by Alyssa Cole
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.
“So, I’m to be a rake now? Don’t quite know how I feel about that. Raking seems like a lot of work. All that seducing and being charming. You know charm isn’t my strong suit.”
She pursed her lips as she chewed and swallowed.
“You joke, but I’ve already started getting formal inquiries as to whether you’re dating anyone and the news isn’t even fully out yet. A handsome newly minted duke is apparently irresistible, so you’d better figure out your thoughts on the matter soon.” He wanted the words to be flirtatious, but she was still looking everywhere but at his face.
“Is that a general statement or a personal one? The bit about me being irresistible?” he asked. He leaned forward a bit and his knee brushed hers beneath the table.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of how women will react,” she said, avoiding his question. The grimace on her face revealed something else: she had thought of it, and she wasn’t keen on the idea. “When the internet finds out #swordbae is also #dukebae, your DMs are gonna be lit.”
“Well, I don’t know what that last bit means, but I’ve not been thinking about hypothetical women. I’ve been fairly focused on other matters.” He kept his gaze on her, wondering whether the anticipation pooling in his stomach was a one-sided thing. Her brown eyes were wide, gathering the flickering candlelight in their warm depths.
“Did you see the new exhibit at the Medieval Museum?” she asked suddenly. “I know we’ve been busy, but I was thinking I could talk to someone there about doing an exhibit of some of the interesting pieces you have in your collection and on modern swordsmithing. ‘Modern meets Medieval: A return to classic Scots swordmaking’ or something like that.”
Ah. Conversation change. Tav would respect that. She’d already told him she didn’t want anything and this night was about helping her feel better, not an opportunity to force the issue of their clear chemistry.
He shouldn’t have pushed, even though his push had mostly been a steady gaze and a one-track mind. He didn’t drink the rest of his wine. He was sober, but he didn’t want the excuse of lowered inhibitions to let his growing feelings for her slip. His feelings weren’t something else of his for her to manage.
“That sounds brilliant,” he said, settling against the back of his chair. They finished the dinner talking about everything but dukedoms and dating. Portia dragged him down a rabbit hole that led from medieval swords to ancient Etruscan sabers to Byzantine architecture to the basic structure of a web page, and Tav loved every minute of it.
Dating after his marriage had always ranged from “She’s a fun lass” to “this will work for now,” but as they sat eating the food of his childhood and opening up to each other, Tavish felt something come into alignment.
He’d been attracted to Portia before that night. He had grown accustomed to her presence. But the churn of emotions staging a tourney in his rib cage was more than those two things—he wanted her. He was well aware that he couldn’t and shouldn’t but he did, and Christ’s sake was he ever screwed.
“Is there . . . ?” She motioned around her face.
“What?” He tried to pull his focus back instead of staring at her like she was a sword he was grinding.
“Last time you looked at me like that there was something on my face,” she said, pulling out her compact. She dabbed at that red lipstick that miraculously hadn’t budged though they’d just eaten, and Tav watched her finger brush the sensitive skin on her pouty bottom lip.
Over her shoulder he noticed one of the waiters begin to flip chairs over onto tables, the universal sign for “you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
“We should probably pay.” He stood and she followed him, thankfully not protesting when he paid the tab at the register. He wasn’t trying to be a chauvinist; it was the least he could do to repay her for her help.
“It’s not what I’d call a warm summer night, but it’s not raining. Let’s walk back,” she said once they’d left the alley. The salty scent from the firth was carried by the strong night wind, and she closed her eyes as if savoring it, just as she had with the food. He’d once predicted that she’d be picky, but Portia was a woman who savored trying new things.
They walked and talked, Tavish trying not to think too much about how much he wanted to kiss her. This wasn’t a date, it was . . . a man and a woman who were attracted to each other sharing an excellent meal and conversation.
Oh hell.
“What is that?” she exclaimed when they were nearing their neighborhood. He followed the path from her tapered fingertip to the huge old ship anchored along the waterway. It was painted with stripes and blocks of different colors and patterns all contrasting. “It’s like a drunken Mondrian.”
Tav didn’t know what a sober Mondrian was, but he did know about the ship; he was so used to it, he hardly ever noticed it anymore. “It’s a dazzler. During the Second World War, German U-boats would patrol and sink ships in the bay, but when they saw a ship painted like this against the horizon, they couldn’t make them out. Apparently, the best camouflage was to be bright and beautiful.”
She stood looking at the ship and he stood looking at her, in her red lipstick and red blouse and red-bottomed heels.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and pursed her lips.
“Enough with the Dr. Phil shite,” she said and Tav burst into laughter, jogging to keep up with her as she stalked away. A smile hovered on her lips when he caught up to her, though.
