“You’ve got this,” Portia said.

“We’ve got this,” Tavish replied, giving her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “All right, on with it.”

He stepped out of the carriage and then turned to guide her down, and Portia’s heart squeezed. It should have been a perfect moment: Tavish in his Highland best, her in a buttery yellow princess-style gown. The look in his eyes. The incomprehensible feeling that welled up in her chest and made her eyes suddenly dangerously moist. But like in any fairy tale, a night at the ball had a catch. She wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, but she had an expiration date.

This was Tavish’s happily ever after, not hers—she was just a helpful woodland creature, or maybe a fairy godmother if she was more generous with herself, who worked her magic and then faded to the background while the hero continued his journey. If she’d thought otherwise, she could only blame herself for the confusion.

“Portia?”

She took his hand and made her way carefully down the carriage steps. She couldn’t meet his gaze—she didn’t know what he would see there and she couldn’t let her ridiculous feelings ruin the night.

Tavish tucked her arm beneath his, as they had practiced.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

Great. She was supposed to be here to support him, not distract him, and she couldn’t even do that.

“I’m fine. I forgot to eat,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, she realized, but she needed to pull it together. “Don’t worry about me. Pretend I’m . . . an accessory. Like your tie. Part of the ensemble but nothing you really need to pay attention to now that you’re at the event.”

Tav grunted. “What? If you think I could focus on something besides you, or would want to, then you really do need a bit of haggis to set you right.”

Great. She was making a scene and he was trying to make things better.

“This is your night,” she whispered. “I don’t want to—”

“Let me guess. Mess things up?” He chuckled. “I’m the one who’ll be making the cock-ups tonight. And if I do, it will be fine. And even if somehow you did, that would be fine, too.”

It was both exactly what she needed to hear and exactly what she didn’t. She was being selfish again. She needed to think about her job, not her emotions. She needed to be professional.

“Right. Here we go. Don’t forget not to curse anyone out or physically attack anyone.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Tav said.

She held her breath as he greeted the people in line before them, only releasing it when the cordialities had passed successfully and the older man and woman seemed suitably charmed. The line moved quickly and soon they were at the top of a ridiculously long flight of stairs.

“His Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh, Tavish McKenzie!”

The crowd went silent, so Portia should have been able to hear herself and Johan being introduced, but she was busy scanning the room, taking in the breadth of reactions to Tavish. There were many, many faces—most of them white, many of them wrinkled—but only about three sets of expressions that she could make out: outright disdain, curiosity, and blatantly-wondering-what’s-under-that-kilt. Curiosity far outnumbered the other two. Portia felt a bit of the tension leave her. They could work with this.

Johan took her other arm as they descended the stairs, and she understood that for all his attempts to come off as a devil-may-care-aristocrat, his arm through hers was lending them the power and presence of the Kingdom of Liechtienbourg. Johan didn’t think much of these people, but his family and their wealth made everyone in the room think a lot of him.

“Want a shot? Whiskey? Tequila?” He raised his brows suggestively. He’d only drunk tea while at the armory, so she was a bit surprised.

“I don’t want a shot and you don’t need one,” she said. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Very true,” he said, ignoring the last part. “I’ll have a Manhattan, in your honor.”

He stepped away with a wink—and several admiring glances at his legs trailed in his wake.

“He’s not a bad type, that Johan,” Tavish said. “Too bad he isn’t Scottish.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone is saying the same about you.” David had a smile on his face as he approached Tavish and held out his hand, but his gaze was flat and his eyes ringed with dark circles.

Tav ignored his hand and clapped him on the back. “Not falling for that trick again, etiquette or no. And I was born and raised here, same as you, except I didn’t have a silver spoon up my ass.”

Leslie hurried up to Tav, looking lovely in a gauzy pink gown. “Your Grace. So very good to see you again.”

David bristled, and the slightest smirk lifted the edges of Leslie’s mouth. “I hope your trip here passed well and the carriage ride was acceptable.”

“It was lovely,” Tavish said, gracing her with a smile. “Nothing like the smell of manure to get you ready for a night with the peerage.”

David seethed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This is who gets a seat at the table now.”

“Quite right,” Tavish said. “And I have a tradesman’s appetite, too. Plus I’ll likely invite my friends and family without permission. You must understand that people like me can’t help ourselves.”