A Duke by Default (Reluctant Royals #2)

by Alyssa Cole

She was too young for him—he had at least a decade of age and an infinite amount of raw cynicism on this woman. And more importantly, she was off-limits. He refused to be that boss, using his employee roster as a dating pool.

business ethics aside—Tav was done with relationships. He wasn’t the type to convince himself he didn’t believe in labels or just wasn’t a relationship guy or whatever knobs were telling themselves these days.

The deep vee exposed her freckled décolletage. Tav wanted to run right back out into the cold rain—Christ, he was the worst kind of creeper.

“I know you don’t have a serious bone in your body, but your mother and I think this could be good for you,”

This makes the Hall of Fame for what a parent should never say.

Do you constantly forget to pay your bills, even though the money is just chillin’ in your bank account? Come on, you know you could have paid that shit three months ago. Can you play guitar, paint a still life in watercolor AND oil, and bake a seventeen-layer cake, but can’t remember to move your laundry to the dryer?”

He wasn’t a fucking mind reader, but he was old enough to know when someone was giving him the eye. Portia had been thinking something decidedly naughty. About him.

People had assumed that her constant schooling was a way of avoiding reality—she couldn’t blame them, since her perennial studies had been paired with drinking and partying—but she mostly just really loved learning.

“Tavish, I know your line of work might confuse you, but this is the twenty-first century. You’re . . . well, you’re not young, but even my grandmother has been using the internet since I was a child. Internet access has been classified as a human right. Enough with the acting like it’s some newfangled concept you can just avoid. It’s a business tool.”

Portia had spent K-12 as one of the few students of color at her prep school, so she wasn’t shocked that students could be so cruel.

“He’s been acting out the last couple of weeks. Now that I think about it, that’s when the immigration debates made it onto the front pages again, with knobs in suits saying we need to block our borders and ‘preserve our heritage.’

Cole often does a good job weaving contemporary issues related to gender, race, and power into the narrative. That could easily go wrong and feel clunky, but in her books it tends to work. It makes sense here because of who Tavish is, who his family is, and the reality of what's going on in the world. The issues are real but not personalized to a specific politician and therefore still preserves a bit of distance.

“You know, you think this shite is done with, and then you see weans spouting the same rubbish you heard when you were one.”

His gaze flashed to hers in preemptive challenge and his hand dropped to his side. “Mum is Chilean. And her husband, my real dad if not biological, is Jamaican. Kids thought it was funny to taunt about going back where you came from when I was growing up, too. Except they usually thought I’d taunt along with them.”

This was a champagne problem compared to other forms of bigotry, but she had her own uncorked bottles courtesy of her wealth and lighter complexion. She wasn’t going to downplay the fact that it had been really shitty and confusing for him, despite the fact that he was privileged in other ways.

A textbook explanation of different forms of privilege and one of the least clunky examples. Again because it works with the characterization.

People assume the A in Tavish A. McKenzie stands for Alistair or some shite and not Arredondo, and that the McKenzie comes from some venerable Scottish clan and not a Jamaican slave owner.”

“Aye. I wish I could do more. Half the weans are worried their parents will be kicked out of their homes after benefits are cut, the other half that they’ll be kicked out of the country with all this talk of borders and nationality and refugees.

“You don’t have to ask questions to distract me.”

He’d used the excuse of her wealth, and her family business, but it was no better than pulling pigtails at recess. No better? It’s a thousand times worse, you git.

Her mother’s voice was coated in disappointment, like poison on the end of a barb that would stay in Portia’s system long after the chastisement was forgotten.

Portia distracted herself like any modern woman—she picked up her phone and toggled through her social media sites.

do you have any books about dukes?” The librarian’s eyes went wide and she rubbed her hands together with glee. “We have a fantastic romance section,” she said. “Do you need recommendations? How do you like your dukes? Grumpy? Tortured? Alpha, beta, or alpha in the streets, beta in the sheets?”

Hah

“What are you willing to do to keep her at your side? I won’t see a son of mine crawl on his knees, but if you think she’s worth it, I’ll be here to clean the scrapes, no matter what she decides.”

“I think the monarchy and peerage are parasites, sucking the lifeblood of the working man, but you would be my favorite parasite.” His father paused and seemed to consider the possibilities. “And I have to admit, getting to have a word with the Queen would be something.” Tavish imagined his father explaining why the monarchy should have been abolished along with slavery and didn’t know whether to immediately accept the title because of that or to immediately reject it.

I love how she wrote this character.

“Do you think anyone has ever called the Queen bumbaclot to her face?” his dad asked, stroking his chin as if pondering a philosophical question.

“Henry!” His mother slapped at his father’s arm, but then her hand slid down until their palms touched and their fingers interlaced. He saw his father’s fingers flex, giving silent comfort though he’d cut the tension with his jokes. His parents worked well that way, one shoring the other up when necessary. In the end, he’d realized that was what had b...

“Two wankers decided to pick a fight. They didn’t know we were brothers and assumed we were the next closest thing two men could be.

“But when you talk about fake personas and silly rituals, remember that some of us can’t opt out of that stuff. Before I even open my mouth, I’m judged based on whether I’m perceived to be pretty enough or wearing the right thing—not too revealing, not too frumpy, not too cheap looking, not too fancy. When I do talk, it’s whether I’m articulate enough. So while you’re rightfully annoyed by this, just remember that at least half of the population has to adopt these fake personas and silly rituals just to get through the day.”

She wasn’t one for romanticizing, but he kissed with the lush, seductive artistry of Klimt, dark passion hidden beneath rich, solid strokes. His fingers pressed and his tongue caressed and she knew when the moisture of her desire had seeped through her pants because he Mmmmed into her mouth with a devilish delight that made her toes curl.

Is she actually supposed to be an idiot?

This refrain gets old after a while. Tedious.

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.

Could she have just a little bit of self-esteem? Confidence? Is that possible?

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

Dear god there’s relatable and there’s pathetic.

“I can think of loads of reasons for why I would need you, and no not just for sex, before you go there. For example—you’re bloody magnificent. You’re smart as fuck, and you can do literally anything you put your mind to.”

She remembered the Hot Mess Helper video about being too hard on yourself. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s feeling bad. Hell, sometimes we’ll take a tiny inconsequential thing and turn it into DRAMA for no damn reason. We’re so used to being wrong that we invent shit to be wrong about! ADHD is a trip.

Yes!!

He didn’t care about what the newspapers had insinuated about her past—loads of people hacked their way into adulthood through the field grown from all the wild oats they’d sown. Some people’s fields were smaller, some larger, and Tav didn’t think it particularly mattered as long as people reached a mutual agreement about whether their farming days were over, on hiatus, or some kind of special schedule.

What he did care about was exposing Portia to situations that would cause her pain, and whether she was his apprentice, his squire, or something more, her proximity to him would cause her pain. She found any hint of her own unworthiness entirely too credible, and the Looking Glass Daily loved nothing more than pointing out perceived flaws and creating ones where they found none.

The Daily Mirror! Well played!

“What the bloody hell, Tavish?” his father suddenly cut in. “What do you think people fall in love for, if not the hand holding? Do you think marriage is two people walking side by side, never touching lest one of them pull the other down?”

Do you really think Portia can’t decide on her own what she wants? If you think your judgment is so much better than hers, maybe you should leave things as they are.”