“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out that you were a beauty queen, Freckles.” Tav wasn’t exactly surprised, but was still strange to think of Portia parading herself around to be judged. His jibes had hurt her so easily.

She shook her head. “I was a contestant. You have to win to be a queen. But yeah. I had a debut, with the frilly dress and everything, too. I think they were training me to be a good wife since I was so uneven at school and they didn’t think art or hanging on the internet were viable careers. Not their best investment.”

She gave him something between a grin and a grimace. The waiter arrived then with pastel de choclo for her and lomo a lo pobre for him.

“Anything to drink with your meal?” the waiter asked.

“I’ll have another glass of red,” Tavish said.

“And sparkling water with a slice of lime for me,” Portia added. The waiter went off on his way.

“Does it bother you? My drinking?” he asked. “I can just have water, too.”

“No, it’s cool,” she said, cutting into her corn and meat pie. “I can have a drink and be fine. I don’t crave alcohol and I don’t binge drink every time I have it. I decided not to drink because I wanted to see what I’m like when I’m not setting myself up to be a hot mess.”

She shrugged and scooped some of her food onto her fork awkwardly. She was uncomfortable.

“Well, good on you,” he said, but something she’d said snagged annoyingly in his mind. “I don’t know what you were like before, but you’re the furthest thing from a hot mess I’ve seen. Without you I would be completely lost.”

Another shrug. “Without me you wouldn’t be dealing with this to begin with.”

“Portia.”

She shoved a forkful of food in her mouth.

“Portia. Hey, lass.”

She looked up at him, chewing apprehensively, and he folded his hands together and regarded her with as serious an expression as he could muster.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shite at taking compliments?”

Her hand went to her mouth as a squeal of surprised laughter escaped.

“Like really shite. Jesus Christ.” He was rewarded with more laughter.

Her hand was still in front of her mouth, blocking it from view as she finished chewing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just take the fucking compliment. Do I seem like the type who goes about doling them out to every Tom, Dick, and Mary?”

She narrowed her gaze at him. “Actually, your dirty little secret is that inside all that armor you’ve outfitted yourself with, you’re a squishy marshmallow.”

Tav growled and shoved the deliciously seasoned steak and chips into his mouth instead of replying. He was used to being described as cold and rude, not squishy for fuck’s sake.

Portia chuckled. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t take a compliment, Lord I-Turned-Down-a-Shitload-of-Cash-Because-David-Insulted-Refugees.”

Tav pushed a chip to the edge of his plate with the tines of his fork. “Do you think I should have accepted his bribe?”

Do you think I don’t have what it takes to be a duke?

“I think you could have, but I really don’t see you as the type to take hush money from an asshole like that, even if it’s the easy thing to do.”

He wanted to ask her just exactly how she saw him because every morning he looked in the mirror and tried to tell himself he was a duke now, an important man, and every morning he failed spectacularly.

“I keep wondering, who the fuck am I? To think I deserve the titles and properties and everything that comes along with this?”

“The fact that you’re even wondering is a good start,” she said, waving her knife in his direction—something he wouldn’t have trusted her with before. “There are people out there who will do anything for money and prestige, even when they already have it. Your reservations are a good sign.”

Tav sighed. “It’s just . . . When I talked to my mum, I was so mad at this Dudgeon prick, but she loved him at some point. And he loved her. He was dedicated to helping the downtrodden, by all accounts. But she said becoming a duke changed him, and not for the better. I can’t stop thinking what if . . .”

He thought again of the sword above the mantelpiece. It had done something to him, knowing his father had commissioned that first big piece. Like he’d been watching from the wings, and had maybe been proud. Had maybe even cared.

“Tavish, you don’t have to become your father,” Portia said. “You’re your own man. And let’s keep it real—you can’t be worse than David. From what I’ve read, he’s spent more time using his new status to pick up women and bash migrants than he has doing anything else.”

“That git was using the title to pull birds? Of course, he was.”

Portia took a sip of water, and trained her gaze on her plate. “I guess that’s one benefit you haven’t taken into account. A duke is not going to have trouble in the dating department.”

Tav didn’t know what to feel about that, mostly because he hadn’t thought of another woman in weeks. He tried to imagine it now, some playboy aristocrat lifestyle where he kicked beautiful women out of his bed every other morning and traded them in for new models. Unfortunately, his mind could only conjure images of Portia, the feel of her mouth against his and the heat of her hands pulling him close. Kicking her out of his bed played no part in that ongoing fantasy, and therein lay his problem.