“This is really your first time seeing the dazzler, then? I guess the camouflage really does work well.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t walked much along the water.”
“What have you been doing?” he asked, then pulled a face of mock surprise. “Ah that’s right, solving mysteries and getting my life in order. You’re like an American Mary Poppins, but more smartly dressed. And more—”
She made a scoffing sound. “No—”
Tav turned and stood in front of her, walking backward. “Hey now. You can’t refute a compliment I didn’t give you yet, lass,” he said.
She smirked up at him. “Watch it.”
“Or what?” he asked, and then something metal and cold hit him across the lower back. Portia grabbed him by his belt and tugged him forward.
“Or you fall into the water and meet your death,” she said. “I can’t swim.”
“You can’t drive and you can’t swim?”
&n
bsp; “Yup, that’s me. Master of none.” She said it in a breezy tone, but he knew her well enough to understand that she believed that tripe.
“There’s at least one thing you’ve mastered quite well,” he said. Her hand was still on his belt, knuckles pressing into his abdomen.
She rolled her eyes. “What’s that? Annoying you?”
“No. Dazzling.”
She was looking up at him, her delicate brow furrowed and her lips parted as if she might protest. Knowing again that he shouldn’t, Tav leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She made a sound, but it wasn’t one of protest.
“Mpf,” she breathed against his lips, and there was lust and relief and humor all rolled up into that sound, like she’d been waiting for this moment without knowing it, too. She licked into his mouth hungrily and sensation clanged up his spine. Yes, she’d been holding herself back, and now that she wasn’t Tav had no reason to either. Their tongues darted and clashed and bloody hell he hadn’t realized how spot-on his little spiel about delayed gratification had been. He’d waited and denied and fantasized and now that she was in his arms again, it was even better than he remembered or imagined.
Her kiss tasted of the rice dessert they’d eaten, cinnamon sweetness. Her grip tightened on his belt as his hands clenched on her shoulders. Her shirt was silky smooth under his fingertips, but not so much as her tongue as it slid over his. He traced his fingertips over her shoulder blades, then flattened his hands and brushed down, down, until the curves of her ass filled his palms.
“Oh dammit,” she moaned against his mouth, pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m not.” Her gaze was dark, intense and her lips were full and moist. “Look, I think this isn’t going to go away. This thing between us.”
He wondered if by thing she meant “excruciating need to fuck each other senseless.”
“I think not,” he said carefully.
“In fact, I only know one way to get rid of a persistent thing,” she said. Her expression suddenly went shy, her gaze softening as she shifted from foot to foot. “Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
She glared up at him, but it was a vulnerable glare, somehow.
Tav laughed, caressed his hand up her silk-clad back. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to think . . . I didn’t take you to dinner because I expected this to happen.”
“Why did you take me to dinner?” she asked.
Tav wasn’t the smoothest talker, but he could have pulled out some line designed for seduction. He decided to tell the truth instead. “Because I like spending time with you. I like you. And I wanted to make you feel good.”
She suddenly looked away from him, as if she could see out into the darkness where the waves rolled in from along the horizon to slap against the docks. When she met his gaze again, there was challenge in her eyes and her response was sharp. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that chemistry like this never lives up to the hype. I’ve scratched enough itches to know.”
Ah. She’d already told him she wasn’t looking for more. These were her terms and conditions. No more I like yous, then. This was a lark, she was telling him with her careful avoidance of his confession, and although it was something he’d likely regret, he decided he’d just go with the flow. After all, he didn’t want a relationship either. He wasn’t stupid enough to allow his heart to be drawn and quartered a second time.
Just sex. He could do that.
Aye.
“You know, you’re right,” he said. “I’ve scratched a fair few itches myself and never quite felt a need to go back for a second helping.”
It felt wrong, comparing her to past lovers, but that’s how they were playing this. Cool. Casual.
Ach, he was too old for this shite.
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” she said, running her hands over his chest like she’d finally been extended an invitation. It felt bloody good, just that quick, warm press of her palms through his shirt. Tav grasped her hands with his own, stopping their motion.
“Well begging your pardon, but most of my blood isn’t in my brain right now. You’ll deal.”
She giggled. “I’ll deal.” She stepped forward, her right thigh notching between both of his as she pressed against him. The weight of her breasts pushed against his torso, her stomach grazed over his erection, and that delicate scent of hers mixed in with the salty air off the firth. “One and done?” she asked, mischief and lust pushing away the shyness she’d displayed a moment ago.
He wasn’t sure if she was declaring that to be the arrangement or asking whether it was even possible between them, but he didn’t clarify because she was close and desire danced in her eyes and he needed to taste her again.
