“Just think about it. If you don’t want to stay then maybe we can figure something else out. I don’t know you as well as I could. I don’t have any right to make demands. But, Christ, I don’t want to lose you.”
That was the gist of it. He could no longer imagine life without her and he didn’t want to. Maybe they’d give it a try and it’d all go to shit. Maybe she wouldn’t want to even give them a chance to get to that point. But he’d had to think hard about what he wanted in this new life, and a chance with Portia was high on that list.
“Let’s go back inside,” she said quietly. “The meal is going to start soon.”
She hadn’t answered his question. She hadn’t said how she felt about him. Tav had gotten two huge life changes he hadn’t asked for. He could only hope that this one thing that made sense in his world could be his, too.
Chapter 27
Portia’s head was pounding. No, not only pounding, it was also vibrating. She pried her eyes open and squinted through the morning sunlight streaming into the room.
Morning.
She and Tavish had spoken the night before. He’d asked her to stay with him. She hadn’t answered, but her heart had been filled with possibility when they’d returned to the ball. She remembered schmoozing and sitting down for dinner. Haggis had actually been better than she’d expected—she’d shared that on social media along with some clips of the Highland dancing. The last thing she remembered was getting tossed this way and that during some traditional Scottish reels. Tavish holding her hand so tightly each time they were partnered. Johan bringing her another glass of punch . . .
What is happening?
The vibration echoed in her skull again, and again, and she reached under the pillow and grabbed her phone. She saw that the screen was covered by notification messages just before the battery died and the screen went black. She always carried at least one travel charger that was ready to go and plugged her phone in before bed as religiously as some people said their prayers. She couldn’t remember the last time it had died.
When you were drinking. That’s when.
She crawled out of bed to find she was still in her frilly, if now flattened, dress. Someone had done her the courtesy of unzipping the bodice so she could breathe while sleeping. Her mouth tasted gross, and from more than a single night of forgetting to brush.
Panic began to set in as she ran her tongue over her teeth. Waking up bleary had once been common for her, but there was no reason she should feel like she’d been hit by a truck heading to Margaritaville with a rush delivery. Not now. She was New Portia and . . .
She pulled her bedroom door open and jogged to the kitchen, where she heard voices echoing down the hall.
“Look, she said flat out she had a drinking problem, bruv. I guess now you can see why she stayed off the sauce,” Jamie said, then sighed. “I hope she’s okay. She couldn’t even walk.”
They can’t mean—I didn’t—
“Oh, how awful. These pictures are obviously taken from strange angles,” Cheryl said. “To make it look like . . .”
“The one of us isn’t,” Tavish said. His voice was subdued, but she felt the anger in it. Was he mad at her? How had this happened? “Fuck’s sake, this is a disaster. And I don’t even care if she snogged every bastard there, but . . . this is a right disaster.”
Portia stepped into the kitchen, the rustle of her disheveled dress drawing everyone’s gaze to her.
She’d expected them to be talking over breakfast, but Cheryl was already busy prepping for lunch at Doctor Hu’s. Jamie was in his sweaty workout clothes, meaning the morning class was over. Tav was dressed in his usual worn-in jeans and T-shirt, but they all wore similar apprehensive looks on their faces.
“What happened?” she asked. “What—I don’t remember anything.”
True panic took over then. She’d been truly wasted in her past, but she’d always had some baseline memory, or scraps of them. There hadn’t been a total void during which anything could have happened.
“Tavish?”
He pushed himself away from the counter where he’d been leaning. “Looks like we made the papers again.”
He shoved her the copy of the Looking Glass Daily.
THE DUKE’S DRUNKEN DUCHESS TO BE?
“What? No. I didn’t drink anything.” Portia didn’t understand this. She hadn’t had anything but punch. She placed a hand to her chest and tried to pull in a deep breath.
I tried so hard and still somehow I managed to ruin everything.
Tav sighed. “After the dancing. I went to the loo and got stopped by about fifty geezers on my way back. I have no idea how long it took. You’d been fine, but when I found you, you were yelling at Washburn about the results of some cooking competition. Johan was trying to play along and act like this was all normal, but then you keeled over.”
His expression was drawn, like he could barely bring himself to remember it.
She glanced at the paper again and caught the subhead of the article.
DUKE’S GOOD TIME GIRL FRIDAY MAKES THE ROUNDS OF THE PEERAGE, AND SETS HER SIGHTS ON A PRINCE
She skimmed the text, words like sordid past and promiscuous and bully-brained socialite stood out. There were photos of her that painted a terrible picture. One in which she leaned suggestively toward David, her body pressed against his as he sported a shocked expression. One of her and Johan with locked eyes as they danced. And of course, one of Tavish holding her in the gardens.
“That was when I kicked David in the balls, that’s when Johan was telling me an intense story about an overflowing toilet in the royal pool house, and that’s . . .” She looked up at Tavish. He knew when that was. It was when he’d asked her to stay. Not to be his apprentice or squire or any combination of the two—he’d asked her to stay for her. For them.
But the warmth that had been in his eyes the night before had banked, like a forge gone cold.
The next picture showed him carrying her over his shoulder toward their carriage and Johan elbowing a paparazzo out of the way.
Tavish’s debut. His entry into society. She’d ruined everything.
You knew you would.
She flipped the page and sank down, either chance or reflexes landing her ass in one of the wooden chairs. There, in bullet point format, was an accounting of her scandalous past. Former hookups gleefully discussing their brief times together, happy to cash in on fifteen seconds of fame. Pictures stolen from her social media—or more likely offered up by acquaintances.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“We all know the Looking Glass is full of lies,” Cheryl said comfortingly as she chopped, but her smile was tight. “No one believes this tripe and if they do they’ll forget soon enough, aye?”
Portia shook her head and winced at the brief flash of pain. “Some of it is true-ish. Sensationalized, but true. But the stuff about last night—no. I wasn’t flirting with anyone! Well, Tavish, maybe, but I’m not some scheming social climber. I’m rich, why would I need to aim for some dusty old Scottish aristocrat with nothing to his name but a crumbling property? They would be coming after me!”
“Portia.” Tav’s voice was low and there was an undertone to it that she didn’t like.
“Tav—”
“I think we should move up the end date for your apprenticeship,” he said.
The kitchen spun and she didn’t think it was the hangover. She gripped the edge of the table.
“But—”
“Look, you said yourself that this situation was too much for you, and I think last night showed it. Your face is splashed everywhere, everyone is crawling through your past looking for garbage. Because you’re here, associated with me.”
His nostrils flared.
“Maybe it would be better for you to go back to New York,” he said with a firmness that left no room to imagine the maybe was anything other than a nicety.
“Come on, Tav,” Cheryl said. “Take a minute to think about this.”