“Eh, I’m always down to stab horrible men,” she said. “No need to thank me.”

“I forgot, you’re the vigilante-slash-spiritual man killer,” he said with a short, unamused laugh. “Aye, that’s about right.”

She was wavering on offended but then he looked at her, heat and something else in his gaze. “After the display David put on, I’ll remind you I’m hardier than average. We’re in this together, so don’t worry too much about killing my spirit. I’ve a feeling it’s a pretty good match for yours.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say to that so instead she just blinked up at him.

“Portia?” An apple-cheeked woman called out from the car that had pulled up. “Are you waiting for a SuperLift?”

“I call passenger seat this time if it’s another numpty two-door,” Tav said and strode toward the car, displaying once again just how good he looked in a suit.

Way, way over her head.

Chapter 17

Portia sensed the moment Tav’s mood shifted from engaged to ennui, even with the battered kitchen table between them. He ran a hand through his hair and dropped his head back in annoyance.

“Ah, that’s right. Of course I should have remembered this random inconsequential fact about fork tines. I’m a complete and utter git, obviously.”

The daily “duke lessons” they’d undertaken since tea time at Holyrood a week ago hadn’t been too bad, really, and sometimes they were even fun—too fun. But for the past couple of days Tav had been growing progressively more stressed, understandably so, and his ability to retain information was slipping.

He was still running a business and dealing with all that entailed on top of his lessons, and it was likely just starting to really sink in that this was his world from now on. Going from artisan to aristocrat meant a complete restructuring of his life, from the very foundations. It would be a lot for anyone to take in, but he was also getting years of etiquette lessons and practice at social niceties crammed into just a few weeks. Her apprenticeship was only for a few weeks more, after all, and she was trying to help as much as she could before she left.

Portia hadn’t thought enough about this aspect of helping Tav out. Setting out on a goal of improving herself was one thing, but trying to improve him felt uncomfortably like telling him something was wrong to begin with. She couldn’t help but feel like an imposter for even suggesting she knew better than him.

“Okay. So. Before we continue, you shouldn’t feel bad about not knowing this stuff already. Why would you know random minutiae of etiquette? It served no purpose to you before.” She sighed. “You’re learning skills, but lacking those skills had no impact on your worth. Your value doesn’t lie in the way you hold a glass or a knife, or whether you can make a formal toast.”

Portia generally kept their conversation light, but it was important to her that he understood this. She had spent years cringing her way through deportment lessons as fault after fault was pointed out for correction, and having to do the same to Tav was dredging up some unexpected memories.

Stop slumping! Enunciate! Chewing your nails is disgusting. Can you really not pay attention for more than five minutes, Portia?

Tav drummed his blunt fingertips on the tabletop, then lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Squire Freckles. You’re saying you like me just the way I am, then?” he asked. His expression was wary, even though he was cracking jokes.

She lifted her brows. “If you want a compliment, all you have to do is ask. And stop cursing Debrett’s.”

Tav made a motion that seemed to be the beginning of an eye roll, but stopped himself. “Fine, I’ll behave.”

“Don’t get too freaked out. We’re just going to review some basic etiquette skills you’ll need when dealing with people like David.”

Tav snorted, and then cracked his knuckles menacingly. “Think I’ve got the skills for that down already, lass.”

“Well, as enjoyable as squaring up with David would be, the rich are extremely litigious, and the new Duke of Edinburgh being arrested for battery would make him way too happy, don’t you think?”

“Aye. So let’s go through this again,” he said, then drew a deep breath and moved his index finger toward the leftmost edge of the formal place setting Portia had laid out in front of him. “Butter plate, butter knife, salad fork, fish fork, dinner fork, service plate, dinner knife, fish knife, salad knife, soup spoon, and bloody oyster fork.”

This was the easiest thing they’d gone over during their lesson, but Portia had saved it for toward the end of the lesson, when he’d be flagging and grouchy, so they could finish the day on a good note with Tav feeling accomplished and optimistic. It was something she’d adapted from a Hot Mess Helper video: celebrating even the smallest steps, because every small step added mileage toward reaching your goals.

She clapped with delight. “Yes! You got them all correct. Way to go!”

She reached over the table to give him a high-five which he returned a bit bashfully.

“Grand. Stuff like this makes my skin crawl, though. Everyone putting on these fake personas and indulging in these silly little rituals just to impress people. And I know I do that to an extent with the European martial arts and the exhibitions, but that’s fun! This isn’t fun at all.”