned to Portia and held his arm out, but Leslie slid her own into the opening. “It’s best if I bring you around. Portia, lovely as she is, would raise questions and distract from your integration.”
Portia knew Leslie wasn’t trying to be rude—and that she was correct—but it still made her stomach hurt. She’d been replaced, just like that. Her parents had Narisa. Tav had Leslie.
No one really needs you.
The brief panic on Tavish’s face spoke to just how important it was that he learned to do this without her at his side. And she needed to be proud of him for not needing her.
“Go ahead. I’ll go find Johan,” she said cheerily.
His expression cleared, his man of mystery swagger returned. “I’ll nip back round and find you in a bit.”
Leslie was already pulling him away, so he threw her a beleaguered grin over his shoulder. Portia had to admit they made a lovely couple; they’d certainly grace many magazine covers if Tavish took Leslie up on her sad offer. She couldn’t imagine he would, but maybe it would benefit them both. Maybe after a few months mingling with the elite, he’d see that Leslie’s idea wasn’t so far-fetched, comparatively speaking.
A sudden hard grip on her arm shocked her. When she tried to pull away and couldn’t, she felt the beginnings of panic. She looked up into David’s face, which was placid, as if he weren’t squeezing her arm like a vise.
“Let go of me.” She reminded herself that she was in a room full of people. That he couldn’t hurt her—could he? The fact that he didn’t seem to care if anyone noticed chilled her. This man had until that very night been wielding an inordinate amount of power. After the night was over, he’d still have the power of his wealth and connections. He thought nothing of using that power to intimidate a woman seemingly just because he could.
He tugged her closer to him, and Portia stutter-stepped forward though she tried to resist.
I should scream, she thought. I should say something.
She looked up at him and didn’t say anything at all.
“I don’t know what your plan is or how you talked him into this, but you and whoever sent you to do this to me are going to regret it,” David said.
“Sent me?” She didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Don’t play coy,” he growled. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your parents are and the inquiries they’ve been making? Oh, the daughter of real estate venture capitalists just happens to get her hooks into the love child of a duke.”
Portia snapped out of it. She could do the genteel thing, and politely move away, but not when a strange man was holding her arm and muttering paranoid threats at her. She wouldn’t put up with that in a subway car or night club, and she wouldn’t accept it from some bawbag in middle-of-nowhere Scotland. She couldn’t reach her pepper spray, so she pivoted toward David, placed her hand gently on his chest, and kneed him in the balls.
He emitted a muffled squeal and lurched forward, but she grabbed his shoulder before he sank to the ground, holding him upright.
“One of the benefits of this ridiculous skirt is that it conceals the movement of the legs,” she said close to his ear, which was as red as his face.
The sudden scent of whiskey made her stomach turn a bit, but the long, muscular legs covered with gingery hair that accompanied the scent gave her some relief.
“Johan.” She turned and smiled pleasantly at him. “I was just leaving Mr. Dudgeon to his business. Do you mind escorting me to the other side of the room?”
Johan was usually playful, but his stance and expression made it clear that behind his charming demeanor was a man who would gladly throw down, and was possibly looking for an opportunity to do just that.
“Is there a problem, putain?” he asked, gaze not moving from David.
“I think we’re good here,” Portia said, tugging Johan along by his sleeve. Her breath was coming fast and she felt a little shaky, but she just wanted to get away from David. “Please. Let’s go.”
Johan shot David a glare, but escorted Portia away.
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was nothing. He thinks I’m part of some conspiracy. As if I would have willingly dragged Tavish into this mess.”
“He was trying to hurt you, friend. That is not nothing.”