“What do you mean? I’ve turned my life upside down, I’m driving myself mad learning how to properly talk to the Queen, and how to properly be ignored by her. I haven’t made a sword in weeks. I miss my students. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to be a good duke.”
The laughter on the other end of the phone wasn’t warm this time. “Oh you are so much like him. Pobrecito. What are you willing to do to keep her by your side?”
Tav didn’t say anything for a long moment. He was remembering all those years ago: Greer’s ultimatums, his stubbornness, their mutual love and pain and how, in the end, he had done . . . nothing. Because he hadn’t been able to think of a single goddamn thing. The path of their love that had once seemed to wind forever into the horizon had been overrun by the vines and weeds of reality. There had been no way forward, together, even with a sword in his hand. Especially with a sword in his hand.
But Tavish was at no loss of ideas of what he would do for Portia. He spent every night imagining scenarios, every day being pulled out of reveries. None of them were good enough. None of them were right. And none should be acted out because he owed her too much already, and a life lived for herself and not hounded by the press or teaching him manners was the least he could give her.
“She deserves better than me, Mum. A man playing at the peerage who needs his hand held for the simplest thing.”
“What the bloody hell, Tavish?” his father suddenly cut in. “What do you think people fall in love for, if not the hand holding? Do you think marriage is two people walking side by side, never touching lest one of them pull the other down?”
He could imagine his father: mustache bristling in annoyance that his son had missed out on this lesson somehow.
“Am I on speakerphone?”
“Sorry, your father wanted to eavesdrop.”
“But Mum, you left my fa—the duke. You decided it was better for me to live a life away from all of that.”
“You were a child, Tavish. And things were different then. And still, I should have let you decide. Do you really think Portia can’t decide on her own what she wants? If you think your judgment is so much better than hers, maybe you should leave things as they are.”
Tavish remembered the pain in Portia’s eyes that morning in the kitchen. How her usually expressive face had gone blank before she slipped into business mode. He’d turned her out on her ear, in front of Jamie and Cheryl, after telling her he wanted more.
“My god, I just might be the thickest bawbag alive.”
“Not gonna dispute that, my boy,” his father said.
“You’ve given him some serious competition in your time, love,” his mother said sweetly. “Don’t get forgetful, now.”
His father chuckled, but Tav couldn’t join in the mirth of their conversation. He’d messed up in grand fashion. He’d have to apologize in even grander style.
“I might have more than some scraped knees after this grovel, Mum.”
“I’ll be here to clean the wounds whatever they are—unless Portia decides to do that for you. With alcohol and maybe some salt solution for good measure.”
“Mum.”
“Oh my, the call is breaking up,” his mother said.
“Bye, son! Good luck!” His father’s words made it in just before the call disconnected. Luck. He was going to need it.
Leslie entered the room after a few moments of silence. “I have the list of entertainment from the previous years if you’d like. I printed them, since you prefer paper.”
“Actually, I won’t be needing that.” Tavish was known for his offensive abilities during a tourney. He went in hard, attacked relentlessly, and didn’t give up without a hell of a fight. If he couldn’t apply the same ferociousness toward Portia, he didn’t deserve her, or the dukedom she’d helped him claim.
“What do you mean?” Leslie asked.
“I mean, this year we’re changing things up.”
Chapter 30
Portia had grown used to navigating the crack of dawn while stone-cold sober. She’d grown used to navigating the world without the idea of “liquid courage” or “something to take the edge off.” But as she figured out how to sneak into a royal garden party, she was tightrope walking along that edge, and her well of courage was dry as the Dust Bowl.
But she remembered she had people behind her. Ledi and Thabiso. Reggie and her mystery assistant. Nya. Even her parents were there—they had their attorneys lined up to intercede on her behalf. And maybe she had someone in front of her, too. She couldn’t focus on that too much as she walked in through the service entrance wearing the tuxedo shirt and black pants Ledi had told her to pick up to blend in with the waitstaff. She would have to talk to Tavish about his security management.
The party sounded livelier than she’d imagined. When she’d researched, it had seemed a very staid affair, but she heard shouts and cheers echoing over Holyrood’s gardens. Familiar shouts and cheers.
She passed through the crowd, which had gathered in clumps around the garden.
“Run him through!” a distinguished-looking older man shouted, eyes bright, and that was when Portia realized what was going on. Tavish had turned the garden party into an exhibition. He’d been so worried about letting the kids down and he’d found a solution to his problem. She was sure Syed or Emma or Jake were fencing or jousting in one of the clusters of people.
She peeked through a space in another crowd and saw Cheryl and Jamie demonstrating grappling. Tav’s students and instructors and family of all shades and ethnic origins were here at this most Scottish of events, staking a claim to their homeland. A sheen of tears welled in Portia’s eyes. She was still angry with him, but this was Tav’s first official act as a duke, and she couldn’t be prouder.
She hoped his second official act would be handing David his ass after she presented him with all the facts, but that remained to be seen.
First, she had to find him.
She pulled out her phone and went to the “find my phone” function. She knew it was some billionaire stalker shit, but his newest smartphone had been registered in her name and it was the fastest and most discreet way to find him. She’d apologize later—and have him register the phone in his own name. Him or whoever his new assistant was. That wasn’t her job anymore, and with some space she could see why, no matter what happened, it was good that it wasn’t.
A red dot appeared on the phone’s screen—he was fifty feet away. Forty-five . . . forty. Anxiety began to roil in her stomach, but she kept marching forward. She was brave. She was worthy. Most importantly—Tavish had appointed her his squire, and a squire watched their knight’s back no matter what.
“My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent,” she murmured to herself. “I can do literally anything I put my mind to.”
She reminded herself that loving and being loved both fell under the umbrella of anything.
She didn’t need to follow the dot anymore once she reached a small cluster of reporters and paparazzi. She moved behind a large shrub landscaped into the shape of a corgi, and peeked from behind the tail.
There was Tav, dressed in his tourney uniform instead of the new formal kilt he’d ordered before she left. She closed her eyes in disbelief for one second. She’d believed him when he said he knew Scottish formal, and then he went and wore this to meet the Queen.
She moved a bit to get a better view of him. He looked down and said something and Portia saw a perfectly coiffed nest of white hair . . . sporting a crown. Tav was standing with the Queen, because of course he was.
“You said you wanted to make an announcement?” one of the reporters shouted.
“Yes,” Tav said, and his voice stopped her in her tracks. She had forgotten the feeling it inspired in her, the want and the need and the swell of something encompassing both of those things and more. “I actually need you lot to do me a favor, which is owed after you’ve been stuck to my arse like a boil.”
Portia cringed as “New Duke Says ‘Arse’ In Presence of the Queen” headlines popped up in her mind.
“I would have gone with wart, but yes, quite,” the Queen said pleasantly.