Woman blushing wildly and inappropriately at her employer’s touch?

The door opened and the tinkling of a cart being wheeled in echoed through the room.

The liveried server placed out the saucers and teacups and teaspoons, the tray of sandwiches, the silver teakettle. Mundane objects that suddenly felt like a gauntlet.

The day before, Tav had done nearly everything wrong—poured milk into his cup before adding the tea, clanged his spoon around the cup like he was a toastmaster, speared the petite sandwiches with a fork. Portia didn’t care, but she didn’t want to give David anything to feel smug about.

Leslie took on the role of hostess, pouring the tea into the delicate china cups, passing the sugar.

“It’s Darjeeling,” she said. “A present from the Queen herself.”

Tav made a polite sound. “Ah, so that means technically I paid for it. With my taxes. Grand.”

Portia nudged him with her knee and he shot her a devious look. She was really regretting her suit suggestion because it fit him all too well. He was sexy enough sweaty and covered in shaved metal, but in a finely tailored suit and poking fun at annoying aristocrats?

Tavish then added a dollop of milk to his tea and stirred delicately, moving his spoon up and down in a straight line—the lesson that stirring in circles was just not done had taken.

He did fine, though there was a stiffness to his movements. She could almost hear him repeating six to twelve, six to twelve as she’d instructed him, in the way a person who wasn’t skilled at dance mentally rehashed one and two and three and four instead of moving naturally to the music.

“Scone?” Leslie asked.

Tavish took one and almost picked up his knife to cut it, then seemed to remember that was a no-no.

“So exactly how did your mother meet the former duke?” David asked with insinuation in his voice. “He did seem rather susceptible to the charms of commoners, but he had other, more tawdry, inclinations people say.”

Tavish ripped his scone in half, which was the proper technique but executed with maybe a bit more force than necessary.

“She was working as a translator for his refugee organization, one that she received help from when she arrived here from Chile,” Tavish said as he spread clotted cream over his pastry. Portia hadn’t been aware that cream could be spread in a threatening manner, but it most definitely could.

“And she thought that scheming her way into becoming a duchess was a perfectly reasonable step up from migrant?” David asked, sipping his tea.

“Sorry to ruin your little fiction, but she had no interest in his wealth. She turned down his proposal once she saw how detestable the aristocracy was.”

“Ah. I suppose the apple can fall far from the tree then,” David said.

Tav had picked up his saucer and been about to take a sip of the tea, but he lowered it back to the table, his expression terrifying. Portia remembered that though she didn’t call him maestro, Tav was one, and spent much of his downtime studying ways to kill a man quickly and efficiently in battle.

His gaze went up to the mantel, to the sword that was hung in a place of honor beneath David’s portrait.

He was on his feet in an instant, rushing for the weapon.

“Tavish!” Portia stood and hurried after him.

“Oh my,” Leslie said, her hand flying to her chest.

David jumped up and ran behind one of the large chairs, putting it between himself and Tavish.

“What are you doing?” Portia tried not to let the panic come through in her voice as Tavish took down the sword and stared at it.

“I made this.” The fury was gone from his face. He looked stunned. “This was one of the first pieces I sold when I opened the armory. It was a special request, made to replicate one from the buyer’s family line.”

He turned it in his hands, ran his finger over the ornately sculpted quillon. It had a unicorn etched into each side, similar to those she had seen in images of the dukedom’s crest.

“Your father must have . . .” Portia stopped. That truth meant so many things. His father had known about his business. He may have even communicated with Tavish himself. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling, no matter how adamantly he claimed he didn’t care about his biological father.

He laughed ruefully. “I remember receiving a letter afterward, thanking me for my fine craftsmanship. And I made several more pieces for the buyer over the years. They ordered products regularly to sell in their shop, you know.”

He placed the sword back on its mount. “I guess now I know why some of my orders stopped coming in,” he said quietly.

He turned then, and his brows raised as he took in David, who stood clutching his chair like a shield.

“Did you think I was going to run you through?” Tav asked. His tone was amused. “If I was, that chair wouldn’t have stopped me. Like she said, my swords are sharp, mate.”

David straightened and adjusted his jacket.

“One never knows with someone like you,” he said.

“Someone like me?” Tav squared his shoulders. “And what exactly am I like? I met you less than fifteen minutes ago, though I guess that was enough time to get your number. But you’d best not think you have mine.”

“More tea?” Leslie stood, thrusting the teapot around as if a sip of piping hot Darjeeling was the key to world peace.