He caressed her face once, twice, and then molded his lips over hers. He kissed with his eyes open because he wanted to see that freckled nose wrinkle in concentration—and so he could start navigating them back to the armory and not into the firth, though even a dunk in the cold sea wouldn’t cool him down now.
Portia had thrown down a challenge that had nothing to do with class or etiquette or fake posh shite. He didn’t suppose there were rules in Debrett’s for what they were about to do, but all the better. A wild, passionate energy was flowing between them, and Tavish doubted either of them planned on being polite.
Chapter 19
Having sex with Tav hadn’t been in her plans—in fact, she’d had specific rules against this very situation—but then again, neither had revealing him to be a duke. Plans changed, she reasoned, and it wasn’t like this was impulsive. It was inevitable, it seemed. She’d felt the urge to jump him upon their first meeting, which was mid-macing, and had been fighting her attraction ever since. This, whatever was happening between them, was kind of a foregone conclusion. She’d regret detonating this foundational pillar of Project: New Portia later; for now, she’d glory in the explosion.
They crept up to her room instead of his office. Jamie and Cheryl were out at a pub quiz night—he could be the one risking bumping into them afterward.
They’d kept their hands to themselves on the way back to the armory—after all, she didn’t need Mary or any of the other neighborhood familiars catching Tav’s hand up her shirt. Both of them had been on the verge of breaking out into a trot and had kept giving each other heated looks, their intent likely clear to anyone who paid attention, but none of that mattered once she closed the door to her room and shoved Tav up against it.
“That was the longest walk of my life,” he groaned as his hands came to her hips and tugged her close against him. The blunt tips of his fingers pressed into her hips and she swallowed a soft moan. She loved how strong his hands were—strength that came from grinding and fighting, from artistry and dedication. Each time he held her it sent a possessive thrill through her.
“Not gonna lie—I scoped out a few dark corners on the way in case we couldn’t make it,” she said.
Laughter rumbled through his chest. “I’d be amenable to testing out dark corners sometime.”
Sometime.
I like you.
No. Taking his words seriously was asking for trouble. She would operate as she always had; no catching feelings, no getting hurt. She was a damned expert at that. She ignored what he was insinuating and focused on his mouth, his firm lips, his hands sliding into the waistband of her pants in search of the hidden clasp that would release them.
“How are these secured?” he growled, tugging at the waistband. “Magic? Are these chastity trousers?”
She grinned against his mouth. “Mmm, yes, they’re enchanted. Only the chosen one can get into them. Pantscalibur, or as they were known in Middle Welsh, Pantsvich—”
“Very funny. Oh, what’s this?” His fingers found the eyelet hook along the side of the pants just then and deftly unhooked it, then grasped at the pull of the zipper and tugged slowly. He kissed her again as his fingers worked. The pants were too tight to fall to the ground, but now there
was room for his hands to slip inside, for his palms to glide over her silk underwear and his hands to cup her ass.
She shuddered and moaned into his mouth.
“It appears I’m the chosen one,” he said, his mouth moving from her lips to press hungry kisses along her jawline and down her neck as his hands held her firmly in place. “Yay, me.”
“I’m trying to come up with a dirty sword in the stone double entendre but fuck your hands feel amazing,” she said, and maybe that was even better than a joke because he exhaled harshly against her neck and the tightened his grip on her, the combination rapidly unraveling her control.
No.
Her hand went to his belt again, this time to tug it open, and her other hand slid up under his shirt, following the trail of hair from the taper at the waist of his pants to where it spread over his chest. She kissed at his neck as she undid his belt and his aggravating button fly jeans. Finally, finally, her fingers encircled his thick, warm cock and he groaned and . . . it was in that moment that Portia realized she had no idea what she was doing. Well, she knew what she was doing, but she was usually loosened up by a drink or two while doing it. When was the last time she’d given a hand job totally sober?
Without the inhibition-loosening effects of alcohol, little annoying thoughts started to eat away at the lust and frenzy that had propelled her through the streets of Bodotria and toward her bed.
Does he like what you’re doing? Are you pulling too hard? Not hard enough. Should you just get on your knees? Yeah, yeah, do that. Every guy likes that, right?
She started to drop down, eyes locked on Tav’s, but his grip slid up to her shoulders and tightened, sending a thrill through her but also confusing her because he was holding her in place.
His gaze on her was still intense, hot, but he seemed to be searching her face for something. His expression was so serious that for a second Portia was mortified, certain she really had given the worst hand job ever and he didn’t trust her teeth anywhere near him, but then he grinned and shook his head.