“Portia, I never know what’s possible with you. Then Vanessa started showing me all this gossip on social media and I didn’t know what to think.”

Tears stung Portia’s eyes. The anger had arrived earlier than she’d imagined. “What do you want, Mom?”

“Well, I just want to know what was going on.” Her mother’s voice was suddenly warmer, friendlier, than she’d heard it in ages. “And if these rumors were fact. Because if what Vanessa said is true and if what Reggie said is true, well . . . your father and I wanted you to come fill this position, but we’d certainly be proud to have a duchess in the family instead.”

Portia felt actual nausea building in her stomach, but her mother kept going.

“I know you’ve never clicked with any of the men your father and I tried to set you up with, but we always thought it would be best if you had a good man to look after you, and why not a duke?”

Portia hadn’t heard this tone from her mother since she was sixteen and had just slipped into her frilly white debut dress. It was a tone of pride, and the only thing that had brought it out half a lifetime later was the possibility of Portia marrying well.

“My duties have taken on a wider scope since the discovery, but I’m his apprentice and that’s it,” Portia said. “It’s really hard work, not a dating service.”

“Is there any reason why now you’re suddenly fickle when it comes to men? You’ve always been like this. Happy to do something until I make a suggestion. Reggie always had her own goals and plans, but yours seem to be just whatever it is that your father and I don’t want.”

Ouch. Portia had no regrets about her past, but having her mom throw it in her face fell under the “probably need to talk to my therapist” column of life.

“That’s not true.” Sure, she hadn’t lived up to their expectations. And somewhere around her second semester of college she’d stopped trying to—that had been the easiest thing for everyone involved. But she had tried.

Portia thought of the hours of ballet classes and deportment lessons, and cotillion practices, all the things she’d done to please her parents that had never added up to enough. Of the awful sinking feeling that had come over her when her parents rushed Reggie to the hospital, when she’d realized something awful was happening, and for some illogical reason it was happening to Reggie and not to her, who deserved it . . .

“Check me out, Freckles!” Tavish strutted out into the hall wearing a green button-up shirt tucked into sharp black slacks. “Forget the photos, you need to see this in all its glory. What do you—oh, sorry, you’re on the phone.”

“I have to go, Mom. Bye.”

“Por—”

She hung up, not wanting to hear anything else her mother had to say, and pasted a smile on her face. “I love it. David’s going to be even more jealous when he sees you.”

Tav dropped his arms.

“What’s up?” He motioned around his own eyes with his index finger. “Calf box eyes.”

“It was my mom. Doing mom things.” She shrugged and hated that the breath she exhaled was shaky.

Tav’s brow creased. “Mum things are not good, I gather?”

“Not when it comes to me. I’m sure if you talked to Reggie, they would entail constant praise and normal fun conversations.”

“Oh,” Tav said, rubbing a knuckle over his stubbled jawline. “Ohhhhhhhhh. I see.”

“Yeah, everyone does eventually,” Portia muttered. It was childish, wanting to cry over her mother’s occasional barbed comments. She was an adult. It didn’t matter.

“So this is where it comes from. All the ‘I’m a fuck-up’ hogwash?” Tavish chuckled, and Portia narrowed her gaze at him. “Come now. This is classic Dr. Phil shite. I value my life enough not to say anything bad about your mother, but as someone who just apologized for being a jerk to you myself, maybe you should consider that she’s wrong?”

Portia had considered that. But there was considering and there was believing.

She sucked in a deep breath and remembered that she was New Portia. New Portia couldn’t let anyone sap her energy, even if that person had given her life.

“Hey,” Tav said, snapping his fingers to get her attention. “I need your opinion on a suit. Is that all right? You can tell me about erm, thread count and the cut of the lapel, or whatever.”

Portia almost did cry then. He was trying to distract her. It was clumsy and he was perhaps confusing suits with linens, but her chest tightened a little.

“I’m an excellent judge of lapels,” she said. “Go try it on. I’ll be right there.”

Tav gave her one of those full smiles then. “Grand. Don’t stay out here beating yourself up or anything. I expect my lapel critiques promptly.”

Portia took in a deep, trembly breath. Her mother’s words had hurt because, as always, they were just a bit too close to what she wished for herself. It was like her mother always saw her dreams as reflected in a fun house mirror.

A burst of deep brotherly laughter sounded from behind the door and Portia followed it. She had lapels to judge.

Chapter 18

Struggling to balance the workload of the armory along with duke lessons was tiring as fuck. He’d always made fun of the aristocracy, but Christ he was glad he hadn’t had to spend an entire lifetime bound by these arbitrary rules. Smile like this, laugh like that, toast like this, sit like that. Tav was well and truly knackered, but not as much as he should have been, since Portia was running herself ragged trying to make things go smoothly for him.