“Apparently you Brits are really, really, into this tea thing. So after researching Debrett’s, various instructional videos, and double-checking with my sources, I’ve made a basic dos and don’ts list to get you through tomorrow.”

“A list?”

She raised a brow. “It’s the simplest and most efficient organizational tool. Do you want a PowerPoint presentation?”

“Fuck’s sake, this is ridiculous,” he said. “Why all this bloody attention to detail just to drink a cup of tea?”

“Rule number one—no cursing. And yes, bloody counts as a curse.”

“You already gave me a rule number one. Don’t discuss what I do in the toilet,” he reminded her. “So much for organization.”

He was being tetchy, but he hated all of this shite. He hated pretending to be someone he wasn’t. All of those years spent making pleasant chitchat in an office when he’d wanted to hang himself by his tie. All of those years trying to figure out how to be a good husband and not being able to get it quite right in the end. A band of anxiety tightened around his chest.

“That was a rule for duking. This is a rule for drinking tea.”

Tav threw his head back in frustration. “Bloody hell.”

“Tavish. Please tell me the proper protocol for a knight visiting a castle in a foreign land.”

He was sure she was trying to put him at ease again, but he went along with it. “Well, that depends. What time period? Is the castle in a friendly country or one where there’s tension? Have they been invited? Are they there under duress?”

“So much bloody attention to detail. I wonder why that is?” She smiled as a server approached with a tray of tiny, ridiculous sandwiches. He reached for one with his fork once it was settled, but she deflected the metal prongs with her own.

“No. Use your hands for these. Using a utensil is considered gauche.”

“For fuck’s sake, Freckles.” He grabbed a delicate sandwich between his thumb and index finger and a cucumber slid out limply and plopped onto the doily. Portia speared it with her fork.

“Rules are put in place to test people, Tavish. They establish a baseline for respect, and people who can’t meet that baseline are considered rabble that don’t have to be tolerated. It’s all bullshit, but if we’re going to do this, I’m not letting anyone treat you like rabble. Or even merely tolerate you. You’re going to be the best fucking duke this country has ever seen, got it?”

Tav stared at Portia through a space in the multitiered sandwich tray. She looked good in her dress, but now she was wearing that look of determination he found even sexier. And it was all for him. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined coaxing the expression from her, but it would do. For now.

He straightened in his seat and saluted her with his tiny sandwich. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter 16

A palace. A freaking palace.

Holyrood, which was indeed a freaking palace at the end of the Royal Mile, seemed to serve as more tourist trap than actual functioning home of an aristocrat, but apparently it was also used for meetings when lowly commoners showed up claiming to be secret heirs to dukedoms. Portia wondered if this weren’t some form of intimidation; Thabiso had told her he usually met with Scottish peerage at the Royal Scots Club and had only been to Holyrood for events and parties. Or maybe they were going to be dragged into a secret torture chamber on the premises. Good thing she’d packed her bear spray.

After being mistaken for tourists and twice told they had to pay to enter, they’d eventually been led to the private wing of the palace, reserved for the usage of the duke and the royal family when they visited Scotland.

“Ms. Hobbs? Mr. McKenzie? Please, follow me,” the butler who met them at the entrance to the private wing said.

Portia had been to homes with household staff—nannies, cleaning women, and serving staff—but seeing a real-life Jeeves reminded her that there was wealth and there was aristocracy. Even a poor duke or earl was accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and that lifestyle included butlers who sneered at guests without the decency to have titles in front of their names, or absurd wealth to make up for the lack of it.

Having worked in museums, Portia felt appropriately awed as they passed through the halls. Nearly every item, from artwork, to furniture, to molding, could have been put on display in the main touristic area.

Her phone vibrated in her purse and she was certain it was Nya or Ledi responding to the OMG I’m going to ruin everything and also if you don’t hear from me in an hour have Thabiso send the SWAT team freak-out messages she’d sent to their group that morning, Scotland time. She let the vibrations comfort her. She wasn’t alone. She was with Tavish. She had her friends. She could do this.

They could do this.

They entered a lavish sitting room where a man and two women sat in uncomfortable-looking chairs before a fireplace. The walls were covered in rich, floral-patterned wallpaper and large oil paintings of white dudes at various stages of life and facial hair manscaping trends.

The man, who was sitting in the most ornate chair, turned his head in their direction, and that was when Portia realized that the largest, and newest, portrait, which dominated the space above the fireplace, was him.

The two women had been in deep conversation, but then they both stood. The younger woman gave a friendly smile and adjusted the lacey collar of her dress, which looked like Duchess of York cosplay gone wrong. The slightly older woman stepped forward, a neutral expression on her face and delicate white gloves on her hands, indicating that she was above general drudgery.