“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.

“Oh god,” Portia whispered as shocked laughter rippled through the crowd.

“That works, too,” Tav said. “But either way, you all have video cameras and thus you are useful to me. You might want to start recording now. Anyone with a smartphone who can livestream this?”

Several phones were pulled out as the words slowly penetrated Portia’s brain. Tavish. Who hated “being videoed” was requesting as many people as possible record him. He was likely about to do something he’d deeply regret.

She began pushing her way through the crowd.

“Portia Hobbs,” he said, and both her name and the reverence with which he said it stopped her again. “Portia Hobbs first came into my life as my apprentice at the Bodotria Armory. She then became an aide as I took on a new chapter in my life—becoming a duke. Despite being treated poorly by a great many of the supposed reporters before me, Portia is competent, intelligent, kind, and beautiful, but above all that, she is the woman I love.”