“I have to take this,” he said, and Leslie nodded and left. She was good at doing what she was told, at scurrying this way and that. Just once, Tav wished she would call him a wanker instead of giving him a treacly smile.

“Hey, Mum.”

“I have to say, Tavish, I really like this new ‘answering the phone’ habit you’ve picked up. Who knew all it would take was a title?”

That wasn’t the real reason he suddenly cared about incoming calls.

“Well, every job requires some sacrifice. Everything okay?”

“Oh, sí. The paparazzi here have moved on to other stories, in part because your father went after them with a machete and they don’t want to risk their precious cameras over me. Plus, one of them said people were more interested in your Portia anyway.”

Hearing the name unexpectedly sucked a bit of the wind from him. “Why? It makes no sense. She is no longer a part of the armory or my life and—”

Tav didn’t know why he stopped talking. The words left him like the heat from hot metal dipped into ice water.

“M’hijo.” His mum’s voice had taken on that round, loving tone that instantly made him feel like a child aching for a hug. “Do you remember what I asked you all those years ago?”

“Why did I have all those page three girl photos in that box under the bathroom sink?” he asked, just to get a rise out of her.

She laughed, indulgent and warm. “You sound miserable. You look miserable in the pictures on these sites. Jamie and Cheryl are worried about you. I meant this question—what are you willing to do?”

“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.